In Paris, an Electoral Committee, with a new Mayor and General, is urgent with belligerent workmen to resume their handicrafts.  Strong Dames of the Market (Dames de la Halle) deliver congratulatory harangues; present ‘bouquets to the Shrine of Sainte Genevieve.’  Unenrolled men deposit their arms,—­not so readily as could be wished; and receive ‘nine francs.’  With Te Deums, Royal Visits, and sanctioned Revolution, there is halcyon weather; weather even of preternatural brightness; the hurricane being overblown.

Nevertheless, as is natural, the waves still run high, hollow rocks retaining their murmur.  We are but at the 22nd of the month, hardly above a week since the Bastille fell, when it suddenly appears that old Foulon is alive; nay, that he is here, in early morning, in the streets of Paris; the extortioner, the plotter, who would make the people eat grass, and was a liar from the beginning!—­It is even so.  The deceptive ‘sumptuous funeral’ (of some domestic that died); the hiding-place at Vitry towards Fontainbleau, have not availed that wretched old man.  Some living domestic or dependant, for none loves Foulon, has betrayed him to the Village.  Merciless boors of Vitry unearth him; pounce on him, like hell-hounds:  Westward, old Infamy; to Paris, to be judged at the Hotel-de-Ville!  His old head, which seventy-four years have bleached, is bare; they have tied an emblematic bundle of grass on his back; a garland of nettles and thistles is round his neck:  in this manner; led with ropes; goaded on with curses and menaces, must he, with his old limbs, sprawl forward; the pitiablest, most unpitied of all old men.

Sooty Saint-Antoine, and every street, mustering its crowds as he passes,—­the Place de Greve, the Hall of the Hotel-de-Ville will scarcely hold his escort and him.  Foulon must not only be judged righteously; but judged there where he stands, without any delay.  Appoint seven judges, ye Municipals, or seventy-and-seven; name them yourselves, or we will name them:  but judge him! (Histoire Parlementaire, ii. 146-9.) Electoral rhetoric, eloquence of Mayor Bailly, is wasted explaining the beauty of the Law’s delay.  Delay, and still delay!  Behold, O Mayor of the People, the morning has worn itself into noon; and he is still unjudged!—­Lafayette, pressingly sent for, arrives; gives voice:  This Foulon, a known man, is guilty almost beyond doubt; but may he not have accomplices?  Ought not the truth to be cunningly pumped out of him,—­in the Abbaye Prison?  It is a new light!  Sansculottism claps hands;—­at which hand-clapping, Foulon (in his fainness, as his Destiny would have it) also claps.  “See! they understand one another!” cries dark Sansculottism, blazing into fury of suspicion.—­“Friends,” said ‘a person in good clothes,’ stepping forward, “what is the use of judging this man?  Has he not been judged these thirty years?” With wild yells, Sansculottism clutches him, in its hundred hands:  he is whirled across the Place