rush over, flushed with victory, and ask us:  Thou undefinable, waterlogged, self-distractive, self-destructive Legislative, what dost thou here unsunk?—­Or figure the poor National Guards, bivouacking ‘in temporary tents’ there; or standing ranked, shifting from leg to leg, all through the weary night; New tricolor Municipals ordering one thing, old Mandat Captains ordering another!  Procureur Manuel has ordered the cannons to be withdrawn from the Pont Neuf; none ventured to disobey him.  It seemed certain, then, the old Staff so long doomed has finally been dissolved, in these hours; and Mandat is not our Commandant now, but Santerre?  Yes, friends:  Santerre henceforth,—­surely Mandat no more!  The Squadrons that were to charge see nothing certain, except that they are cold, hungry, worn down with watching; that it were sad to slay French brothers; sadder to be slain by them.  Without the Tuileries Circuit, and within it, sour uncertain humour sways these men:  only the red Swiss stand steadfast.  Them their officers refresh now with a slight wetting of brandy; wherein the Nationals, too far gone for brandy, refuse to participate.

King Louis meanwhile had laid him down for a little sleep:  his wig when he reappeared had lost the powder on one side. (Roederer, ubi supra.) Old Marshal Maille and the gentlemen in black rise always in spirits, as the Insurrection does not rise:  there goes a witty saying now, “Le tocsin ne rend pas.”  The tocsin, like a dry milk-cow, does not yield.  For the rest, could one not proclaim Martial Law?  Not easily; for now, it seems, Mayor Petion is gone.  On the other hand, our Interim Commandant, poor Mandat being off, ‘to the Hotel-de-Ville,’ complains that so many Courtiers in black encumber the service, are an eyesorrow to the National Guards.  To which her Majesty answers with emphasis, That they will obey all, will suffer all, that they are sure men these.

And so the yellow lamplight dies out in the gray of morning, in the King’s Palace, over such a scene.  Scene of jostling, elbowing, of confusion, and indeed conclusion, for the thing is about to end.  Roederer and spectral Ministers jostle in the press; consult, in side cabinets, with one or with both Majesties.  Sister Elizabeth takes the Queen to the window:  “Sister, see what a beautiful sunrise,” right over the Jacobins church and that quarter!  How happy if the tocsin did not yield!  But Mandat returns not; Petion is gone:  much hangs wavering in the invisible Balance.  About five o’clock, there rises from the Garden a kind of sound; as of a shout to which had become a howl, and instead of Vive le Roi were ending in Vive la Nation.  “Mon Dieu!” ejaculates a spectral Minister, “what is he doing down there?” For it is his Majesty, gone down with old Marshal Maille to review the troops; and the nearest companies of them answer so.  Her Majesty bursts into a stream of tears.  Yet on stepping from the cabinet her eyes are dry and calm, her look is even cheerful.  ’The Austrian lip, and the aquiline nose, fuller than usual, gave to her countenance,’ says Peltier, (in Toulongeon, ii. 241.) ’something of Majesty, which they that did not see her in these moments cannot well have an idea of.’  O thou Theresa’s Daughter!