One can imagine, in these circumstances, with what humour Sansculottism growled in its throat, “La Cabarus;” beheld Ci-devants return dancing, the Thermidor effulgence of recivilisation, and Balls in flesh-coloured drawers.  Greek tunics and sandals; hosts of Muscadins parading, with their clubs loaded with lead;—­and we here, cast out, abhorred, ’picking offals from the street;’ (Fantin Desodoards, Histoire de la Revolution, vii. c. 4.) agitating in Baker’s Queue for our two ounces of bread!  Will the Jacobin lion, which they say is meeting secretly ’at the Acheveche, in bonnet rouge with loaded pistols,’ not awaken?  Seemingly not.  Our Collot, our Billaud, Barrere, Vadier, in these last days of March 1795, are found worthy of Deportation, of Banishment beyond seas; and shall, for the present, be trundled off to the Castle of Ham.  The lion is dead;—­or writhing in death-throes!

Behold, accordingly, on the day they call Twelfth of Germinal (which is also called First of April, not a lucky day), how lively are these streets of Paris once more!  Floods of hungry women, of squalid hungry men; ejaculating:  “Bread, Bread and the Constitution of Ninety-three!” Paris has risen, once again, like the Ocean-tide; is flowing towards the Tuileries, for Bread and a Constitution.  Tuileries Sentries do their best; but it serves not:  the Ocean-tide sweeps them away; inundates the Convention Hall itself; howling, “Bread, and the Constitution!”

Unhappy Senators, unhappy People, there is yet, after all toils and broils, no Bread, no Constitution.  “Du pain, pas tant de longs discours, Bread, not bursts of Parliamentary eloquence!” so wailed the Menads of Maillard, five years ago and more; so wail ye to this hour.  The Convention, with unalterable countenance, with what thought one knows not, keeps its seat in this waste howling chaos; rings its stormbell from the Pavilion of Unity.  Section Lepelletier, old Filles Saint-Thomas, who are of the money-changing species; these and Gilt Youthhood fly to the rescue; sweep chaos forth again, with levelled bayonets.  Paris is declared ‘in a state of siege.’  Pichegru, Conqueror of Holland, who happens to be here, is named Commandant, till the disturbance end.  He, in one day, so to speak, ends it.  He accomplishes the transfer of Billaud, Collot and Company; dissipating all opposition ‘by two cannon-shots,’ blank cannon-shots, and the terror of his name; and thereupon announcing, with a Laconicism which should be imitated, “Representatives, your decrees are executed,” (Moniteur, Seance du 13 Germinal (2d April) 1795.) lays down his Commandantship.