The National Guards form on the outer stairs, with levelled bayonets; the ten thousand Judiths press up, resistless; with obtestations, with outspread hands,—­merely to speak to the Mayor.  The rear forces them; nay, from male hands in the rear, stones already fly:  the National Guards must do one of two things; sweep the Place de Greve with cannon, or else open to right and left.  They open; the living deluge rushes in.  Through all rooms and cabinets, upwards to the topmost belfry:  ravenous; seeking arms, seeking Mayors, seeking justice;—­while, again, the better-cressed (dressed?) speak kindly to the Clerks; point out the misery of these poor women; also their ailments, some even of an interesting sort. (Deux Amis, iii. 141-166.)

Poor M. de Gouvion is shiftless in this extremity;—­a man shiftless, perturbed; who will one day commit suicide.  How happy for him that Usher Maillard, the shifty, was there, at the moment, though making representations!  Fly back, thou shifty Maillard; seek the Bastille Company; and O return fast with it; above all, with thy own shifty head!  For, behold, the Judiths can find no Mayor or Municipal; scarcely, in the topmost belfry, can they find poor Abbe Lefevre the Powder-distributor.  Him, for want of a better, they suspend there; in the pale morning light; over the top of all Paris, which swims in one’s failing eyes:—­a horrible end?  Nay, the rope broke, as French ropes often did; or else an Amazon cut it.  Abbe Lefevre falls, some twenty feet, rattling among the leads; and lives long years after, though always with ‘a tremblement in the limbs.’ (Dusaulx, Prise de la Bastille (note, p. 281.).)

And now doors fly under hatchets; the Judiths have broken the Armoury; have seized guns and cannons, three money-bags, paper-heaps; torches flare:  in few minutes, our brave Hotel-de-Ville which dates from the Fourth Henry, will, with all that it holds, be in flames!

Chapter 1.7.V.

Usher Maillard.

In flames, truly,—­were it not that Usher Maillard, swift of foot, shifty of head, has returned!

Maillard, of his own motion, for Gouvion or the rest would not even sanction him,—­snatches a drum; descends the Porch-stairs, ran-tan, beating sharp, with loud rolls, his Rogues’-march:  To Versailles!  Allons; a Versailles!  As men beat on kettle or warmingpan, when angry she-bees, or say, flying desperate wasps, are to be hived; and the desperate insects hear it, and cluster round it,—­simply as round a guidance, where there was none:  so now these Menads round shifty Maillard, Riding-Usher of the Chatelet.  The axe pauses uplifted; Abbe Lefevre is left half-hanged; from the belfry downwards all vomits itself.  What rub-a-dub is that?  Stanislas Maillard, Bastille-hero, will lead us to Versailles?  Joy to thee, Maillard; blessed art thou above Riding-Ushers!  Away then, away!