one irregular deluge of musketry, without
effect. The Invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at their ease
from behind stone; hardly through port-holes show the tip of a nose.
We fall, shot; and make no impression!

Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible! Guardrooms are
burnt, Invalides mess-rooms. A distracted "Peruke-maker with two fiery
torches" is for burning "the saltpetres of the Arsenal," had not a
woman run screaming; had not a Patriot, with some tincture of Natural
Philosophy, instantly struck the wind out of him (butt of musket on
pit of stomach), overturned barrels, and stayed the devouring element.
A young beautiful lady, seized, escaping, in these Outer Courts, and
thought falsely to be De Launay's daughter, shall be burnt in De
Launay's sight; she lies, swooned, on a _paillasse_; but again a
Patriot--it is brave Aubin Bonnemere, the old soldier--dashes in, and
rescues her. Straw is burnt; three cartloads of it, hauled hither, go
up in white smoke, almost to the choking of Patriotism itself; so that
Elie had, with singed brows, to drag back one cart, and Reole the
"gigantic haberdasher" another. Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as of
Babel; noise as of the Crack of Doom!

Blood flows; the ailment of new madness. The wounded are carried into
houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate not to
yield till the accursed Stronghold fall. And yet, alas! how fall? The
walls are so thick! Deputations, three in number, arrive from the
Hotel-de-Ville; Abbe Fauchet (who was of one) can say with what almost
superhuman courage of benevolence. These wave their Town-flag in the
arched Gateway, and stand, rolling their drum, but to no purpose. In
such Crack of Doom, De Launay cannot hear them, dare not believe them;
they return, with justified rage, the whew of lead still singing in
their ears. What to do? The Firemen are here, squirting with their
fire-pumps on the Invalides cannon, to wet the touch-holes; they
unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but produce only clouds of spray.
Individuals of classical knowledge propose _catapults_. Santerre, the
sonorous Brewer of the Suburb Saint-Antoine, advises rather that the
place be fired by a "mixture of phosphorus and oil of turpentine
spouted up through forcing-pumps." O Spinola-Santerre, hast thou the
mixture _ready_? Every man his own engineer! And still the fire-deluge
abates not; even women are firing, and Turks; at least one woman (with
h