another. Procureur Manuel has ordered the cannons to be withdrawn from the Pont-Neuf; none ventured to disobey him. It seems 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.[1]
Old Marshal Maillé 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 not one proclaim
Martial Law? Not easily; for now, it seems, Mayor
Pétion is gone. On the other hand, our Interim Commandant,
poor Mandat being off 'to the Hôtel-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 grey 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. Rœderer 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
- ↑ Rœderer, ubi suprà.
