iods,
in virtue of one thing only: that the Head were healthy. But this Head
of the French Constitution! What King Louis is and cannot help being,
Readers already know. A King who cannot take the Constitution, nor
reject the Constitution: nor do anything at all, but miserably ask, What
shall I do? A King environed with endless confusions; in whose own mind
is no germ of order. Haughty implacable remnants of Noblesse struggling
with humiliated repentant Barnave-Lameths: struggling in that obscure
element of fetchers and carriers, of Half-pay braggarts from the Cafe
Valois, of Chambermaids, whisperers, and subaltern officious persons;
fierce Patriotism looking on all the while, more and more suspicious,
from without: what, in such struggle, can they do? At best, cancel
one another, and produce zero. Poor King! Barnave and your Senatorial
Jaucourts speak earnestly into this ear; Bertrand-Moleville, and
Messengers from Coblentz, speak earnestly into that: the poor Royal head
turns to the one side and to the other side; can turn itself fixedly
to no side. Let Decency drop a veil over it: sorrier misery was seldom
enacted in the world. This one small fact, does it not throw the saddest
light on much? The Queen is lamenting to Madam Campan: "What am I to do?
When they, these Barnaves, get us advised to any step which the Noblesse
do not like, then I am pouted at; nobody comes to my card table; the
King's Couchee is solitary." (Campan, ii. 177-202.) In such a case of
dubiety, what is one to do? Go inevitably to the ground!

The King has accepted this Constitution, knowing beforehand that it will
not serve: he studies it, and executes it in the hope mainly that it
will be found inexecutable. King's Ships lie rotting in harbour, their
officers gone; the Armies disorganised; robbers scour the highways,
which wear down unrepaired; all Public Service lies slack and waste: the
Executive makes no effort, or an effort only to throw the blame on the
Constitution. Shamming death, 'faisant le mort!' What Constitution,
use it in this manner, can march? 'Grow to disgust the Nation' it will
truly, (Bertrand-Moleville, i. c. 4.)--unless you first grow to disgust
the Nation! It is Bertrand de Moleville's plan, and his Majesty's; the
best they can form.

Or if, after all, this best-plan proved too slow; proved a failure?
Provident of that too, the Queen, shrouded in deepest mystery, 'writes
all day, in cipher, day after day, to Coblentz;' Engi