President ’at Croe in Combrailles on the top of steep rocks, inaccessible except by litters,’ there to consider himself.  Likewise there rose Abbe Terray, dissolute Financier, paying eightpence in the shilling,—­so that wits exclaim in some press at the playhouse, “Where is Abbe Terray, that he might reduce us to two-thirds!” And so have these individuals (verily by black-art) built them a Domdaniel, or enchanted Dubarrydom; call it an Armida-Palace, where they dwell pleasantly; Chancellor Maupeou ‘playing blind-man’s-buff’ with the scarlet Enchantress; or gallantly presenting her with dwarf Negroes;—­and a Most Christian King has unspeakable peace within doors, whatever he may have without.  “My Chancellor is a scoundrel; but I cannot do without him.” (Dulaure, Histoire de Paris (Paris, 1824), vii. 328.)

Beautiful Armida-Palace, where the inmates live enchanted lives; lapped in soft music of adulation; waited on by the splendours of the world;—­which nevertheless hangs wondrously as by a single hair.  Should the Most Christian King die; or even get seriously afraid of dying!  For, alas, had not the fair haughty Chateauroux to fly, with wet cheeks and flaming heart, from that Fever-scene at Metz; driven forth by sour shavelings?  She hardly returned, when fever and shavelings were both swept into the background.  Pompadour too, when Damiens wounded Royalty ‘slightly, under the fifth rib,’ and our drive to Trianon went off futile, in shrieks and madly shaken torches,—­had to pack, and be in readiness:  yet did not go, the wound not proving poisoned.  For his Majesty has religious faith; believes, at least in a Devil.  And now a third peril; and who knows what may be in it!  For the Doctors look grave; ask privily, If his Majesty had not the small-pox long ago?—­and doubt it may have been a false kind.  Yes, Maupeou, pucker those sinister brows of thine, and peer out on it with thy malign rat-eyes:  it is a questionable case.  Sure only that man is mortal; that with the life of one mortal snaps irrevocably the wonderfulest talisman, and all Dubarrydom rushes off, with tumult, into infinite Space; and ye, as subterranean Apparitions are wont, vanish utterly,—­leaving only a smell of sulphur!

These, and what holds of these may pray,—­to Beelzebub, or whoever will hear them.  But from the rest of France there comes, as was said, no prayer; or one of an opposite character, ’expressed openly in the streets.’  Chateau or Hotel, were an enlightened Philosophism scrutinises many things, is not given to prayer:  neither are Rossbach victories, Terray Finances, nor, say only ‘sixty thousand Lettres de Cachet’ (which is Maupeou’s share), persuasives towards that.  O Henault!  Prayers?  From a France smitten (by black-art) with plague after plague, and lying now in shame and pain, with a Harlot’s foot on its neck, what prayer can come?  Those lank scarecrows, that prowl hunger-stricken through all highways and byways of French Existence, will they pray?  The dull