Accordingly on Saturday morning the 20th of June, shrill-sounding heralds proclaim through the streets of Versailles, that there is to be a Seance Royale next Monday; and no meeting of the States-General till then.  And yet, we observe, President Bailly in sound of this, and with De Breze’s Letter in his pocket, is proceeding, with National Assembly at his heels, to the accustomed Salles des Menus; as if De Breze and heralds were mere wind.  It is shut, this Salle; occupied by Gardes Francaises.  “Where is your Captain?” The Captain shows his royal order:  workmen, he is grieved to say, are all busy setting up the platform for his Majesty’s Seance; most unfortunately, no admission; admission, at furthest, for President and Secretaries to bring away papers, which the joiners might destroy!—­President Bailly enters with Secretaries; and returns bearing papers:  alas, within doors, instead of patriotic eloquence, there is now no noise but hammering, sawing, and operative screeching and rumbling!  A profanation without parallel.

The Deputies stand grouped on the Paris Road, on this umbrageous Avenue de Versailles; complaining aloud of the indignity done them.  Courtiers, it is supposed, look from their windows, and giggle.  The morning is none of the comfortablest:  raw; it is even drizzling a little. (Bailly, Memoires, i. 185-206.) But all travellers pause; patriot gallery-men, miscellaneous spectators increase the groups.  Wild counsels alternate.  Some desperate Deputies propose to go and hold session on the great outer Staircase at Marly, under the King’s windows; for his Majesty, it seems, has driven over thither.  Others talk of making the Chateau Forecourt, what they call Place d’Armes, a Runnymede and new Champ de Mai of free Frenchmen:  nay of awakening, to sounds of indignant Patriotism, the echoes of the Oeil-de-boeuf itself.—­Notice is given that President Bailly, aided by judicious Guillotin and others, has found place in the Tennis-Court of the Rue St. Francois.  Thither, in long-drawn files, hoarse-jingling, like cranes on wing, the Commons Deputies angrily wend.

Strange sight was this in the Rue St. Francois, Vieux Versailles!  A naked Tennis-Court, as the pictures of that time still give it:  four walls; naked, except aloft some poor wooden penthouse, or roofed spectators’-gallery, hanging round them:—­on the floor not now an idle teeheeing, a snapping of balls and rackets; but the bellowing din of an indignant National Representation, scandalously exiled hither!  However, a cloud of witnesses looks down on them, from wooden penthouse, from wall-top, from adjoining roof and chimney; rolls towards them from all quarters, with passionate spoken blessings.  Some table can be procured to write on; some chair, if not to sit on, then to stand on.  The Secretaries undo their tapes; Bailly has constituted the Assembly.