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作者: Charles Dickens

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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.

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