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The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have

been the mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never

been a good eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of

Lucifer's pride, Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's

blindness--but it had dropped out and was gone. The Court, from

that exclusive inner circle to its outermost rotten ring of

intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was all gone together.

Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and

"suspended," when the last tidings came over.

The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two

was come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and

wide.