The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France (Complete)

Although there was no cash in silken fob or broidered pocket, the Elect denied themselves no luxury. Bejewelled Fashion was sumptuously clad: my ladies quarrelled and intrigued, danced and gambled--my lords slept off the fumes of wine, and mopped the wounds begot of midnight brawl; then drank and fought again. Money? No credit even. Trade was at a standstill, yet the court was uproariously gay. Money and credit--sinews of pleasure as well as business--having flitted from lively Paris, you might suppose that the wheels of Society would cease to turn--that the flower-decked car of gilded Juggernaut would come creeping to a standstill. Not yet. Impelled by the impulse of its own velocity, it continued to crush on awhile. Those who knew were numbed by the chill shadow of the inevitable, or rendered callous by the knowledge of their helplessness. Those who were deaf and blind groped blissfully on in their lighthearted ignorance. Selfish all, depraved most, the blue-blooded sang in merry chorus, "Let us eat and drink that the worms may grow fat on us." Not so the gaunt crowds whose blood was but mud and water. As their long-suffering ancestors had monotonously done, they groaned in unison, crying to God for death, as the only release from misery.