Unrestrainable!  Salm tramps to military time, quick consuming the way.  Bouille and the officers, drawing sword, have to dash into double quick pas-de-charge, or unmilitary running; to get the start; to station themselves on the outer staircase, and stand there with what of death-defiance and sharp steel they have; Salm truculently coiling itself up, rank after rank, opposite them, in such humour as we can fancy, which happily has not yet mounted to the murder-pitch.  There will Bouille stand, certain at least of one man’s purpose; in grim calmness, awaiting the issue.  What the intrepidest of men and generals can do is done.  Bouille, though there is a barricading picket at each end of the street, and death under his eyes, contrives to send for a Dragoon Regiment with orders to charge:  the dragoon officers mount; the dragoon men will not:  hope is none there for him.  The street, as we say, barricaded; the Earth all shut out, only the indifferent heavenly Vault overhead:  perhaps here or there a timorous householder peering out of window, with prayer for Bouille; copious Rascality, on the pavement, with prayer for Salm:  there do the two parties stand;—­like chariots locked in a narrow thoroughfare; like locked wrestlers at a dead-grip!  For two hours they stand; Bouille’s sword glittering in his hand, adamantine resolution clouding his brows:  for two hours by the clocks of Metz.  Moody-silent stands Salm, with occasional clangour; but does not fire.  Rascality from time to time urges some grenadier to level his musket at the General; who looks on it as a bronze General would; and always some corporal or other strikes it up.

In such remarkable attitude, standing on that staircase for two hours, does brave Bouille, long a shadow, dawn on us visibly out of the dimness, and become a person.  For the rest, since Salm has not shot him at the first instant, and since in himself there is no variableness, the danger will diminish.  The Mayor, ‘a man infinitely respectable,’ with his Municipals and tricolor sashes, finally gains entrance; remonstrates, perorates, promises; gets Salm persuaded home to its barracks.  Next day, our respectable Mayor lending the money, the officers pay down the half of the demand in ready cash.  With which liquidation Salm pacifies itself, and for the present all is hushed up, as much as may be. (Bouille, i. 140-5.)

Such scenes as this of Metz, or preparations and demonstrations towards such, are universal over France:  Dampmartin, with his knotted forage-cords and piled chamois jackets, is at Strasburg in the South-East; in these same days or rather nights, Royal Champagne is ’shouting Vive la Nation, au diable les Aristocrates, with some thirty lit candles,’ at Hesdin, on the far North-West.  “The garrison of Bitche,” Deputy Rewbell is sorry to state, “went out of the town, with drums beating; deposed its officers; and then returned into the town, sabre in hand.” (Moniteur (in Hist.  Parl. vii. 29).) Ought not a National Assembly to occupy itself with these objects?  Military France is everywhere full of sour inflammatory humour, which exhales itself fuliginously, this way or that:  a whole continent of smoking flax; which, blown on here or there by any angry wind, might so easily start into a blaze, into a continent of fire!