For the rest, it is too clear our Successive Loan is not filling. As indeed, in such circumstances, a Loan registered by expunging of Protests was not the likeliest to fill. Denunciation of _Lettres-de-Cachet_, of Despotism generally, abates not: the Twelve Parlements are busy; the Twelve hundred Placarders, Balladsingers, Pamphleteers. Paris is what, in figurative speech, they call “flooded with pamphlets (_regorge de brochures_);” flooded and eddying again. Hot deluge,—from so many Patriot ready-writers, all at the _fervid_ or boiling point; each ready-writer, now in the hour of eruption, going like an Iceland Geyser! Against which what can a judicious friend Morellet do; a Rivarol, an unruly Linguet (well paid for it),—spouting _cold!_ Now also, at length, does come discussion of the Protestant Edict: but only for new embroilment; in pamphlet and counter-pamphlet, increasing the madness of men. Not even Orthodoxy, bedrid as she seemed, but will have a hand in this confusion. She, once again in the shape of Abbé Lenfant, “whom Prelates drive to visit and congratulate,”—raises audible sound from her pulpit-drum.[80] Or mark how D’Espréménil, who has his own confused way in all things, produces at the right moment in Parlementary harangue, a pocket Crucifix, with the apostrophe: ‘Will ye crucify him afresh?’ _Him_, O D’Espréménil, without scruple;—considering what poor stuff, of ivory and filigree, _he_ is made of! To all which add only that poor Brienne has fallen sick; so hard was the tear and wear of his sinful youth, so violent, incessant is this agitation of his foolish old age. Baited, bayed at through so many throats, his Grace, growing consumptive, inflammatory (with _humeur de dartre_), lies reduced to milk diet; in exasperation, almost in desperation; with “repose,” precisely the impossible recipe, prescribed as the indispensable.[81]