Revolt of Germinal Twelfth ended as a vain cry; moribund Sansculottism was swept back into invisibility.  There it has lain moaning, these six weeks:  moaning, and also scheming.  Jacobins disarmed, flung forth from their Tribune in mid air, must needs try to help themselves, in secret conclave under ground.  Lo, therefore, on the First day of the Month Prairial, 20th of May 1795, sound of the generale once more; beating sharp, ran-tan, To arms, To arms!

Sansculottism has risen, yet again, from its death-lair; waste wild-flowing, as the unfruitful Sea.  Saint-Antoine is a-foot:  “Bread and the Constitution of Ninety-three,” so sounds it; so stands it written with chalk on the hats of men.  They have their pikes, their firelocks; Paper of Grievances; standards; printed Proclamation, drawn up in quite official manner,—­considering this, and also considering that, they, a much-enduring Sovereign People, are in Insurrection; will have Bread and the Constitution of Ninety-three.  And so the Barriers are seized, and the generale beats, and tocsins discourse discord.  Black deluges overflow the Tuileries; spite of sentries, the Sanctuary itself is invaded:  enter, to our Order of the Day, a torrent of dishevelled women, wailing, “Bread!  Bread!” President may well cover himself; and have his own tocsin rung in ‘the Pavilion of Unity;’ the ship of the State again labours and leaks; overwashed, near to swamping, with unfruitful brine.

What a day, once more!  Women are driven out:  men storm irresistibly in; choke all corridors, thunder at all gates.  Deputies, putting forth head, obtest, conjure; Saint-Antoine rages, “Bread and Constitution.”  Report has risen that the ‘Convention is assassinating the women:’  crushing and rushing, clangor and furor!  The oak doors have become as oak tambourines, sounding under the axe of Saint-Antoine; plaster-work crackles, woodwork booms and jingles; door starts up;—­bursts-in Saint-Antoine with frenzy and vociferation, Rag-standards, printed Proclamation, drum-music:  astonishment to eye and ear.  Gendarmes, loyal Sectioners charge through the other door; they are recharged; musketry exploding:  Saint-Antoine cannot be expelled.  Obtesting Deputies obtest vainly; Respect the President; approach not the President!  Deputy Feraud, stretching out his hands, baring his bosom scarred in the Spanish wars, obtests vainly:  threatens and resists vainly.  Rebellious Deputy of the Sovereign, if thou have fought, have not we too?  We have no bread, no Constitution!  They wrench poor Feraud; they tumble him, trample him, wrath waxing to see itself work:  they drag him into the corridor, dead or near it; sever his head, and fix it on a pike.  Ah, did an unexampled Convention want this variety of destiny too, then?  Feraud’s bloody head goes on a pike.  Such a game has begun; Paris and the Earth may wait how it will end.