The Three Hundred have assembled; ‘all the Committees are in activity;’ Lafayette is dictating despatches for Versailles, when a Deputation of the Centre Grenadiers introduces itself to him.  The Deputation makes military obeisance; and thus speaks, not without a kind of thought in it:  “Mon General, we are deputed by the Six Companies of Grenadiers.  We do not think you a traitor, but we think the Government betrays you; it is time that this end.  We cannot turn our bayonets against women crying to us for bread.  The people are miserable, the source of the mischief is at Versailles:  we must go seek the King, and bring him to Paris.  We must exterminate (exterminer) the Regiment de Flandre and the Gardes-du-Corps, who have dared to trample on the National Cockade.  If the King be too weak to wear his crown, let him lay it down.  You will crown his Son, you will name a Council of Regency; and all will go better.” (Deux Amis, iii. 161.) Reproachful astonishment paints itself on the face of Lafayette; speaks itself from his eloquent chivalrous lips:  in vain.  “My General, we would shed the last drop of our blood for you; but the root of the mischief is at Versailles; we must go and bring the King to Paris; all the people wish it, tout le peuple le veut.”

My General descends to the outer staircase; and harangues:  once more in vain.  “To Versailles!  To Versailles!” Mayor Bailly, sent for through floods of Sansculottism, attempts academic oratory from his gilt state-coach; realizes nothing but infinite hoarse cries of:  “Bread!  To Versailles!”—­and gladly shrinks within doors.  Lafayette mounts the white charger; and again harangues and reharangues:  with eloquence, with firmness, indignant demonstration; with all things but persuasion.  “To Versailles!  To Versailles!” So lasts it, hour after hour; for the space of half a day.

The great Scipio Americanus can do nothing; not so much as escape.  “Morbleu, mon General,” cry the Grenadiers serrying their ranks as the white charger makes a motion that way, “You will not leave us, you will abide with us!” A perilous juncture:  Mayor Bailly and the Municipals sit quaking within doors; My General is prisoner without:  the Place de Greve, with its thirty thousand Regulars, its whole irregular Saint-Antoine and Saint-Marceau, is one minatory mass of clear or rusty steel; all hearts set, with a moody fixedness, on one object.  Moody, fixed are all hearts:  tranquil is no heart,—­if it be not that of the white charger, who paws there, with arched neck, composedly champing his bit; as if no world, with its Dynasties and Eras, were now rushing down.  The drizzly day tends westward; the cry is still:  “To Versailles!”

Nay now, borne from afar, come quite sinister cries; hoarse, reverberating in longdrawn hollow murmurs, with syllables too like those of Lanterne!  Or else, irregular Sansculottism may be marching off, of itself; with pikes, nay with cannon.  The inflexible Scipio does at length, by aide-de-camp, ask of the Municipals:  Whether or not he may go?  A Letter is handed out to him, over armed heads; sixty thousand faces flash fixedly on his, there is stillness and no bosom breathes, till he have read.  By Heaven, he grows suddenly pale!  Do the Municipals permit?  ’Permit and even order,’—­since he can no other.  Clangour of approval rends the welkin.  To your ranks, then; let us march!