And so it lashes and it roars.  Cholat the wine-merchant has become an impromptu cannoneer.  See Georget, of the Marine Service, fresh from Brest, ply the King of Siam’s cannon.  Singular (if we were not used to the like):  Georget lay, last night, taking his ease at his inn; the King of Siam’s cannon also lay, knowing nothing of him, for a hundred years.  Yet now, at the right instant, they have got together, and discourse eloquent music.  For, hearing what was toward, Georget sprang from the Brest Diligence, and ran.  Gardes Francaises also will be here, with real artillery:  were not the walls so thick!—­Upwards from the Esplanade, horizontally from all neighbouring roofs and windows, flashes one irregular deluge of musketry,—­without effect.  The Invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at their ease from behind stone; hardly through portholes, shew the tip of a nose.  We fall, shot; and make no impression!

Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible!  Guard-rooms are burnt, Invalides mess-rooms.  A distracted ’Peruke-maker with two fiery torches’ is for burning ’the saltpetres of the Arsenal;’—­had not a woman run screaming; had not a Patriot, with some tincture of Natural Philosophy, instantly struck the wind out of him (butt of musket on pit of stomach), overturned barrels, and stayed the devouring element.  A young beautiful lady, seized escaping in these Outer Courts, and thought falsely to be de Launay’s daughter, shall be burnt in de Launay’s sight; she lies swooned on a paillasse:  but again a Patriot, it is brave Aubin Bonnemere the old soldier, dashes in, and rescues her.  Straw is burnt; three cartloads of it, hauled thither, go up in white smoke:  almost to the choking of Patriotism itself; so that Elie had, with singed brows, to drag back one cart; and Reole the ‘gigantic haberdasher’ another.  Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as of Babel; noise as of the Crack of Doom!

Blood flows, the aliment of new madness.  The wounded are carried into houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate not to yield till the accursed Stronghold fall.  And yet, alas, how fall?  The walls are so thick!  Deputations, three in number, arrive from the Hotel-de-Ville; Abbe Fouchet (who was of one) can say, with what almost superhuman courage of benevolence. (Fauchet’s Narrative (Deux Amis, i. 324.).) These wave their Town-flag in the arched Gateway; and stand, rolling their drum; but to no purpose.  In such Crack of Doom, de Launay cannot hear them, dare not believe them:  they return, with justified rage, the whew of lead still singing in their ears.  What to do?  The Firemen are here, squirting with their fire-pumps on the Invalides’ cannon, to wet the touchholes; they unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but produce only clouds of spray.  Individuals of classical knowledge propose catapults.  Santerre, the sonorous Brewer of the Suburb Saint-Antoine, advises rather that the place be fired, by a ’mixture of phosphorous