dliness have been
dispelled. Nearly every salon was open in 1789. In 1792, they are
nearly all closed; those of the magistrates and the great capitalists
as well as those of the aristocracy. Etiquette is still observed at
the Tuileries, but there is no question of fetes; no balls, no
concerts, none of that elegance and animation which once made the court
a rendezvous of pleasures. In 1789, illusions, dreams, a naive
expectation of the age of gold, were to be found everywhere. In 1792,
eclogues and pastoral poetry are beginning to go out of fashion. The
diapason of hatred is pitched higher. Already there is powder and a
smell of blood in the air. A general instinct forebodes that France
and Europe are on the verge of a terrible duel. On both sides passions
have touched their culminating point. Distrust and uneasiness are
universal. Every day the despotism of the clubs becomes more
threatening. The Jacobins do not reign yet, but they govern. Deputies
who, if left to their own impulses, would vote on the conservative
side, pronounce for the Revolution solely through fear of the
demagogues. In 1789, the religious sentiment still retained power
among the {3} masses. In 1792, irreligion and atheism have wrought
their havoc. In 1789, the most ardent revolutionists, Marat, Danton,
Robespierre, were all royalists. At the beginning of 1792, the
republic begins to show its face beneath the monarchical mask.

The Tuileries, menaced by the neighboring lanes of the Carrousel and
the Palais Royal, resembles a besieged fortress. The Revolution daily
augments its trenches and parallels around the sanctuary of the
monarchy. Its barracks are the faubourgs; its soldiers, red-bonneted
pikemen. Louis XVI. in his palace is like a general-in-chief in a
stronghold, who should have voluntarily dampened his powder, spiked his
cannon, and torn his flags. He no longer inspires his troops with
confidence. A capitulation seems imminent. The unfortunate monarch
still hopes vaguely for assistance from abroad, for the arrival of some
liberating army. Vain hope! He is blockaded in his castle, and the
moment is at hand when he will be compelled to play the buffoon in a
red bonnet.

Glance at the palace and see how closely it is hemmed in by the
earthworks of the Revolution. The abode of luxury and display,
intended for fetes rather than for war, Philibert Delorme's
_chef-d'oeuvre_ has in its architecture none of those means of