But so does the July twilight thicken; so must Paris, as sick children, and all distracted creatures do, brawl itself finally into a kind of sleep.  Municipal Electors, astonished to find their heads still uppermost, are home:  only Moreau de Saint-Mery of tropical birth and heart, of coolest judgment; he, with two others, shall sit permanent at the Townhall.  Paris sleeps; gleams upward the illuminated City:  patrols go clashing, without common watchword; there go rumours; alarms of war, to the extent of ’fifteen thousand men marching through the Suburb Saint-Antoine,’—­who never got it marched through.  Of the day’s distraction judge by this of the night:  Moreau de Saint-Mery, ’before rising from his seat, gave upwards of three thousand orders.’ (Dusaulx.) What a head; comparable to Friar Bacon’s Brass Head!  Within it lies all Paris.  Prompt must the answer be, right or wrong; in Paris is no other Authority extant.  Seriously, a most cool clear head;—­for which also thou O brave Saint-Mery, in many capacities, from august Senator to Merchant’s-Clerk, Book-dealer, Vice-King; in many places, from Virginia to Sardinia, shalt, ever as a brave man, find employment. (Biographie Universelle, para Moreau Saint-Mery (by Fournier-Pescay).)

Besenval has decamped, under cloud of dusk, ’amid a great affluence of people,’ who did not harm him; he marches, with faint-growing tread, down the left bank of the Seine, all night,—­towards infinite space.  Resummoned shall Besenval himself be; for trial, for difficult acquittal.  His King’s-troops, his Royal Allemand, are gone hence for ever.

The Versailles Ball and lemonade is done; the Orangery is silent except for nightbirds.  Over in the Salle des Menus, Vice-president Lafayette, with unsnuffed lights, ’with some hundred of members, stretched on tables round him,’ sits erect; outwatching the Bear.  This day, a second solemn Deputation went to his Majesty; a second, and then a third:  with no effect.  What will the end of these things be?

In the Court, all is mystery, not without whisperings of terror; though ye dream of lemonade and epaulettes, ye foolish women!  His Majesty, kept in happy ignorance, perhaps dreams of double-barrels and the Woods of Meudon.  Late at night, the Duke de Liancourt, having official right of entrance, gains access to the Royal Apartments; unfolds, with earnest clearness, in his constitutional way, the Job’s-news.  “Mais,” said poor Louis, “c’est une revolte, Why, that is a revolt!”—­“Sire,” answered Liancourt, “It is not a revolt, it is a revolution.”

Chapter 1.5.VIII.

Conquering your King.