All morning, since nine, there has been a cry everywhere:  To the Bastille!  Repeated ‘deputations of citizens’ have been here, passionate for arms; whom de Launay has got dismissed by soft speeches through portholes.  Towards noon, Elector Thuriot de la Rosiere gains admittance; finds de Launay indisposed for surrender; nay disposed for blowing up the place rather.  Thuriot mounts with him to the battlements:  heaps of paving-stones, old iron and missiles lie piled; cannon all duly levelled; in every embrasure a cannon,—­only drawn back a little!  But outwards behold, O Thuriot, how the multitude flows on, welling through every street; tocsin furiously pealing, all drums beating the generale:  the Suburb Saint-Antoine rolling hitherward wholly, as one man!  Such vision (spectral yet real) thou, O Thuriot, as from thy Mount of Vision, beholdest in this moment:  prophetic of what other Phantasmagories, and loud-gibbering Spectral Realities, which, thou yet beholdest not, but shalt!  “Que voulez vous?” said de Launay, turning pale at the sight, with an air of reproach, almost of menace.  “Monsieur,” said Thuriot, rising into the moral-sublime, “What mean you?  Consider if I could not precipitate both of us from this height,”—­say only a hundred feet, exclusive of the walled ditch!  Whereupon de Launay fell silent.  Thuriot shews himself from some pinnacle, to comfort the multitude becoming suspicious, fremescent:  then descends; departs with protest; with warning addressed also to the Invalides,—­on whom, however, it produces but a mixed indistinct impression.  The old heads are none of the clearest; besides, it is said, de Launay has been profuse of beverages (prodigua des buissons).  They think, they will not fire,—­if not fired on, if they can help it; but must, on the whole, be ruled considerably by circumstances.

Wo to thee, de Launay, in such an hour, if thou canst not, taking some one firm decision, rule circumstances!  Soft speeches will not serve; hard grape-shot is questionable; but hovering between the two is unquestionable.  Ever wilder swells the tide of men; their infinite hum waxing ever louder, into imprecations, perhaps into crackle of stray musketry,—­which latter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot do execution.  The Outer Drawbridge has been lowered for Thuriot; new deputation of citizens (it is the third, and noisiest of all) penetrates that way into the Outer Court:  soft speeches producing no clearance of these, de Launay gives fire; pulls up his Drawbridge.  A slight sputter;—­which has kindled the too combustible chaos; made it a roaring fire-chaos!  Bursts forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood (for there were deaths by that sputter of fire), into endless rolling explosion of musketry, distraction, execration;—­and overhead, from the Fortress, let one great gun, with its grape-shot, go booming, to shew what we could do.  The Bastille is besieged!