And thus the Herculean Inspector has sat all Thursday, among terror-struck Municipals, a centre of confused noise:  all Thursday, Friday, and till Saturday towards noon.  Chateau-Vieux, in spite of the notarial protest, will not march a step.  As many as four thousand National Guards are dropping or pouring in; uncertain what is expected of them, still more uncertain what will be obtained of them.  For all is uncertainty, commotion, and suspicion:  there goes a word that Bouille, beginning to bestir himself in the rural Cantonments eastward, is but a Royalist traitor; that Chateau-Vieux and Patriotism are sold to Austria, of which latter M. de Malseigne is probably some agent.  Mestre-de-Camp and Roi flutter still more questionably:  Chateau-Vieux, far from marching, ‘waves red flags out of two carriages,’ in a passionate manner, along the streets; and next morning answers its Officers:  “Pay us, then; and we will march with you to the world’s end!”

Under which circumstances, towards noon on Saturday, M. de Malseigne thinks it were good perhaps to inspect the ramparts,—­on horseback.  He mounts, accordingly, with escort of three troopers.  At the gate of the city, he bids two of them wait for his return; and with the third, a trooper to be depended upon, he—­gallops off for Luneville; where lies a certain Carabineer Regiment not yet in a mutinous state!  The two left troopers soon get uneasy; discover how it is, and give the alarm.  Mestre-de-Camp, to the number of a hundred, saddles in frantic haste, as if sold to Austria; gallops out pellmell in chase of its Inspector.  And so they spur, and the Inspector spurs; careering, with noise and jingle, up the valley of the River Meurthe, towards Luneville and the midday sun:  through an astonished country; indeed almost their own astonishment.

What a hunt, Actaeon-like;—­which Actaeon de Malseigne happily gains!  To arms, ye Carabineers of Luneville:  to chastise mutinous men, insulting your General Officer, insulting your own quarters;—­above all things, fire soon, lest there be parleying and ye refuse to fire!  The Carabineers fire soon, exploding upon the first stragglers of Mestre-de-Camp; who shrink at the very flash, and fall back hastily on Nanci, in a state not far from distraction.  Panic and fury:  sold to Austria without an if; so much per regiment, the very sums can be specified; and traitorous Malseigne is fled!  Help, O Heaven; help, thou Earth,—­ye unwashed Patriots; ye too are sold like us!

Effervescent Regiment du Roi primes its firelocks, Mestre-de-Camp saddles wholly:  Commandant Denoue is seized, is flung in prison with a ‘canvass shirt’ (sarreau de toile) about him; Chateau-Vieux bursts up the magazines; distributes ‘three thousand fusils’ to a Patriot people:  Austria shall have a hot bargain.  Alas, the unhappy hunting-dogs, as we said, have hunted away their huntsman; and do now run howling and baying, on what trail they know not; nigh rabid!