all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the Spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or continuance.
But reflect, in any case, what a life-problem this of poor Louis, when he rose as Bien-Aimé from that Metz sick-bed, really was! What son of Adam could have swayed such incoherences into coherence? Could he? Blindest Fortune alone has cast him on the top of it: he, swims there; can as little sway it as the drift-log sways the wind-tossed moon-stirred Atlantic. 'What have I done to be so loved?' he said then. He may say now: What have I done to be so hated? Thou hast done nothing, poor Louis! Thy fault is properly even this, that thou didst nothing. What could poor Louis do? Abdicate, and wash his hands of it,—in favour of the first that would accept! Other clear wisdom there was none for him. As it was, he stood gazing dubiously, the absurdest mortal extant, a very Solecism Incarnate, into the absurdest confused world;—wherein at last nothing seemed so certain as this. That he, the incarnate Solecism, had five senses; that there were Flying Tables (Tables Volantes, which vanish through the floor, to come back reloaded), and a Parc-aux-cerfs.
Whereby at least we have again this historical curiosity: a human being in an original position; swimming passively, as on some boundless 'Mother of Dead Dogs,' towards issues which he partly saw. For Louis had withal a kind of insight in him. So, when a new Minister of Marine, or what else it might be, came announcing his new era, the Scarlet-woman would hear from the lips of Majesty at supper: 'Yes, he spread out his ware like another; promised the beautifulest things in the world; not a thing of which will come: he does not know this region; he will see.' Or again: ''Tis the twentieth time I have heard all that; France will never get a Navy, I believe.' How touching also was this: 'If I were Lieutenant of Police, I would prohibit those Paris cabriolets.'[1]
- ↑ Journal de Madame de Hausset, p. 293, etc.
