this day;—­and Henriot is galloping towards the Tuileries, to deliver Robespierre.  On the Quai de la Ferraillerie, a young Citoyen, walking with his wife, says aloud:  “Gendarmes, that man is not your Commandant; he is under arrest.”  The Gendarmes strike down the young Citoyen with the flat of their swords.  (Precis des evenemens du Neuf Thermidor, par C.A.  Meda, ancien Gendarme, Paris, 1825.)

Representatives themselves (as Merlin the Thionviller) who accost him, this puissant Henriot flings into guardhouses.  He bursts towards the Tuileries Committee-room, “to speak with Robespierre:”  with difficulty, the Ushers and Tuileries Gendarmes, earnestly pleading and drawing sabre, seize this Henriot; get the Henriot Gendarmes persuaded not to fight; get Robespierre and Company packed into hackney-coaches, sent off under escort, to the Luxembourg and other Prisons.  This then is the end?  May not an exhausted Convention adjourn now, for a little repose and sustenance, ‘at five o’clock?’

An exhausted Convention did it; and repented it.  The end was not come; only the end of the second-act.  Hark, while exhausted Representatives sit at victuals,—­tocsin bursting from all steeples, drums rolling, in the summer evening:  Judge Coffinhal is galloping with new Gendarmes to deliver Henriot from Tuileries Committee-room; and does deliver him!  Puissant Henriot vaults on horseback; sets to haranguing the Tuileries Gendarmes; corrupts the Tuileries Gendarmes too; trots off with them to Townhall.  Alas, and Robespierre is not in Prison:  the Gaoler shewed his Municipal order, durst not on pain of his life, admit any Prisoner; the Robespierre Hackney-coaches, in confused jangle and whirl of uncertain Gendarmes, have floated safe—­into the Townhall!  There sit Robespierre and Company, embraced by Municipals and Jacobins, in sacred right of Insurrection; redacting Proclamations; sounding tocsins; corresponding with Sections and Mother Society.  Is not here a pretty enough third-act of a natural Greek Drama; catastrophe more uncertain than ever?

The hasty Convention rushes together again, in the ominous nightfall:  President Collot, for the chair is his, enters with long strides, paleness on his face; claps on his hat; says with solemn tone:  “Citoyens, armed Villains have beset the Committee-rooms, and got possession of them.  The hour is come, to die at our post!” “Oui,” answer one and all:  “We swear it!” It is no rhodomontade, this time, but a sad fact and necessity; unless we do at our posts, we must verily die!  Swift therefore, Robespierre, Henriot, the Municipality, are declared Rebels; put Hors la Loi, Out of Law.  Better still, we appoint Barras Commandant of what Armed-Force is to be had; send Missionary Representatives to all Sections and quarters, to preach, and raise force; will die at least with harness on our back.