your side to the Tuileries. Not to a Levee: no, to a Couchee: where much
will be put to bed. Your Tickets of Entry are needful; needfuller your
blunderbusses!--They come and crowd, like gallant men who also know how
to die: old Maille the Camp-Marshal has come, his eyes gleaming once
again, though dimmed by the rheum of almost four-score years. Courage,
Brothers! We have a thousand red Swiss; men stanch of heart, steadfast
as the granite of their Alps. National Grenadiers are at least friends
of Order; Commandant Mandat breathes loyal ardour, will "answer for it
on his head." Mandat will, and his Staff; for the Staff, though there
stands a doom and Decree to that effect, is happily never yet dissolved.

Commandant Mandat has corresponded with Mayor Petion; carries a written
Order from him these three days, to repel force by force. A squadron
on the Pont Neuf with cannon shall turn back these Marseillese coming
across the River: a squadron at the Townhall shall cut Saint-Antoine in
two, 'as it issues from the Arcade Saint-Jean;' drive one half back to
the obscure East, drive the other half forward through 'the Wickets of
the Louvre.' Squadrons not a few, and mounted squadrons; squadrons in
the Palais Royal, in the Place Vendome: all these shall charge, at the
right moment; sweep this street, and then sweep that. Some new Twentieth
of June we shall have; only still more ineffectual? Or probably
the Insurrection will not dare to rise at all? Mandat's Squadrons,
Horse-Gendarmerie and blue Guards march, clattering, tramping; Mandat's
Cannoneers rumble. Under cloud of night; to the sound of his generale,
which begins drumming when men should go to bed. It is the 9th night of
August, 1792.

On the other hand, the Forty-eight Sections correspond by swift
messengers; are choosing each their 'three Delegates with full powers.'
Syndic Roederer, Mayor Petion are sent for to the Tuileries: courageous
Legislators, when the drum beats danger, should repair to their
Salle. Demoiselle Theroigne has on her grenadier-bonnet, short-skirted
riding-habit; two pistols garnish her small waist, and sabre hangs in
baldric by her side.

Such a game is playing in this Paris Pandemonium, or City of All the
Devils!--And yet the Night, as Mayor Petion walks here in the Tuileries
Garden, 'is beautiful and calm;' Orion and the Pleiades glitter
down quite serene. Petion has come forth, the 'heat' inside was so
oppressive. (Roederer, Chronique de Cinqu