Chaillot, which will promptly yield baked loaves, is not plundered; nor are the Sevres Potteries broken.  The old arches of Sevres Bridge echo under Menadic feet; Seine River gushes on with his perpetual murmur; and Paris flings after us the boom of tocsin and alarm-drum,—­inaudible, for the present, amid shrill-sounding hosts, and the splash of rainy weather.  To Meudon, to Saint Cloud, on both hands, the report of them is gone abroad; and hearths, this evening, will have a topic.  The press of women still continues, for it is the cause of all Eve’s Daughters, mothers that are, or that hope to be.  No carriage-lady, were it with never such hysterics, but must dismount, in the mud roads, in her silk shoes, and walk. (Deux Amis, iii. 159.) In this manner, amid wild October weather, they a wild unwinged stork-flight, through the astonished country, wend their way.  Travellers of all sorts they stop; especially travellers or couriers from Paris.  Deputy Lechapelier, in his elegant vesture, from his elegant vehicle, looks forth amazed through his spectacles; apprehensive for life;—­states eagerly that he is Patriot-Deputy Lechapelier, and even Old-President Lechapelier, who presided on the Night of Pentecost, and is original member of the Breton Club.  Thereupon ’rises huge shout of Vive Lechapelier, and several armed persons spring up behind and before to escort him.’ (Ibid. iii. 177; Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans, ii. 379.)

Nevertheless, news, despatches from Lafayette, or vague noise of rumour, have pierced through, by side roads.  In the National Assembly, while all is busy discussing the order of the day; regretting that there should be Anti-national Repasts in Opera-Halls; that his Majesty should still hesitate about accepting the Rights of Man, and hang conditions and peradventures on them,—­Mirabeau steps up to the President, experienced Mounier as it chanced to be; and articulates, in bass under-tone:  “Mounier, Paris marche sur nous (Paris is marching on us).”—­“May be (Je n’en sais rien)!”—­“Believe it or disbelieve it, that is not my concern; but Paris, I say, is marching on us.  Fall suddenly unwell; go over to the Chateau; tell them this.  There is not a moment to lose.”—­“Paris marching on us?” responds Mounier, with an atrabiliar accent, “Well, so much the better!  We shall the sooner be a Republic.”  Mirabeau quits him, as one quits an experienced President getting blindfold into deep waters; and the order of the day continues as before.

Yes, Paris is marching on us; and more than the women of Paris!  Scarcely was Maillard gone, when M. de Gouvion’s message to all the Districts, and such tocsin and drumming of the generale, began to take effect.  Armed National Guards from every District; especially the Grenadiers of the Centre, who are our old Gardes Francaises, arrive, in quick sequence, on the Place de Greve.  An ‘immense people’ is there; Saint-Antoine, with pike and rusty firelock, is all crowding thither, be it welcome or unwelcome.  The Centre Grenadiers are received with cheering:  “it is not cheers that we want,” answer they gloomily; “the nation has been insulted; to arms, and come with us for orders!” Ha, sits the wind so?  Patriotism and Patrollotism are now one!