Chapter 3: Summer, or Marie Antoinette’s Necklace
The Historical Society began to fill with voices, elderly gents nodding in agreement or raising quizzical eyebrows. Conversation settled upon the mid-1780s. Someone spoke dramatically of a hamlet’s construction near the palace of Versailles. “Bread riots,” countered another, affecting a serious mien. A matron romantically brushed him aside with word of the Dauphin’s birth; when, out of nowhere, came a distinguished looking man. “Or,” he fulsomely interjected, putting a hand to one of his muttonchops, “consider that unutterable business of the Diamond Necklace. Red-hatted Cardinal Louis de Rohan; Sicilian jailbird Balsamo Cagliostro; milliner Dame de la Motte, ‘with a face of some piquancy’: the highest Church Dignitaries waltzing, in Walpurgis Dance, with quack-prophets, pickpurses and public women; a whole Satan’s Invisible World displayed; the smoke of its torment going up forever! The Throne has been brought into scandalous collision with the Treadmill. Astonished Europe rings with the mystery for nine months; sees only lie unfold itself from lie; corruption among the lofty and the low; gulosity; credulity; imbecility. Weep, fair Queen, thy first tears of unmixed wretchedness! Thy fair name has been tarnished by foul breath. No more shalt thou be loved and pitied by living hearts, till a new generation has been born and thy own heart lies cold, cured of all its sorrows. Henceforth the Epigrams become, not sharp and bitter, but cruel and atrocious. On that 31st of May 1786 a miserable Cardinal Grand-Almoner Rohan, on issuing from his Bastille, is escorted by hurrahing crowds; unloved he, and worthy of no love. . . . ” But the crowd was already drifting toward the theater, from the wings of whose tiny stage another voice was audible:
“I am afraid that circumstance does not permit me to grant you the audience which you desire. When time, however, favors such a delightful meeting, I shall send you word. Be discreet.” A ghostly voice, it had the ring of majesty, though not the authenticity. Of all the people present, only the Cardinal was deceived. The Members murmured with approval before the blackened stage. The lights came up. With the letter in his hand, the Cardinal entered, pretending to read. “Marie Antoinette de France,” the letter ended. The voice was high and false, but the Cardinal was satisfied. The drama had begun.
Outwardly the Cardinal showed no enthusiasm as he spoke to the Countess. “I am indeed indebted to you,” he said.
“I do no more than the Queen’s will,” the Countess confessed.
“Yes, so I see,” the Cardinal whispered, looking over the letter once more. Again he observed the signature, again he regarded the light blue paper, its gilt edges glistening. Standing in a violet robe, which fell in folds about him, he took the advice of the Countess de la Motte. His reply to the letter expressed his happiness and gratitude.
Each letter the Countess brought pointed to one conclusion. The Queen had changed her mind about the Cardinal, but she had to conceal the fact. Time passed. After many such letters had been presented Madame de la Comtesse would say, “The Queen now authorizes me to ask for your reply.” Rohan’s response would cost him twenty drafts. The first nineteen he burnt to leave no trace.
The Cardinal – need we say? – was unaware of the careless hand that forged those blue scented notes in the Queen’s name. History, however, shows that it belonged to a certain Retaux de Villette, the same Villette who, at the misfortunate Cardinal’s trial was to remark that he (Villette) had no understanding at all of what the Countess had made him write (though, he confessed, he knew that the Cardinal had been deceived by her).
“We had made a good deal of progress, in terms of latitude, since our ship had left that Chinese furnace. The constellations in our skies had changed quickly: the Southern Cross, along with the other southern stars, had disappeared; the Big Dipper had risen toward the pole and now stood nearly as high as in the skies of France. Breathing in fresh air, we already began to relax and come alive with delight. We thought of earlier night watches, in the summer, off the coast of Brittany. And yet what a distance we were from that familiar coast, what a terrifying distance!” The Count de la Motte closed the novel and cautiously placed it on the bedside table. He thought of the ocean and of sailing craft. “Perhaps,” he said in a quiet voice, “we should take the opportunity to travel.” His words, though, were not attended to by the Countess, who had fallen asleep. He reflected again upon the question of the Cardinal. Rohan, he decided, should have further encouragement before making demands for money. Soon his meeting with the Queen should be arranged, in the secrecy of evening – the Count would see to that. A small dog licked at his hand and scampered into the bed. The Count’s thoughts reverted to the sea, to finishing his book.
from The Journal of Le Comte de la Motte
In the gardens of the Palais-Royal I have noticed a young woman regularly coming to the same place to amuse herself by playing with a small child. She has brown hair, full and wavy. Her eyes are large and blue. As I studied her graceful features, I was struck by her superb likeness to the Queen
from The Journal of Marie-Nicole Legucy
(written in the Petit Hôtel Lambesc, rue du Jour)
Awful thoughts of my childhood awoke me this morning. Mother, had you lived to look after me, perhaps life would appear so differently!
I believe the nicest hours of the day are for me spent in the gardens of the Palais-Royal. Dear little Paul, how I do love to listen to you explain how roses become red and such other things as only children know of.
Tonight I will dance and dance until the sky spins all the stars into rings.
Jean should not spend his inheritance so foolishly on me. (Ed. Note: We should give careful attention to this woman’s sensibilities, as she is grossly underrated by the Queen.)
The masked ball was a grand affair, thirteen thousand people in attendance. Marie-Nicole was not disappointed. The guests at the festival fell into one of two groups, those with invitations and those who, shall we say, took it upon themselves to be invited. Among the invited was Marie Antoinette, who nonetheless arrived impromptu, by way of a public coach, drawn by the most questionable of bays. She was overheard to say she thought her arrival “an amusing way of entrance for a member of the royal family.”
In conversations which followed that evening the coach of the Queen became a fashionable topic. The simple fact that the royal coach had broken down itself never surfaced. Gossip instead was concerned with inventing witty reasons – some most odious! – for the aforesaid manner of arrival. By evening’s end there were at least a thousand and one such explanations, each vying to outdo the last for scandal. Such was the range of invention that for once the British papers had little to contribute.
The Queen, ’tis often remarked, had a passion for gambling. This “taste for game” had matured since the astronomical mounting of her debts. Later in the merry-making a game of cards was initiated, and it involved the Queen. Admission was easy to obtain for any well-groomed young man whose name had been duly presented to the usher of the game by an officer at the court. Too, Marie Antoinette was accustomed to the company of rich or professional players.
So it was that, when a certain Jean-Baptiste Toussaint de Beaussire entered the gaming area, the Queen assumed (from his appearance) that he was a “professional.” The room in which the play occurred was octagonal in shape and contained balconies from which “ladies” who had not been presented were allowed to view the proceedings. Monsieur de Beaussire had played exceedingly well for half an hour, when his luck took a precipitous turn for the worse. Blinking, he stared into the light overhead and wiped his forehead with a kerchief. A feather, dropped from the balcony by one of the “spectators,” fell behind the Queen. A friend of the Queen’s placed a bet and invited Monsieur to do likewise. Whereupon he lost again. In the course of an hour Mr. Beaussire had forfeited his entire inheritance.
Mademoiselle Legucy had not thought it all that strange that Jean had left her with friends for an hour and a half. Yet, as the time grew later and later, it became quite evident that he was not returning. She was puzzled, to say the least, his having left no inkling of his whereabouts. With the help of others she made search but was soon persuaded by a close friend that to look further would be in vain. Thus she consented to be left off at her apartment where, her escort having departed, she discovered, and tearfully read, the following message:
Dearest Marie,
I know not what you will think of me after tonight. Serious matters have arisen which prevent me from seeing you, perhaps ever again. I shall be gone for a long time. Do not think it is you that has driven me away.
Please take care of your kindly person. There are those worthy of you.
All my love,
Jean
Needless to say the thought of never seeing Jean again shattered Marie. She fled to a friend’s apartment, seeking some consolation. Together, in the dark of early morning, they drank a cup of tea. Her friend, wise as well as witty, invented a steady stream of conversation to keep Marie distracted from her grief. She quoted the classics, fragments overheard at court, oriental proverbs, anything to soothe her friend. “There once,” she said, “was a small country” (only half hearing her own voice), “with but a few inhabitants.” Marie gazed at the moonlit clouds through the casement. “Though they had,” her friend continued, “devices which saved them much work, they did not use them.” She paused to look lovingly at Marie.
“Jean,” she said, “is very much like a man who lived there, like a gentleman of that country who owned a boat but never used it. For you see, Marie my dear, Jean has a good heart but has not made use of it.” Marie returned her gaze, smiling weakly. At long last, the turbulent forces within her subsided, and she soon fell asleep on the small divan. Silently her friend put out the light and opened the casement to the summer skies.
Marie Antoinette, whose skin, according to her painter, Madame Vigée le Brun, was so transparent that no shadow could be found on her face, took her leave from the ball at 3:00 am. That gay affair was to be – we now know – one of the last to brighten the court. Already talk was abroad, talk blemishing to the Queen. And in the coming year there would be more. All France knew the name of Beaumarchais, with his Marriage of Figaro. Yes, the play was played, and for long seemed it never would be finished. Ill-advised indeed had been the King. Nor was the Queen hesitant with those advisors her displeasure to express.
Her displeasure went abroad, extending to the closet of friends, to friends most trusted. Nor was it limited to those who had badly advised the King. Let us speak here, by way of example, of Monsieur de Vandreuil. For in this amusing case the Queen’s displeasure resulted from a broken cue stick, gold-butted and formed from an ivory tusk. The gentleman, it seems, had struck it against a table in a fit of rage over the outcome of a game. But, woe to him, the cue was highly valued by the Queen. And it was in her ownership. Now one cannot help but think had Monsieur truly held the Queen in high esteem, he would have been more careful with that cue. But so it was he had fallen ill of her opinion. And now, at 3:00 am, not without despair, he seeks to pleasure her and thereby regain his former stature. Thus he scrambles. Thus she smiles, haughtily. So much for poor Vandreuil (indeed he had aspired to be the Dauphin’s own governor). So much for those poor hopes! As she steps into her carriage, Marie is heard to say, “The poor man has no idea that my mind’s made up against him.”
The summer had turned empty for the Queen. After the guests had left Versailles, the court took up backgammon, and she turned her attention to the rearing of the children, wherein her mother’s thoughts so prominently figured. “I do not believe,” her mother had said, “that all etiquette should be taken out of the life of the royal children; however, they should have no excessive luxury or great ease of living. It is fashionable now, following Rousseau, to turn them into peasants – completely free: this gives me no pleasure. Without correct feeding of their pride from babyhood inevitable difficulties will ensue. If not accustomed to certain treatment at an early age, they will find it hard to distinguish themselves from others.” Marie herself, on her arrival at court, had not taken well to etiquette.
from The Journal of Marie-Nicole Legucy
The rain has not let up all day. My mood is in accord with the weather. There must be an end to this suffering. Again my sleep is troubled by a vision of the rue de la Grande Batelière. In the dream a child approaches, bearing the head of a doll which I once owned. Other children have gathered around me, dressed in strange costumes. I am part of a joke that is being played, but the jest seems pointless, and I am the only one not laughing. So peculiar, in fact, is the children’s dress that it begins to frighten me. One of them is clad in what looks and smells like very old cloth. Another wears a manner of dress completely unfamiliar to me. Perhaps it was this last child who disturbed me the most.
. . . . .
The street lamps are being lit. I took a walk in the fog, which covers every path and house. My thoughts are still with Jean. I should not take this matter so badly. A friend of mine tells me that Paris is full of handsome young men. I really don’t care if Paris had a hundred such men, for there is but one Jean. Still, the way in which he parted from me should be an indication of his true insensitive nature. What a fool I must be for going on like this about someone whom I did not really know. I make a resolution: I will by all means enjoy myself and not give Jean another thought.
. . . . .
The weather has been so miserable it has prevented me from going to the gardens the past four days. A single source of amusement has been taking Paul there since the night of the ball. One day I shall be taking my own child to the gardens at the Palais-Royal. My only wish is that my children grow up with at least a fraction of the ease and comfort that the royal children must be brought up with.
. . . . .
This afternoon was a delight to me. As always, Paul and I played in the gardens, but today I made a new friend. While I was sitting, a tall young man passed before me several times. He was alone and seemed eager to make acquaintance. I had never seen this person before today, yet he seemed familiar. He noticed that I saw him studying me and moved in my direction, as if he had made up his mind that he knew me. A chair was empty two or three steps from mine, and he took a seat. Introducing himself as the Count de la Motte, he informed me that while he had been waiting for a lady companion, whom he was to meet somewhere in the gardens, he had been impressed by my appearance. It seems that I resemble a friend of this woman’s. We talked for a half an hour in a most enjoyable way.
. . . . .
The good Count de la Motte is a courteous man. His conversation is always interesting and witty. Last night at dinner he was quite adorable. I had little idea at the time we met that all would turn out so well. Flowers! He adorns me with roses in the most glorious of arrangements. Had I refused him permission to call on me, which would not have seemed unlikely (considering the conditions under which we met), all this dining and dancing would never have been. I believe I can now say farewell to the old days of unhappiness. There is of course one obstacle – the Countess. Yet no problems have arisen. I am content with things as they are. A friend seems more desirable to me than a lover. The Countess appears to grasp the situation, for I would not dream of taking her place.
. . . . .
Tonight I was warmly received at the rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles. I was introduced to a curious assembly of persons as the “Baronne d’Oliva.” The Countess had informed me beforehand that I would assume this name, considering the people I would be in the company of. Not having a title can be a bother. (Ed. note: The Countess’s name was Jeanne de Valois, her signature The Countess de la Motte-Valois. By omitting the letter “s” from Valois the name Oliva can be formed. A coincidence? Perhaps not, judging from the character of the Count and Countess.)
The activity in every phase of the inner party seemed to revolve around the Countess. She is a woman of charm and enchanting grace. If I recall correctly, among the financiers in the circle about her to whom I was introduced was the son-in-law of the Procurer-General at the Court of Requests.
Among the most entertaining people I’ve met in a long while was a young officer who says he has distinguished himself on the field of tic-tac with the Countess. The truth of the matter, I believe, is that the Countess has won more games than he. His deep blue eyes were a pleasure to watch as he laughed and joked. As the subject of the royal family came up, he recited an old poem:
Little queen of twenty years,
Have you, now and then, no fears,
That if courtesy you lack
Austria will have you back?
Despite the favorable manner in which I was treated by the Countess, there was some indication that to be out of her good graces could take its toll. A queer little man who arrived late and called the Countess “cousin” had the misfortune to displeasure her at dinner. The poor man was asked to leave and was taken from the table without so much as another sip of soup.
After dinner the gentlemen retired to the game room. They took with them a few large bottles of Burgundy, which the Count kept in the cellar. The women were left in a sitting room to entertain household matters. I must confess the Countess’s household is a very nice (and at the same time strange) collection of persons. Besides the cook, footman, groundskeeper and the usual maid or two, there is a young reader and companion to the Countess, a confessor-secretary, an officer for the game of tic-tac, her husband’s friend in business, and a frail monk who has a ghastly appetite for lamb.
At one point in the evening the Countess and I were alone. She was full of compliments and insisted that we drop certain formalities. I had drunk a lot of wine, so I can’t be sure, but I believe we carried on our talk in a small alcove by the light of a failing lamp. I remember that, as the light grew dim, the Countess’s voice became clear and urgent. It was “a matter of the utmost importance,” she said. Yet what she would ask of me, she stressed, would be small compared to the great pleasure it would give the Queen. The next thing I recall was that I had agreed to what she asked. In a fortnight the Count is to call on me, and we’re to travel to Versailles. There I’m to meet a nobleman. I’m to deliver a letter to him, and speak to him briefly. Then I shall offer him a rose.
July, this year, was much like June. Both had passed uneventfully for Marie Antoinette. Prince Henry of Prussia was making preparations to pay what turned out to be an extended visit to the French court. It was to be a difficult visit for the Queen, who met with the Prince a dozen times. She was to learn of his intentions to sway the court away from Vienna. This was to give her no pleasure. Also in the coming months the Dauphin was to fall ill, the Queen to find herself pregnant and, most important of all, an attempt to avert war throughout Europe was to be discredited, all on account of a certain Diamond Necklace.
The Necklace was familiar to the sovereigns of Europe, though at the moment it was in the possession of two court jewelers, Boehmer and Bassenge, its eminent value placing it beyond the reach of most buyers. Having offered it throughout the courts of Europe that year, Boehmer had grown desperate to dispose of it. Thus it was he fell to his knees before Marie Antoinette, pleading, “Madame, I shall be ruined if you do not see fit to take it. If I must leave with the necklace I shall throw myself into the river. I cannot suffer further.” The Queen scolded the crying man: “Lift yourself, Boehmer. Honest men do not make requests on their knees. Should you take your life over the matter I will choose to regard you as mad. It was not I who brought this misfortune to you. I have told you time and again that there is no room in my collection for four more diamonds. Divide your necklace. Go elsewhere. Do not drown yourself, and let me never see you act this way again. You have upset me. Now leave.” From that moment on the Queen avoided Boehmer.
The King, however, had occasion to call on him in the matter of a present for the Duc d’Angoulême. It concerned a diamond epaulette and buckler, to be delivered to the Queen. Thus once more Boehmer found himself in her audience. Seizing the occasion, he presented her with a letter proclaiming that the Queen had in her possession the finest diamonds on all the Continent and asking that she not forget him. She read the letter aloud, considering it proof of his mental disorder. Shortly thereafter she set it aflame.
A carriage hired by the Count de la Motte stopped in front of the Petit Hôtel de Lambesc. The passenger it received was none other than the Baronne d’Oliva. It made its way to Versailles at 10:00 in the evening. Marie was taken to the quarters of the Countess de la Motte in the Place Dauphine.
from the Journal of Marie-Nicole Legucy
It is likely that no one has served the Queen in a stranger way than I this evening. I know not the full meaning of all the things that have occurred, but I do appreciate their importance. This afternoon the Countess sent a woman to my rooms to fashion my hair en demi-bonnet. When I met the Countess this evening at Versailles, she paced around me, complaining that something was wrong, something needed to be changed. She no longer seemed the kind person I had known weeks ago, but rather the person who had tossed that little man from her dinner party. Shortly thereafter, however, she gave me signs of their approval and returned once more to the personage I am more familiar with. Then I was suddenly rushed off to the gardens. The night was without moon. Clouds hid the stars from view.
The Cardinal, in the Grove of Venus, paced nervously, impatiently awaiting the approach of the Countess de la Motte. At midnight she appeared, bearing the news he had desired. He was to be permitted to see, yea to touch, the one woman he wished most ardently to please, the Queen herself. Now with his guide he brushes against the firs and yoke-elms forming a curtain about the small glade. Here, in the grassy center, they discover the woman. The contrast is breathtaking: a dazzling white against the dismal surround. As Rohan moves closer he notices that in her hand she holds a rose. He bows before her, the dark blue of his cloak spread upon the ground. He hears what he thinks is the Queen’s voice and kisses the white hem of her dress. A figure speeds toward her, speaking in hushed, impetuous tones: “Madame! D’Artois approaches.” No sooner is the Cardinal at the height of his ecstasy than he is torn from the splendid moment. The Queen vanishes, but she has left with the Cardinal what he most sought: her royal forgiveness.
Or so Rohan thought. The real Queen, at the moment of the Cardinal’s encounter with Marie-Nicole, was leaning above her children, all fast asleep in the nursery. A keyboard recital, featuring five sonatas of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, had just concluded. Preparing herself for bed, the Queen hummed a passage from Opus 333. As she fell asleep, the clouds of the late night sky broke apart to expose the stars. In the early hours of the morning Marie Antoinette dreamt of carefree days spent at her beloved Trianon, the time passing between the Grand Lake and the Temple of Love. After the Queen had arisen to leave for Mass her wardrobe woman took the pillows from her bed and made it.
“This family is in such desperate need – as I have informed you – that the Queen herself must have your financial backing.” The Countess de la Motte stopped short of mentioning a figure. But Rohan seemed more than willing to accommodate her. And why should he not? Only a week had passed since his appointment in the garden. It was the vitality of this memory on which the Countess counted.
“I should be more than happy,” the Cardinal replied. “Of how much help may I be?” Fifty thousand livres, he thought to himself, should be quite adequate. With pleasure he thought of the Queen, in such debt – to him! The Countess’s pleasant smile disguised her shrewdness. She had not reached this pass by any kindness of Fortune. She would ask many favors of the Cardinal in the coming weeks.
Boehmer and Bassenge had still found no buyer for the necklace. Thus it was that when wind was caught of a certain Count de la Motte, who could afford the jewels or influence some noble family to purchase them, no time was lost in making contact. At her first sight of the necklace the Countess was stunned by its beauty. She held it up to the window and observed how it broke the light into a thousand tiny prisms. Boehmer awaited with bated breath the Count and Countess’s decision. The day was long in arriving, but it bore good news for the jewelers. The Queen, la Motte told them, had decided upon the purchase. Boehmer was ecstatic. The hints which he had dropped at court had finally paid off! The Countess informed the jewelers that it was the Queen’s custom to use a great lord as intermediary in such matters. Thus the jewelers accepted the notion of Rohan’s visit, who appeared the next day to arrange the matter. There would be four payments, each at an interval of six months, amounting in toto to one million, six hundred thousand pounds. Boehmer and Bassenge delivered the necklace to the Cardinal’s quarters in the Marais, taking satisfaction from a letter signed “Marie Antoinette de France.” Patently it authorized the Cardinal to negotiate a fair price. In turn did Rohan deliver the piece to La Motte, lingering to espy the Countess as (he thought) she placed the fabulous jewels in the hands of the Queen’s messenger.
Another year has elapsed. The heat of summer has returned. The public receives the Queen with growing suspicion, a disquieting lack of enthusiasm reigning among the crowds that gather to observe her majesty. Of a Sunday afternoon Marie perceives an indication of things going on behind her back. The jeweler has brought some jewels to the Queen along with a note, which the Queen later burns. The Cardinal receives communications from the Queen. A certain diamond necklace has not been paid for. Rohan has been instructed to lower the price. Boehmer has agreed. Throughout the year the Cardinal and the jewelers had thought it strange that the Queen was never seen wearing the necklace.
“What does this man mean by ‘Your last proposals are agreeable’? Go and ask him at once.” Her first lady-in-waiting answers the Queen’s command by arranging to dine with Boehmer on Sunday. The dinner finished, they sit in a parlor overlooking a small courtyard of the country house. Beyond, grazing cows and sheep are visible.
“What is the meaning of the letter you gave to the Queen after Mass today?” the lady-in-waiting queries.
“The Queen cannot be unaware of the subject!” a stunned but emphatic Boehmer replies.
“The Queen can,” returns the lady-in-waiting. “She is quite ignorant of the subject and desires me to ask that you make yourself clear.” Her voice is audible over the sounds of a brewing summer storm.
Boehmer: “One would think the Queen had cause to treat people she owes better.”
Lady-in-waiting: “Persons that she is in debt to she treats well. Fools and simpletons not.”
The jeweler: “Ah, indeed, Madame, there have been affairs as to the nature of which you need instruction.” The first lady-in-waiting sits in horror as the jeweler tells his story. Such is the Queen’s response the Duchess must be sent for to revive her.
On the following Sunday, at twelve noon, the King sends for the Cardinal. He is on his way to Mass when he receives the King’s request. Rohan strides into the King’s closet dressed in black. It is the King who delivers the first word. The Queen sits attentively, as her husband speaks:
“You have bought some diamonds from the court jewelers?”
“Yes, Sire. I – ”
“Where are the diamonds now?”
“They have been given to the Queen” Rohan admits.
“Upon whose authority did you purchase the jewels?”
“Why upon the Queen’s.”
“Indeed,” says Her Majesty, thinking aloud.
“Let me put the question to you again.” The King seeks clarification.
“Sire, the Comtesse de la Motte-Valois gave me a letter from the Queen. I thought I was acting in agreement with Her Majesty’s will.”
“If,” says the Queen, “I may here interject a word. . . .” The King and Rohan turn their eyes toward Marie. “My dear Cardinal, I have not spoken with you in more than eight years. How might you have believed that I should select you for such an assignment? Further, that I should commission you through a woman I have never known?”
“I see,” says Rohan. “I have been deceived.” For a moment the Cardinal stands in silence before his King and Queen. Then, reaching beneath his robe, he produces one of the forged letters and hands it to the King. His majesty’s eyes pass quickly over the note.
“My dear man, how sad,” says the King. “The Queen of France, as everyone knows, signs only her baptismal name. She would never write ‘Marie Antoinette de France.’”
The curtain falls, the Members applauding politely. Light dawns in the theater. A self-possessed, grey-haired gentleman clears his throat: “We have the pleasure of tea and cakes in the reading room.” Heavily perfumed, the ladies move toward the door, as their husbands light cigars. Only a single figure now remains. Still seated in his chair, scratching a muttonchop, he continues to reflect on the spectacle: “How our bright Era of Hope is dimmed! And the whole sky growing bleak with signs of hurricane and earthquake! It is a doomed world: gone all ‘obedience that made men free’: fast going the obedience that made men slaves, – at least to one another. Slaves only of their own lusts they now are, and will be. Slaves of sin; inevitably also of sorrow. Behold the moldering mass of Sensuality and Falsehood; round which plays foolishly, itself a corrupt phosphorescence, some glimmer of Sentimentalism; –and over all, rising as Ark of their covenant, the grim Patibulary Fork ‘forty feet high’; which also is now nigh rotted. Add only that the French Nation distinguishes itself among Nations by the characteristic of Excitability; with the good, but also with the perilous evil, which belongs to that. Rebellion, explosion, of unknown extent is to be calculated on. Here then, as Chesterfield wrote, are ‘all the symptoms I have ever met with in History’!”