; but Drudgery,
Rascality and the Suburb that is rising! Was the Sieur Reveillon,
himself once a journeyman, heard to say that 'a journeyman might live
handsomely on fifteen sous a-day?' Some sevenpence halfpenny: 'tis a
slender sum! Or was he only thought, and believed, to be heard saying
it? By this long chafing and friction it would appear the National
temper has got electric.

Down in those dark dens, in those dark heads and hungry hearts, who
knows in what strange figure the new Political Evangel may have shaped
itself; what miraculous 'Communion of Drudges' may be getting formed!
Enough: grim individuals, soon waxing to grim multitudes, and other
multitudes crowding to see, beset that Paper-Warehouse; demonstrate,
in loud ungrammatical language (addressed to the passions too), the
insufficiency of sevenpence halfpenny a-day. The City-watch cannot
dissipate them; broils arise and bellowings; Reveillon, at his wits'
end, entreats the Populace, entreats the authorities. Besenval, now
in active command, Commandant of Paris, does, towards evening, to
Reveillon's earnest prayer, send some thirty Gardes Francaises. These
clear the street, happily without firing; and take post there for the
night in hope that it may be all over. (Besenval, iii. 385-8.)

Not so: on the morrow it is far worse. Saint-Antoine has arisen anew,
grimmer than ever;--reinforced by the unknown Tatterdemalion Figures,
with their enthusiast complexion and large sticks. The City, through all
streets, is flowing thitherward to see: 'two cartloads of paving-stones,
that happened to pass that way' have been seized as a visible godsend.
Another detachment of Gardes Francaises must be sent; Besenval and the
Colonel taking earnest counsel. Then still another; they hardly, with
bayonets and menace of bullets, penetrate to the spot. What a sight! A
street choked up, with lumber, tumult and the endless press of men.
A Paper-Warehouse eviscerated by axe and fire: mad din of Revolt;
musket-volleys responded to by yells, by miscellaneous missiles; by
tiles raining from roof and window,--tiles, execrations and slain men!

The Gardes Francaises like it not, but have to persevere. All day
it continues, slackening and rallying; the sun is sinking, and
Saint-Antoine has not yielded. The City flies hither and thither: alas,
the sound of that musket-volleying booms into the far dining-rooms
of the Chaussee d'Antin; alters the tone of the dinner-gossip there.
Captain