Roederer, from time to time, steps in; to listen, to speak; to send for the Department-Directory itself, he their Procureur Syndic not seeing how to act.  The Apartments are all crowded; some seven hundred gentlemen in black elbowing, bustling; red Swiss standing like rocks; ghost, or partial-ghost of a Ministry, with Roederer and advisers, hovering round their Majesties; old Marshall Maille kneeling at the King’s feet, to say, He and these gallant gentlemen are come to die for him.  List! through the placid midnight; clang of the distant stormbell!  So, in very sooth; steeple after steeple takes up the wondrous tale.  Black Courtiers listen at the windows, opened for air; discriminate the steeple-bells:  (Roederer, ubi supra.) this is the tocsin of Saint-Roch; that again, is it not Saint-Jacques, named de la Boucherie?  Yes, Messieurs!  Or even Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, hear ye it not?  The same metal that rang storm, two hundred and twenty years ago; but by a Majesty’s order then; on Saint-Bartholomew’s Eve (24th August, 1572.)—­So go the steeple-bells; which Courtiers can discriminate.  Nay, meseems, there is the Townhall itself; we know it by its sound!  Yes, Friends, that is the Townhall; discoursing so, to the Night.  Miraculously; by miraculous metal-tongue and man’s arm:  Marat himself, if you knew it, is pulling at the rope there!  Marat is pulling; Robespierre lies deep, invisible for the next forty hours; and some men have heart, and some have as good as none, and not even frenzy will give them any.

What struggling confusion, as the issue slowly draws on; and the doubtful Hour, with pain and blind struggle, brings forth its Certainty, never to be abolished!—­The Full-power Delegates, three from each Section, a Hundred and forty-four in all, got gathered at the Townhall, about midnight.  Mandat’s Squadron, stationed there, did not hinder their entering:  are they not the ‘Central Committee of the Sections’ who sit here usually; though in greater number tonight?  They are there:  presided by Confusion, Irresolution, and the Clack of Tongues.  Swift scouts fly; Rumour buzzes, of black Courtiers, red Swiss, of Mandat and his Squadrons that shall charge.  Better put off the Insurrection?  Yes, put it off.  Ha, hark!  Saint-Antoine booming out eloquent tocsin, of its own accord!—­Friends, no:  ye cannot put off the Insurrection; but must put it on, and live with it, or die with it.

Swift now, therefore:  let these actual Old Municipals, on sight of the Full-powers, and mandate of the Sovereign elective People, lay down their functions; and this New Hundred and forty-four take them up!  Will ye nill ye, worthy Old Municipals, ye must go.  Nay is it not a happiness for many a Municipal that he can wash his hands of such a business; and sit there paralyzed, unaccountable, till the Hour do bring forth; or even go home to his night’s rest? (Section Documents, Townhall Documents, Hist.  Parl. ubi supra.) Two only of the Old, or at most three,