ble, 'stifled with
embraces, wetted with tears;' has a bit of green riband handed him;
sticks it in his hat. And now to Curtius' Image-shop there; to the
Boulevards; to the four winds; and rest not till France be on fire!
(Vieux Cordelier, par Camille Desmoulins, No. 5 (reprinted in Collection
des Memoires, par Baudouin Freres, Paris, 1825), p. 81.)

France, so long shaken and wind-parched, is probably at the right
inflammable point.--As for poor Curtius, who, one grieves to think,
might be but imperfectly paid,--he cannot make two words about his
Images. The Wax-bust of Necker, the Wax-bust of D'Orleans, helpers of
France: these, covered with crape, as in funeral procession, or after
the manner of suppliants appealing to Heaven, to Earth, and Tartarus
itself, a mixed multitude bears off. For a sign! As indeed man, with his
singular imaginative faculties, can do little or nothing without signs:
thus Turks look to their Prophet's banner; also Osier Mannikins have
been burnt, and Necker's Portrait has erewhile figured, aloft on its
perch.

In this manner march they, a mixed, continually increasing multitude;
armed with axes, staves and miscellanea; grim, many-sounding, through
the streets. Be all Theatres shut; let all dancing, on planked floor,
or on the natural greensward, cease! Instead of a Christian Sabbath, and
feast of guinguette tabernacles, it shall be a Sorcerer's Sabbath; and
Paris, gone rabid, dance,--with the Fiend for piper!

However, Besenval, with horse and foot, is in the Place Louis Quinze.
Mortals promenading homewards, in the fall of the day, saunter by, from
Chaillot or Passy, from flirtation and a little thin wine; with sadder
step than usual. Will the Bust-Procession pass that way! Behold it;
behold also Prince Lambesc dash forth on it, with his Royal-Allemands!
Shots fall, and sabre-strokes; Busts are hewn asunder; and, alas, also
heads of men. A sabred Procession has nothing for it but to explode,
along what streets, alleys, Tuileries Avenues it finds; and disappear.
One unarmed man lies hewed down; a Garde Francaise by his uniform:
bear him (or bear even the report of him) dead and gory to his
Barracks;--where he has comrades still alive!

But why not now, victorious Lambesc, charge through that Tuileries
Garden itself, where the fugitives are vanishing? Not show the Sunday
promenaders too, how steel glitters, besprent with blood; that it be
told of, and men's ears tingle?--Tingle, alas, they