O Henault! Prayers?
From a France smitten (by black-art) with plague after plague, and lying now in shame and pain, with a Harlot's foot on its neck, what prayer can come?
Those lank scarecrows, that prowl hunger-stricken through all highways and byways of French Existence, will they pray?
The dull millions that, in the workshop or furrowfield, grind fore-done at the wheel of Labour, like haltered gin-horses, if blind so much the quieter?
Or they that in the Bicetre Hospital, 'eight to a bed,' lie waiting their manumission?
Dim are those heads of theirs, dull stagnant those hearts: to them the great Sovereign is known mainly as the great Regrater of Bread.

If they hear of his sickness, they will answer with a dull Tant pis pour lui; or with the question, Will he die?
Yes, will he die?
that is now, for all France, the grand question, and hope; whereby alone the King's sickness has still some interest..