the Champ-de-Mars and from it, in the utmost excitability of humour;
central Fatherland's Altar quite heaped with signing Patriots and
Patriotesses; the Thirty-benches and whole internal Space crowded with
onlookers, with comers and goers; one regurgitating whirlpool of men and
women in their Sunday clothes. All which a Constitutional Sieur Motier
sees; and Bailly, looking into it with his long visage made still
longer. Auguring no good; perhaps Decheance and Deposition after all!
Stop it, ye Constitutional Patriots; fire itself is quenchable, yet only
quenchable at first!

Stop it, truly: but how stop it? Have not the first Free People of the
Universe a right to petition?--Happily, if also unhappily, here is one
proof of riot: these two human individuals, hanged at the Lanterne.
Proof, O treacherous Sieur Motier? Were they not two human individuals
sent thither by thee to be hanged; to be a pretext for thy bloody
Drapeau Rouge? This question shall many a Patriot, one day, ask; and
answer affirmatively, strong in Preternatural Suspicion.

Enough, towards half past seven in the evening, the mere natural eye
can behold this thing: Sieur Motier, with Municipals in scarf, with blue
National Patrollotism, rank after rank, to the clang of drums; wending
resolutely to the Champ-de-Mars; Mayor Bailly, with elongated visage,
bearing, as in sad duty bound, the Drapeau Rouge! Howl of angry derision
rises in treble and bass from a hundred thousand throats, at the sight
of Martial Law; which nevertheless waving its Red sanguinary Flag,
advances there, from the Gros-Caillou Entrance; advances, drumming
and waving, towards Altar of Fatherland. Amid still wilder howls, with
objurgation, obtestation; with flights of pebbles and mud, saxa et
faeces; with crackle of a pistol-shot;--finally with volley-fire of
Patrollotism; levelled muskets; roll of volley on volley! Precisely
after one year and three days, our sublime Federation Field is wetted,
in this manner, with French blood.

Some 'Twelve unfortunately shot,' reports Bailly, counting by units; but
Patriotism counts by tens and even by hundreds. Not to be forgotten,
nor forgiven! Patriotism flies, shrieking, execrating. Camille ceases
Journalising, this day; great Danton with Camille and Freron have taken
wing, for their life; Marat burrows deep in the Earth, and is silent.
Once more Patrollotism has triumphed: one other time; but it is the
last.

This was the Royal Flight to Var