Electoral Committee?  Had it a thousand throats of brass, it would not suffice.  Abbe Lefevre, in the Vaults down below, is black as Vulcan, distributing that ‘five thousand weight of Powder;’ with what perils, these eight-and-forty hours!  Last night, a Patriot, in liquor, insisted on sitting to smoke on the edge of one of the Powder-barrels; there smoked he, independent of the world,—­till the Abbe ’purchased his pipe for three francs,’ and pitched it far.

Elie, in the grand Hall, Electoral Committee looking on, sits ’with drawn sword bent in three places;’ with battered helm, for he was of the Queen’s Regiment, Cavalry; with torn regimentals, face singed and soiled; comparable, some think, to ’an antique warrior;’—­judging the people; forming a list of Bastille Heroes.  O Friends, stain not with blood the greenest laurels ever gained in this world:  such is the burden of Elie’s song; could it but be listened to.  Courage, Elie!  Courage, ye Municipal Electors!  A declining sun; the need of victuals, and of telling news, will bring assuagement, dispersion:  all earthly things must end.

Along the streets of Paris circulate Seven Bastille Prisoners, borne shoulder-high:  seven Heads on pikes; the Keys of the Bastille; and much else.  See also the Garde Francaises, in their steadfast military way, marching home to their barracks, with the Invalides and Swiss kindly enclosed in hollow square.  It is one year and two months since these same men stood unparticipating, with Brennus d’Agoust at the Palais de Justice, when Fate overtook d’Espremenil; and now they have participated; and will participate.  Not Gardes Francaises henceforth, but Centre Grenadiers of the National Guard:  men of iron discipline and humour,—­not without a kind of thought in them!

Likewise ashlar stones of the Bastille continue thundering through the dusk; its paper-archives shall fly white.  Old secrets come to view; and long-buried Despair finds voice.  Read this portion of an old Letter:  (Dated, a la Bastille, 7 Octobre, 1752; signed Queret-Demery.  Bastille Devoilee, in Linguet, Memoires sur la Bastille (Paris, 1821), p. 199.) ’If for my consolation Monseigneur would grant me for the sake of God and the Most Blessed Trinity, that I could have news of my dear wife; were it only her name on card to shew that she is alive!  It were the greatest consolation I could receive; and I should for ever bless the greatness of Monseigneur.’  Poor Prisoner, who namest thyself Queret Demery, and hast no other history,—­she is dead, that dear wife of thine, and thou art dead!  ’Tis fifty years since thy breaking heart put this question; to be heard now first, and long heard, in the hearts of men.