So brief has the interview been, Mounier and his Deputation were not yet got up.  So brief and satisfactory.  A stone is rolled from every heart.  The fair Palace Dames publicly declare that this Lafayette, detestable though he be, is their saviour for once.  Even the ancient vinaigrous Tantes admit it; the King’s Aunts, ancient Graille and Sisterhood, known to us of old.  Queen Marie-Antoinette has been heard often say the like.  She alone, among all women and all men, wore a face of courage, of lofty calmness and resolve, this day.  She alone saw clearly what she meant to do; and Theresa’s Daughter dares do what she means, were all France threatening her:  abide where her children are, where her husband is.

Towards three in the morning all things are settled:  the watches set, the Centre Grenadiers put into their old Guard-room, and harangued; the Swiss, and few remaining Bodyguards harangued.  The wayworn Paris Batallions, consigned to ‘the hospitality of Versailles,’ lie dormant in spare-beds, spare-barracks, coffeehouses, empty churches.  A troop of them, on their way to the Church of Saint-Louis, awoke poor Weber, dreaming troublous, in the Rue Sartory.  Weber has had his waistcoat-pocket full of balls all day; ’two hundred balls, and two pears of powder!’ For waistcoats were waistcoats then, and had flaps down to mid-thigh.  So many balls he has had all day; but no opportunity of using them:  he turns over now, execrating disloyal bandits; swears a prayer or two, and straight to sleep again.

Finally, the National Assembly is harangued; which thereupon, on motion of Mirabeau, discontinues the Penal Code, and dismisses for this night.  Menadism, Sansculottism has cowered into guard-houses, barracks of Flandre, to the light of cheerful fire; failing that, to churches, office-houses, sentry-boxes, wheresoever wretchedness can find a lair.  The troublous Day has brawled itself to rest:  no lives yet lost but that of one warhorse.  Insurrectionary Chaos lies slumbering round the Palace, like Ocean round a Diving-bell,—­no crevice yet disclosing itself.

Deep sleep has fallen promiscuously on the high and on the low; suspending most things, even wrath and famine.  Darkness covers the Earth.  But, far on the North-east, Paris flings up her great yellow gleam; far into the wet black Night.  For all is illuminated there, as in the old July Nights; the streets deserted, for alarm of war; the Municipals all wakeful; Patrols hailing, with their hoarse Who-goes.  There, as we discover, our poor slim Louison Chabray, her poor nerves all fluttered, is arriving about this very hour.  There Usher Maillard will arrive, about an hour hence, ‘towards four in the morning.’  They report, successively, to a wakeful Hotel-de-Ville what comfort they can report; which again, with early dawn, large comfortable Placards, shall impart to all men.

Lafayette, in the Hotel de Noailles, not far from the Chateau, having now finished haranguing, sits with his Officers consulting:  at five o’clock the unanimous best counsel is, that a man so tost and toiled for twenty-four hours and more, fling himself on a bed, and seek some rest.