but cannot fling him down, for he ’cramps himself on the railing;’ and ‘his clothes get torn.’  Brave Senator, worthy of pity!  Neither will Barbaroux demit; he “has sworn to die at his post, and will keep that oath.”  Whereupon the Galleries all rise with explosion; brandishing weapons, some of them; and rush out saying:  “Allons, then; we must save our country!” Such a Session is this of Sunday the second of June.

Churches fill, over Christian Europe, and then empty themselves; but this Convention empties not, the while:  a day of shrieking contention, of agony, humiliation and tearing of coatskirts; illa suprema dies!  Round stand Henriot and his Hundred Thousand, copiously refreshed from tray and basket:  nay he is ‘distributing five francs a-piece;’ we Girondins saw it with our eyes; five francs to keep them in heart!  And distraction of armed riot encumbers our borders, jangles at our Bar; we are prisoners in our own Hall:  Bishop Gregoire could not get out for a besoin actuel without four gendarmes to wait on him!  What is the character of a National Representative become?  And now the sunlight falls yellower on western windows, and the chimney-tops are flinging longer shadows; the refreshed Hundred Thousand, nor their shadows, stir not!  What to resolve on?  Motion rises, superfluous one would think, That the Convention go forth in a body; ascertain with its own eyes whether it is free or not.  Lo, therefore, from the Eastern Gate of the Tuileries, a distressed Convention issuing; handsome Herault Sechelles at their head; he with hat on, in sign of public calamity, the rest bareheaded,—­towards the Gate of the Carrousel; wondrous to see:  towards Henriot and his plumed staff.  “In the name of the National Convention, make way!” Not an inch of the way does Henriot make:  “I receive no orders, till the Sovereign, yours and mine, has been obeyed.”  The Convention presses on; Henriot prances back, with his staff, some fifteen paces, “To arms!  Cannoneers to your guns!”—­flashes out his puissant sword, as the Staff all do, and the Hussars all do.  Cannoneers brandish the lit match; Infantry present arms,—­alas, in the level way, as if for firing!  Hatted Herault leads his distressed flock, through their pinfold of a Tuileries again; across the Garden, to the Gate on the opposite side.  Here is Feuillans Terrace, alas, there is our old Salle de Manege; but neither at this Gate of the Pont Tournant is there egress.  Try the other; and the other:  no egress!  We wander disconsolate through armed ranks; who indeed salute with Live the Republic, but also with Die the Gironde.  Other such sight, in the year One of Liberty, the westering sun never saw.