The famed and named go; the nameless, if they have an accuser.  Necklace Lamotte’s Husband is in these Prisons (she long since squelched on the London Pavements); but gets delivered.  Gross de Morande, of the Courier de l’Europe, hobbles distractedly to and fro there:  but they let him hobble out; on right nimble crutches;—­his hour not being yet come.  Advocate Maton de la Varenne, very weak in health, is snatched off from mother and kin; Tricolor Rossignol (journeyman goldsmith and scoundrel lately, a risen man now) remembers an old Pleading of Maton’s!  Jourgniac de Saint-Meard goes; the brisk frank soldier:  he was in the Mutiny of Nancy, in that ’effervescent Regiment du Roi,’—­on the wrong side.  Saddest of all:  Abbe Sicard goes; a Priest who could not take the Oath, but who could teach the Deaf and Dumb:  in his Section one man, he says, had a grudge at him; one man, at the fit hour, launches an arrest against him; which hits.  In the Arsenal quarter, there are dumb hearts making wail, with signs, with wild gestures; he their miraculous healer and speech-bringer is rapt away.

What with the arrestments on this night of the Twenty-ninth, what with those that have gone on more or less, day and night, ever since the Tenth, one may fancy what the Prisons now were.  Crowding and Confusion; jostle, hurry, vehemence and terror!  Of the poor Queen’s Friends, who had followed her to the Temple and been committed elsewhither to Prison, some, as Governess de Tourzelle, are to be let go:  one, the poor Princess de Lamballe, is not let go; but waits in the strong-rooms of La Force there, what will betide further.

Among so many hundreds whom the launched arrest hits, who are rolled off to Townhall or Section-hall, to preliminary Houses of detention, and hurled in thither, as into cattle-pens, we must mention one other:  Caron de Beaumarchais, Author of Figaro; vanquisher of Maupeou Parlements and Goezman helldogs; once numbered among the demigods; and now—?  We left him in his culminant state; what dreadful decline is this, when we again catch a glimpse of him!  ‘At midnight’ (it was but the 12th of August yet), ‘the servant, in his shirt,’ with wide-staring eyes, enters your room:—­Monsieur, rise; all the people are come to seek you; they are knocking, like to break in the door!  ’And they were in fact knocking in a terrible manner (d’une facon terrible).  I fling on my coat, forgetting even the waistcoat, nothing on my feet but slippers; and say to him’—­And he, alas, answers mere negatory incoherences, panic interjections.  And through the shutters and crevices, in front or rearward, the dull street-lamps disclose only streetfuls of haggard countenances; clamorous, bristling with pikes:  and you rush distracted for an outlet, finding none;—­and have to take refuge in the crockery-press, down stairs; and stand there, palpitating in that imperfect costume, lights dancing past your key-hole, tramp of feet overhead, and the tumult of Satan, ‘for four hours and more!’