has done ‘incalculable mischief.’  So much that fermented secretly has hereby got vent and become open:  National Guards and Soldiers of the line, solemnly embracing one another on all parade-fields, drinking, swearing patriotic oaths, fall into disorderly street-processions, constitutional unmilitary exclamations and hurrahings.  On which account the Regiment Picardie, for one, has to be drawn out in the square of the barracks, here at Metz, and sharply harangued by the General himself; but expresses penitence. (Bouille, Memoires, i. 113.)

Far and near, as accounts testify, insubordination has begun grumbling louder and louder.  Officers have been seen shut up in their mess-rooms; assaulted with clamorous demands, not without menaces.  The insubordinate ringleader is dismissed with ‘yellow furlough,’ yellow infamous thing they call cartouche jaune:  but ten new ringleaders rise in his stead, and the yellow cartouche ceases to be thought disgraceful.  ’Within a fortnight,’ or at furthest a month, of that sublime Feast of Pikes, the whole French Army, demanding Arrears, forming Reading Clubs, frequenting Popular Societies, is in a state which Bouille can call by no name but that of mutiny.  Bouille knows it as few do; and speaks by dire experience.  Take one instance instead of many.

It is still an early day of August, the precise date now undiscoverable, when Bouille, about to set out for the waters of Aix la Chapelle, is once more suddenly summoned to the barracks of Metz.  The soldiers stand ranked in fighting order, muskets loaded, the officers all there on compulsion; and require, with many-voiced emphasis, to have their arrears paid.  Picardie was penitent; but we see it has relapsed:  the wide space bristles and lours with mere mutinous armed men.  Brave Bouille advances to the nearest Regiment, opens his commanding lips to harangue; obtains nothing but querulous-indignant discordance, and the sound of so many thousand livres legally due.  The moment is trying; there are some ten thousand soldiers now in Metz, and one spirit seems to have spread among them.

Bouille is firm as the adamant; but what shall he do?  A German Regiment, named of Salm, is thought to be of better temper:  nevertheless Salm too may have heard of the precept, Thou shalt not steal; Salm too may know that money is money.  Bouille walks trustfully towards the Regiment de Salm, speaks trustful words; but here again is answered by the cry of forty-four thousand livres odd sous.  A cry waxing more and more vociferous, as Salm’s humour mounts; which cry, as it will produce no cash or promise of cash, ends in the wide simultaneous whirr of shouldered muskets, and a determined quick-time march on the part of Salm—­towards its Colonel’s house, in the next street, there to seize the colours and military chest.  Thus does Salm, for its part; strong in the faith that meum is not tuum, that fair speeches are not forty-four thousand livres odd sous.