And so it billows free though all Corridors; within, and without, far as the eye reaches, nothing but Bedlam, and the great Deep broken loose!  President Boissy d’Anglas sits like a rock:  the rest of the Convention is floated ‘to the upper benches;’ Sectioners and Gendarmes still ranking there to form a kind of wall for them.  And Insurrection rages; rolls its drums; will read its Paper of Grievances, will have this decreed, will have that.  Covered sits President Boissy, unyielding; like a rock in the beating of seas.  They menace him, level muskets at him, he yields not; they hold up Feraud’s bloody head to him, with grave stern air he bows to it, and yields not.

And the Paper of Grievances cannot get itself read for uproar; and the drums roll, and the throats bawl; and Insurrection, like sphere-music, is inaudible for very noise:  Decree us this, Decree us that.  One man we discern bawling ‘for the space of an hour at all intervals,’ “Je demande l’arrestation des coquins et des laches.”  Really one of the most comprehensive Petitions ever put up:  which indeed, to this hour, includes all that you can reasonably ask Constitution of the Year One, Rotten-Borough, Ballot-Box, or other miraculous Political Ark of the Covenant to do for you to the end of the world!  I also demand arrestment of the Knaves and Dastards, and nothing more whatever.  National Representation, deluged with black Sansculottism glides out; for help elsewhere, for safety elsewhere:  here is no help.

About four in the afternoon, there remain hardly more than some Sixty Members:  mere friends, or even secret-leaders; a remnant of the Mountain-crest, held in silence by Thermidorian thraldom.  Now is the time for them; now or never let them descend, and speak!  They descend, these Sixty, invited by Sansculottism:  Romme of the New Calendar, Ruhl of the Sacred Phial, Goujon, Duquesnoy, Soubrany, and the rest.  Glad Sansculottism forms a ring for them; Romme takes the President’s chair; they begin resolving and decreeing.  Fast enough now comes Decree after Decree, in alternate brief strains, or strophe and antistrophe,—­what will cheapen bread, what will awaken the dormant lion.  And at every new Decree, Sansculottism shouts, Decreed, Decreed; and rolls its drums.

Fast enough; the work of months in hours,—­when see, a Figure enters, whom in the lamp-light we recognise to be Legendre; and utters words:  fit to be hissed out!  And then see, Section Lepelletier or other Muscadin Section enters, and Gilt Youth, with levelled bayonets, countenances screwed to the sticking-place!  Tramp, tramp, with bayonets gleaming in the lamp-light:  what can one do, worn down with long riot, grown heartless, dark, hungry, but roll back, but rush back, and escape who can?  The very windows need to be thrown up, that Sansculottism may escape fast enough.  Money-changer Sections and Gilt Youth sweep them forth, with steel besom, far into the depths of Saint-Antoine.  Triumph once more!  The Decrees of that Sixty are not so much as rescinded; they are declared null and non-extant.  Romme, Ruhl, Goujon and the ringleaders, some thirteen in all, are decreed Accused.  Permanent-session ends at three in the morning. (Deux Amis, xiii. 129-46.) Sansculottism, once more flung resupine, lies sprawling; sprawling its last.