Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what

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he would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It

was too much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a

refugee, and it was much too much the way of native British

orthodoxy, to talk of this terrible Revolution as if it were the one

only harvest ever known under the skies that had not been sown

as if nothing had ever been done, or omitted to be done, that had

led to itas if observers of the wretched millions in France, and of

the misused and perverted resources that should have made them

prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming, years before, and

had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such vapouring,

combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the

restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,

and worn out heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be

endured without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew

the truth. And it was such vapouring all about his ears, like a

troublesome confusion of blood in his own head, added to a latent

uneasiness in his mind, which had already made Charles Darnay

restless, and which still kept him so.

Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King’s Bench Bar, far on

his way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the them