What a distracted City; men riding and running, reporting and hearsaying; the Hour clearly in travail,—­child not to be named till born!  The poor Prisoners in the Luxembourg hear the rumour; tremble for a new September.  They see men making signals to them, on skylights and roofs, apparently signals of hope; cannot in the least make out what it is. (Memoires sur les Prisons, ii. 277.) We observe however, in the eventide, as usual, the Death-tumbrils faring South-eastward, through Saint-Antoine, towards their Barrier du Trone.  Saint-Antoine’s tough bowels melt; Saint-Antoine surrounds the Tumbrils; says, It shall not be.  O Heavens, why should it!  Henriot and Gendarmes, scouring the streets that way, bellow, with waved sabres, that it must.  Quit hope, ye poor Doomed!  The Tumbrils move on.

But in this set of Tumbrils there are two other things notable:  one notable person; and one want of a notable person.  The notable person is Lieutenant-General Loiserolles, a nobleman by birth, and by nature; laying down his life here for his son.  In the Prison of Saint-Lazare, the night before last, hurrying to the Grate to hear the Death-list read, he caught the name of his son.  The son was asleep at the moment.  “I am Loiserolles,” cried the old man:  at Tinville’s bar, an error in the Christian name is little; small objection was made.  The want of the notable person, again, is that of Deputy Paine!  Paine has sat in the Luxembourg since January; and seemed forgotten; but Fouquier had pricked him at last.  The Turnkey, List in hand, is marking with chalk the outer doors of to-morrow’s Fournee.  Paine’s outer door happened to be open, turned back on the wall; the Turnkey marked it on the side next him, and hurried on:  another Turnkey came, and shut it; no chalk-mark now visible, the Fournee went without Paine.  Paine’s life lay not there.—­

Our fifth-act, of this natural Greek Drama, with its natural unities, can only be painted in gross; somewhat as that antique Painter, driven desperate, did the foam!  For through this blessed July night, there is clangour, confusion very great, of marching troops; of Sections going this way, Sections going that; of Missionary Representatives reading Proclamations by torchlight; Missionary Legendre, who has raised force somewhere, emptying out the Jacobins, and flinging their key on the Convention table:  “I have locked their door; it shall be Virtue that re-opens it.”  Paris, we say, is set against itself, rushing confused, as Ocean-currents do; a huge Mahlstrom, sounding there, under cloud of night.  Convention sits permanent on this hand; Municipality most permanent on that.  The poor Prisoners hear tocsin and rumour; strive to bethink them of the signals apparently of hope.  Meek continual Twilight streaming up, which will be Dawn and a To-morrow, silvers the Northern hem of Night; it wends and wends there, that meek brightness, like a silent prophecy, along the great Ring-Dial of the Heaven.  So still, eternal!  And on Earth all is confused shadow and conflict; dissidence, tumultuous gloom and glare; and Destiny as yet shakes her doubtful urn.