s Majesty, on hint of Garde-des-Sceaux, Lamoignon, opens his
royal lips once more to say, in brief That he must have his Loan-Edict
registered.--Momentary deep pause!--See! Monseigneur d'Orleans rises;
with moon-visage turned towards the royal platform, he asks, with a
delicate graciosity of manner covering unutterable things: "Whether it
is a Bed of Justice, then; or a Royal Session?" Fire flashes on him from
the throne and neighbourhood: surly answer that "it is a Session." In
that case, Monseigneur will crave leave to remark that Edicts cannot
be registered by order in a Session; and indeed to enter, against such
registry, his individual humble Protest. "Vous etes bien le maitre (You
will do your pleasure)", answers the King; and thereupon, in high state,
marches out, escorted by his Court-retinue; D'Orleans himself, as
in duty bound, escorting him, but only to the gate. Which duty done,
D'Orleans returns in from the gate; redacts his Protest, in the face
of an applauding Parlement, an applauding France; and so--has cut his
Court-moorings, shall we say? And will now sail and drift, fast enough,
towards Chaos?

Thou foolish D'Orleans; Equality that art to be! Is Royalty grown a mere
wooden Scarecrow; whereon thou, pert scald-headed crow, mayest alight at
pleasure, and peck? Not yet wholly.

Next day, a Lettre-de-Cachet sends D'Orleans to bethink himself in his
Chateau of Villers-Cotterets, where, alas, is no Paris with its
joyous necessaries of life; no fascinating indispensable Madame
de Buffon,--light wife of a great Naturalist much too old for her.
Monseigneur, it is said, does nothing but walk distractedly, at
Villers-Cotterets; cursing his stars. Versailles itself shall hear
penitent wail from him, so hard is his doom. By a second, simultaneous
Lettre-de-Cachet, Goody Freteau is hurled into the Stronghold of Ham,
amid the Norman marshes; by a third, Sabatier de Cabre into Mont St.
Michel, amid the Norman quicksands. As for the Parlement, it must, on
summons, travel out to Versailles, with its Register-Book under its arm,
to have the Protest biffe (expunged); not without admonition, and even
rebuke. A stroke of authority which, one might have hoped, would quiet
matters.

Unhappily, no; it is a mere taste of the whip to rearing coursers,
which makes them rear worse! When a team of Twenty-five Millions begins
rearing, what is Lomenie's whip? The Parlement will nowise acquiesce
meekly; and set to register the Prot