The Flight | revolt, revolut, revolution
The carriage door opened —
A carriage rolled into a little sleepy town. It was barely light and nobody thought too much about the guilded footboards or the the crystal windowpanes which threw a dim glint into the gushing Aire under the bridge and lit up the wavelets like last glimmering stars and curious irises peeping from behind blinds drawn half shut and the croak of the moor-frogs rose to the croak the watchtower door. Footsteps. The watchguards sluggishly tapped on the windows and the rap-tap-tapping of steel against glass fell resonant against the dip-dip-dipping of rainwater down the oak-leaves and into the collected puddles that pooled around the carriage wheels. Shuffling. A woman’s voice from deep within the veiled recesses of the window. Murmurs of an urgent passenger. Murmurs whispered from ear-to-ear as murmurations of starlings rose from arbour-to-arbour and filled the air with dewlit feathers flying and a storming of eyes and wings and incandescence and the flock now spiralling now spinning now weaving now formless now still. The carriage door opened —
C’est le Roi! Your Majesty!
Do tell us — what are you doing in Varennes?
