Meanwhile, Saint-Antoine, in groups and troops, is continually arriving; wetted, sulky; with pikes and impromptu billhooks:  driven thus far by popular fixed-idea.  So many hirsute figures driven hither, in that manner:  figures that have come to do they know not what; figures that have come to see it done!  Distinguished among all figures, who is this, of gaunt stature, with leaden breastplate, though a small one; (See Weber, ii. 185-231.) bushy in red grizzled locks; nay, with long tile-beard?  It is Jourdan, unjust dealer in mules; a dealer no longer, but a Painter’s Layfigure, playing truant this day.  From the necessities of Art comes his long tile-beard; whence his leaden breastplate (unless indeed he were some Hawker licensed by leaden badge) may have come,—­will perhaps remain for ever a Historical Problem.  Another Saul among the people we discern:  ‘Pere Adam, Father Adam,’ as the groups name him; to us better known as bull-voiced Marquis Saint-Huruge; hero of the Veto; a man that has had losses, and deserved them.  The tall Marquis, emitted some days ago from limbo, looks peripatetically on this scene, from under his umbrella, not without interest.  All which persons and things, hurled together as we see; Pallas Athene, busy with Flandre; patriotic Versailles National Guards, short of ammunition, and deserted by d’Estaing their Colonel, and commanded by Lecointre their Major; then caracoling Bodyguards, sour, dispirited, with their buckskins wet; and finally this flowing sea of indignant Squalor,—­may they not give rise to occurrences?

Behold, however, the Twelve She-deputies return from the Chateau.  Without President Mounier, indeed; but radiant with joy, shouting “Life to the King and his House.”  Apparently the news are good, Mesdames?  News of the best!  Five of us were admitted to the internal splendours, to the Royal Presence.  This slim damsel, ’Louison Chabray, worker in sculpture, aged only seventeen,’ as being of the best looks and address, her we appointed speaker.  On whom, and indeed on all of us, his Majesty looked nothing but graciousness.  Nay, when Louison, addressing him, was like to faint, he took her in his royal arms; and said gallantly, “It was well worth while (Elle en valut bien la peine).”  Consider, O women, what a King!  His words were of comfort, and that only:  there shall be provision sent to Paris, if provision is in the world; grains shall circulate free as air; millers shall grind, or do worse, while their millstones endure; and nothing be left wrong which a Restorer of French Liberty can right.

Good news these; but, to wet Menads, all too incredible!  There seems no proof, then?  Words of comfort are words only; which will feed nothing.  O miserable people, betrayed by Aristocrats, who corrupt thy very messengers!  In his royal arms, Mademoiselle Louison?  In his arms?  Thou shameless minx, worthy of a name—­that shall be nameless!  Yes, thy skin is soft:  ours is rough with hardship; and