figure; and vanished.  ’Withal there was a kind of eloquence that struck one.’  Besenval admits that he should have arrested him, but did not.  (Besenval, iii. 414.) Who this figure, with inflamed eyes, with speech rapid and curt, might be?  Besenval knows but mentions not.  Camille Desmoulins?  Pythagorean Marquis Valadi, inflamed with ’violent motions all night at the Palais Royal?’ Fame names him, ‘Young M. Meillar’; (Tableaux de la Revolution, Prise de la Bastille (a folio Collection of Pictures and Portraits, with letter-press, not always uninstructive,—­part of it said to be by Chamfort).) Then shuts her lips about him for ever.

In any case, behold about nine in the morning, our National Volunteers rolling in long wide flood, south-westward to the Hotel des Invalides; in search of the one thing needful.  King’s procureur M. Ethys de Corny and officials are there; the Cure of Saint-Etienne du Mont marches unpacific, at the head of his militant Parish; the Clerks of the Bazoche in red coats we see marching, now Volunteers of the Bazoche; the Volunteers of the Palais Royal:—­National Volunteers, numerable by tens of thousands; of one heart and mind.  The King’s muskets are the Nation’s; think, old M. de Sombreuil, how, in this extremity, thou wilt refuse them!  Old M. de Sombreuil would fain hold parley, send Couriers; but it skills not:  the walls are scaled, no Invalide firing a shot; the gates must be flung open.  Patriotism rushes in, tumultuous, from grundsel up to ridge-tile, through all rooms and passages; rummaging distractedly for arms.  What cellar, or what cranny can escape it?  The arms are found; all safe there; lying packed in straw,—­apparently with a view to being burnt!  More ravenous than famishing lions over dead prey, the multitude, with clangour and vociferation, pounces on them; struggling, dashing, clutching:—­to the jamming-up, to the pressure, fracture and probable extinction, of the weaker Patriot. (Deux Amis, i. 302.) And so, with such protracted crash of deafening, most discordant Orchestra-music, the Scene is changed:  and eight-and-twenty thousand sufficient firelocks are on the shoulders of so many National Guards, lifted thereby out of darkness into fiery light.

Let Besenval look at the glitter of these muskets, as they flash by!  Gardes Francaises, it is said, have cannon levelled on him; ready to open, if need were, from the other side of the River. (Besenval, iii. 416.) Motionless sits he; ‘astonished,’ one may flatter oneself, ’at the proud bearing (fiere contenance) of the Parisians.’—­And now, to the Bastille, ye intrepid Parisians!  There grapeshot still threatens; thither all men’s thoughts and steps are now tending.

Old de Launay, as we hinted, withdrew ‘into his interior’ soon after midnight of Sunday.  He remains there ever since, hampered, as all military gentlemen now are, in the saddest conflict of uncertainties.  The Hotel-de-Ville ‘invites’ him to admit National Soldiers, which is a soft name for surrendering.  On the other hand, His Majesty’s orders were precise.  His garrison is but eighty-two old Invalides, reinforced by thirty-two young Swiss; his walls indeed are nine feet thick, he has cannon and powder; but, alas, only one day’s provision of victuals.  The city too is French, the poor garrison mostly French.  Rigorous old de Launay, think what thou wilt do!