Down in those dark dens, in those dark heads and hungry hearts, who knows in what strange figure the new Political Evangel may have shaped itself; what miraculous ‘Communion of Drudges’ may be getting formed!  Enough:  grim individuals, soon waxing to grim multitudes, and other multitudes crowding to see, beset that Paper-Warehouse; demonstrate, in loud ungrammatical language (addressed to the passions too), the insufficiency of sevenpence halfpenny a-day.  The City-watch cannot dissipate them; broils arise and bellowings; Reveillon, at his wits’ end, entreats the Populace, entreats the authorities.  Besenval, now in active command, Commandant of Paris, does, towards evening, to Reveillon’s earnest prayer, send some thirty Gardes Francaises.  These clear the street, happily without firing; and take post there for the night in hope that it may be all over. (Besenval, iii. 385-8.)

Not so:  on the morrow it is far worse.  Saint-Antoine has arisen anew, grimmer than ever;—­reinforced by the unknown Tatterdemalion Figures, with their enthusiast complexion and large sticks.  The City, through all streets, is flowing thitherward to see:  ’two cartloads of paving-stones, that happened to pass that way’ have been seized as a visible godsend.  Another detachment of Gardes Francaises must be sent; Besenval and the Colonel taking earnest counsel.  Then still another; they hardly, with bayonets and menace of bullets, penetrate to the spot.  What a sight!  A street choked up, with lumber, tumult and the endless press of men.  A Paper-Warehouse eviscerated by axe and fire:  mad din of Revolt; musket-volleys responded to by yells, by miscellaneous missiles; by tiles raining from roof and window,—­tiles, execrations and slain men!

The Gardes Francaises like it not, but have to persevere.  All day it continues, slackening and rallying; the sun is sinking, and Saint-Antoine has not yielded.  The City flies hither and thither:  alas, the sound of that musket-volleying booms into the far dining-rooms of the Chaussee d’Antin; alters the tone of the dinner-gossip there.  Captain Dampmartin leaves his wine; goes out with a friend or two, to see the fighting.  Unwashed men growl on him, with murmurs of “A bas les Aristocrates (Down with the Aristocrats);” and insult the cross of St. Louis?  They elbow him, and hustle him; but do not pick his pocket;—­as indeed at Reveillon’s too there was not the slightest stealing.  (Evenemens qui se sont passes sous mes yeux pendant la Revolution Francaise, par A. H. Dampmartin (Berlin, 1799), i. 25-27.)

At fall of night, as the thing will not end, Besenval takes his resolution:  orders out the Gardes Suisses with two pieces of artillery.  The Swiss Guards shall proceed thither; summon that rabble to depart, in the King’s name.  If disobeyed, they shall load their artillery with grape-shot, visibly to the general eye; shall again summon; if again disobeyed, fire,—­and keep firing ‘till the last man’ be in this manner blasted off, and the