On Monday, May 4, is the baptism day of democracy, the extreme unction day of feudalism.  Behold the procession of processions advancing towards Notre—­our commons, noblesse, clergy, the king himself.  Which of these six hundred individuals in plain white cravat might one guess would become their king?  He with the thick black locks, shaggy beetle-brows and rough-hewn face?  Gabriel Honore Riqueti de Mirabeau, the world-compeller, the type Frenchman of this epoch, as Voltaire of the last.  And if Mirabeau is the greatest, who of these six hundred may be the meanest?  Shall we say that anxious, slight, ineffectual-looking man, under thirty, in spectacles; complexion of an atrabiliar shade of pale sea-green, whose name is Maximilien Robespierre?

Coming into their hall on the morrow, the commons deputies perceive that they have it to themselves.  The noblesse and the clergy are sitting separately, which the noblesse maintain to be right; no agreement is possible.  After six weeks of inertia the commons deputies, on their own strength, are getting under way; declare themselves not Third Estate, but National Assembly.  On June 20, shut out of their hall “for repairs,” the deputies find refuge in the tennis court! take solemn oath that they will continue to meet till they have made the constitution.  And to these are joined 149 of the clergy.  A royal session is held; the king propounds thirty-five articles, which if the estates do not confirm he will himself enforce.  The commons remain immovable, joined now by the rest of the clergy and forty-eight noblesse.  So triumphs the Third Estate.

War-god Broglie is at work, but grapeshot is good on one condition!  The Gardes Francaises, it seems, will not fire; nor they only.  Other troops, then?  Rumour declares, and is verified, that Necker, people’s minister, is dismissed.  “To arms!” cries Camille Desmoulins, and innumerable voices yell responsive.  Chaos comes.  The Electoral Club, however, declares itself a provisional municipality, sends out parties to keep order in the streets that night, enroll a militia, with arms collected where one may.  Better to name it National Guard!  And while the crisis is going on, Mirabeau is away, sad at heart for the dying, crabbed old father whom he loved.

Muskets are to be got from the Invalides; 28,000 National Guards are provided with matchlocks.  And now to the Bastile!  But to describe this siege perhaps transcends the talent of mortals.  After four hours of world-bedlam, it surrenders.  The Bastile is down.  “Why,” said poor Louis, “that is a revolt.”  “Sire,” answered Liancourt, “it is not a revolt; it is a revolution.”

On the morrow, Louis paternally announces to the National Assembly reconciliation.  Amid enthusiasm, President Bailly is proclaimed Maire of Paris, Lafayette general of the National Guard.  And the first emigration of aristocrat irreconcilables takes place.  The revolution is sanctioned.