Invalides. Thither will we: King's Procureur
M. Ethys de Corny, and whatsoever of authority a Permanent Committee can
lend, shall go with us. Besenval's Camp is there; perhaps he will not
fire on us; if he kill us we shall but die.

Alas, poor Besenval, with his troops melting away in that manner, has
not the smallest humour to fire! At five o'clock this morning, as he lay
dreaming, oblivious in the Ecole Militaire, a 'figure' stood suddenly at
his bedside: 'with face rather handsome; eyes inflamed, speech rapid and
curt, air audacious:' such a figure drew Priam's curtains! The message
and monition of the figure was, that resistance would be hopeless;
that if blood flowed, wo to him who shed it. Thus spoke the figure;
and vanished. 'Withal there was a kind of eloquence that struck
one.' Besenval admits that he should have arrested him, but did not.
(Besenval, iii. 414.) Who this figure, with inflamed eyes, with speech
rapid and curt, might be? Besenval knows but mentions not. Camille
Desmoulins? Pythagorean Marquis Valadi, inflamed with 'violent motions
all night at the Palais Royal?' Fame names him, 'Young M. Meillar';
(Tableaux de la Revolution, Prise de la Bastille (a folio Collection
of Pictures and Portraits, with letter-press, not always
uninstructive,--part of it said to be by Chamfort).) Then shuts her lips
about him for ever.

In any case, behold about nine in the morning, our National Volunteers
rolling in long wide flood, south-westward to the Hotel des Invalides;
in search of the one thing needful. King's procureur M. Ethys de Corny
and officials are there; the Cure of Saint-Etienne du Mont marches
unpacific, at the head of his militant Parish; the Clerks of the
Bazoche in red coats we see marching, now Volunteers of the Bazoche; the
Volunteers of the Palais Royal:--National Volunteers, numerable by
tens of thousands; of one heart and mind. The King's muskets are the
Nation's; think, old M. de Sombreuil, how, in this extremity, thou wilt
refuse them! Old M. de Sombreuil would fain hold parley, send Couriers;
but it skills not: the walls are scaled, no Invalide firing a shot;
the gates must be flung open. Patriotism rushes in, tumultuous, from
grundsel up to ridge-tile, through all rooms and passages; rummaging
distractedly for arms. What cellar, or what cranny can escape it? The
arms are found; all safe there; lying packed in straw,--apparently with
a view to being burnt! More ravenous than famishing lions