At the fall of night, we behold him advance to those armed groups of Saint-Antoine, hovering all-too grim near the Salle des Menus.  They receive him in a half-circle; twelve speakers behind cannons, with lighted torches in hand, the cannon-mouths towards Lecointre:  a picture for Salvator!  He asks, in temperate but courageous language:  What they, by this their journey to Versailles, do specially want?  The twelve speakers reply, in few words inclusive of much:  “Bread, and the end of these brabbles, Du pain, et la fin des affaires.”  When the affairs will end, no Major Lecointre, nor no mortal, can say; but as to bread, he inquires, How many are you?—­learns that they are six hundred, that a loaf each will suffice; and rides off to the Municipality to get six hundred loaves.

Which loaves, however, a Municipality of Monarchic temper will not give.  It will give two tons of rice rather,—­could you but know whether it should be boiled or raw.  Nay when this too is accepted, the Municipals have disappeared;—­ducked under, as the Six-and-Twenty Long-gowned of Paris did; and, leaving not the smallest vestage of rice, in the boiled or raw state, they there vanish from History!

Rice comes not; one’s hope of food is baulked; even one’s hope of vengeance:  is not M. de Moucheton of the Scotch Company, as we said, deceitfully smuggled off?  Failing all which, behold only M. de Moucheton’s slain warhorse, lying on the Esplanade there!  Saint-Antoine, baulked, esurient, pounces on the slain warhorse; flays it; roasts it, with such fuel, of paling, gates, portable timber as can be come at,—­not without shouting:  and, after the manner of ancient Greek Heroes, they lifted their hands to the daintily readied repast; such as it might be. (Weber, Deux Amis, &c.) Other Rascality prowls discursive; seeking what it may devour.  Flandre will retire to its barracks; Lecointre also with his Versaillese,—­all but the vigilant Patrols, charged to be doubly vigilant.

So sink the shadows of Night, blustering, rainy; and all paths grow dark.  Strangest Night ever seen in these regions,—­perhaps since the Bartholomew Night, when Versailles, as Bassompierre writes of it, was a chetif chateau.  O for the Lyre of some Orpheus, to constrain, with touch of melodious strings, these mad masses into Order!  For here all seems fallen asunder, in wide-yawning dislocation.  The highest, as in down-rushing of a World, is come in contact with the lowest:  the Rascality of France beleaguering the Royalty of France; ’ironshod batons’ lifted round the diadem, not to guard it!  With denunciations of bloodthirsty Anti-national Bodyguards, are heard dark growlings against a Queenly Name.

The Court sits tremulous, powerless; varies with the varying temper of the Esplanade, with the varying colour of the rumours from Paris.  Thick-coming rumours; now of peace, now of war.  Necker and all the Ministers consult; with a blank issue.  The Oeil-de-Boeuf is one tempest of whispers:—­We will fly to Metz; we will not fly.  The royal Carriages again attempt egress;—­though for trial merely; they are again driven in by Lecointre’s Patrols.  In six hours, nothing has been resolved on; not even the Acceptance pure and simple.