oss de Morande, of the Courier
de l'Europe, hobbles distractedly to and fro there: but they let him
hobble out; on right nimble crutches;--his hour not being yet come.
Advocate Maton de la Varenne, very weak in health, is snatched off from
mother and kin; Tricolor Rossignol (journeyman goldsmith and scoundrel
lately, a risen man now) remembers an old Pleading of Maton's! Jourgniac
de Saint-Meard goes; the brisk frank soldier: he was in the Mutiny
of Nancy, in that 'effervescent Regiment du Roi,'--on the wrong side.
Saddest of all: Abbe Sicard goes; a Priest who could not take the Oath,
but who could teach the Deaf and Dumb: in his Section one man, he
says, had a grudge at him; one man, at the fit hour, launches an arrest
against him; which hits. In the Arsenal quarter, there are dumb hearts
making wail, with signs, with wild gestures; he their miraculous healer
and speech-bringer is rapt away.

What with the arrestments on this night of the Twenty-ninth, what with
those that have gone on more or less, day and night, ever since the
Tenth, one may fancy what the Prisons now were. Crowding and Confusion;
jostle, hurry, vehemence and terror! Of the poor Queen's Friends, who
had followed her to the Temple and been committed elsewhither to
Prison, some, as Governess de Tourzelle, are to be let go: one, the poor
Princess de Lamballe, is not let go; but waits in the strong-rooms of La
Force there, what will betide further.

Among so many hundreds whom the launched arrest hits, who are rolled
off to Townhall or Section-hall, to preliminary Houses of detention, and
hurled in thither, as into cattle-pens, we must mention one other: Caron
de Beaumarchais, Author of Figaro; vanquisher of Maupeou Parlements and
Goezman helldogs; once numbered among the demigods; and now--? We left
him in his culminant state; what dreadful decline is this, when we again
catch a glimpse of him! 'At midnight' (it was but the 12th of August
yet), 'the servant, in his shirt,' with wide-staring eyes, enters your
room:--Monsieur, rise; all the people are come to seek you; they are
knocking, like to break in the door! 'And they were in fact knocking in
a terrible manner (d'une facon terrible). I fling on my coat, forgetting
even the waistcoat, nothing on my feet but slippers; and say to
him'--And he, alas, answers mere negatory incoherences, panic
interjections. And through the shutters and crevices, in front or
rearward, the dull street-lamps disclose only