hand, and with the other seized
nearly all the posts of the garrison. In less than three hours, like a
train of powder catching fire, the insurgents had invaded and occupied,
on the right bank, the Arsenal, the Mayoralty of the Place Royale, the
whole of the Marais, the Popincourt arms manufactory, la Galiote, the
Chateau-d'Eau, and all the streets near the Halles; on the left bank,
the barracks of the Veterans, Sainte-Pelagie, the Place Maubert, the
powder magazine of the Deux-Moulins, and all the barriers. At five
o'clock in the evening, they were masters of the Bastille, of the
Lingerie, of the Blancs-Manteaux; their scouts had reached the Place
des Victoires, and menaced the Bank, the Petits-Peres barracks, and the
Post-Office. A third of Paris was in the hands of the rioters.

The conflict had been begun on a gigantic scale at all points; and, as a
result of the disarming domiciliary visits, and armorers' shops hastily
invaded, was, that the combat which had begun with the throwing of
stones was continued with gun-shots.

About six o'clock in the evening, the Passage du Saumon became the field
of battle. The uprising was at one end, the troops were at the other.
They fired from one gate to the other. An observer, a dreamer, the
author of this book, who had gone to get a near view of this volcano,
found himself in the passage between the two fires. All that he had to
protect him from the bullets was the swell of the two half-columns which
separate the shops; he remained in this delicate situation for nearly
half an hour.

Meanwhile the call to arms was beaten, the National Guard armed in
haste, the legions emerged from the Mayoralities, the regiments from
their barracks. Opposite the passage de l'Ancre a drummer received a
blow from a dagger. Another, in the Rue du Cygne, was assailed by thirty
young men who broke his instrument, and took away his sword. Another was
killed in the Rue Grenier-Saint-Lazare. In the Rue-Michelle-Comte, three
officers fell dead one after the other. Many of the Municipal Guards, on
being wounded, in the Rue des Lombards, retreated.

In front of the Cour-Batave, a detachment of National Guards found a red
flag bearing the following inscription: Republican revolution, No. 127.
Was this a revolution, in fact?

The insurrection had made of the centre of Paris a sort of inextricable,
tortuous, colossal citadel.

There was the hearth; there, evidently, was the question. All the rest
was