Paris, December 26, 1792.
I should immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have
thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not
wished to wait till I could tell you that this day was not stained with
blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention
to prevent a tumult, made me suppose that the dogs of faction would not
dare to bark, much less to bite, however true to their scent; and I was
not mistaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning
home with composed countenances, shouldering their arms. About nine
o’clock this morning, the king passed by my window, moving silently
along (excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, which rendered
the stillness more awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the
national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, seemed to deserve
their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the casements
were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see any thing like an
insulting gesture. For the first time since I entered France, I bowed to
the majesty of the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour so
perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can scarcely tell you why,
but an association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly from my eyes,
when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from his
character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where so many of his
race have triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis XIV before me,
entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories most
flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of prosperity
overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery. I have been alone ever
since; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images
that have filled my imagination all the day—Nay, do not smile, but pity
me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes
glare through a glass-door opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at
me. Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My apartments are
remote from those of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me in
an immense hotel, one folding door opening after another. I wish I had
even kept the cat with me!—I want to see something alive; death in so
many frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to bed—and,
for the first time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.