How different, at the same instant, is General Lafayette’s street eloquence; wrangling with sonorous Brewers, with an ungrammatical Saint-Antoine!  Most different, again, from both is the Cafe-de-Valois eloquence, and suppressed fanfaronade, of this multitude of men with Tickets of Entry; who are now inundating the Corridors of the Tuileries.  Such things can go on simultaneously in one City.  How much more in one Country; in one Planet with its discrepancies, every Day a mere crackling infinitude of discrepancies—­which nevertheless do yield some coherent net-product, though an infinitesimally small one!

Be this as it may.  Lafayette has saved Vincennes; and is marching homewards with some dozen of arrested demolitionists.  Royalty is not yet saved;—­nor indeed specially endangered.  But to the King’s Constitutional Guard, to these old Gardes Francaises, or Centre Grenadiers, as it chanced to be, this affluence of men with Tickets of Entry is becoming more and more unintelligible.  Is his Majesty verily for Metz, then; to be carried off by these men, on the spur of the instant?  That revolt of Saint-Antoine got up by traitor Royalists for a stalking-horse?  Keep a sharp outlook, ye Centre Grenadiers on duty here:  good never came from the ‘men in black.’  Nay they have cloaks, redingotes; some of them leather-breeches, boots,—­as if for instant riding!  Or what is this that sticks visible from the lapelle of Chevalier de Court? (Weber, ii. 286.) Too like the handle of some cutting or stabbing instrument!  He glides and goes; and still the dudgeon sticks from his left lapelle.  “Hold, Monsieur!”—­a Centre Grenadier clutches him; clutches the protrusive dudgeon, whisks it out in the face of the world:  by Heaven, a very dagger; hunting-knife, or whatsoever you call it; fit to drink the life of Patriotism!

So fared it with Chevalier de Court, early in the day; not without noise; not without commentaries.  And now this continually increasing multitude at nightfall?  Have they daggers too?  Alas, with them too, after angry parleyings, there has begun a groping and a rummaging; all men in black, spite of their Tickets of Entry, are clutched by the collar, and groped.  Scandalous to think of; for always, as the dirk, sword-cane, pistol, or were it but tailor’s bodkin, is found on him, and with loud scorn drawn forth from him, he, the hapless man in black, is flung all too rapidly down stairs.  Flung; and ignominiously descends, head foremost; accelerated by ignominious shovings from sentry after sentry; nay, as is written, by smitings, twitchings,—­spurnings, a posteriori, not to be named.  In this accelerated way, emerges, uncertain which end uppermost, man after man in black, through all issues, into the Tuileries Garden.  Emerges, alas, into the arms of an indignant multitude, now gathered and gathering there, in the hour of dusk, to see what is toward, and whether the Hereditary Representative is carried off or not.  Hapless