did; but the
wrong way. Victorious Lambesc, in this his second or Tuileries charge,
succeeds but in overturning (call it not slashing, for he struck
with the flat of his sword) one man, a poor old schoolmaster, most
pacifically tottering there; and is driven out, by barricade of chairs,
by flights of 'bottles and glasses,' by execrations in bass voice and
treble. Most delicate is the mob-queller's vocation; wherein Too-much
may be as bad as Not-enough. For each of these bass voices, and more
each treble voice, borne to all points of the City, rings now nothing
but distracted indignation; will ring all another. The cry, To arms!
roars tenfold; steeples with their metal storm-voice boom out, as the
sun sinks; armorer's shops are broken open, plundered; the streets are a
living foam-sea, chafed by all the winds.

Such issue came of Lambesc's charge on the Tuileries Garden: no striking
of salutary terror into Chaillot promenaders; a striking into broad
wakefulness of Frenzy and the three Furies,--which otherwise were not
asleep! For they lie always, those subterranean Eumenides (fabulous
and yet so true), in the dullest existence of man;--and can dance,
brandishing their dusky torches, shaking their serpent-hair. Lambesc
with Royal-Allemand may ride to his barracks, with curses for his
marching-music; then ride back again, like one troubled in mind:
vengeful Gardes Francaises, sacreing, with knit brows, start out on
him, from their barracks in the Chaussee d'Antin; pour a volley into him
(killing and wounding); which he must not answer, but ride on. (Weber,
ii. 75-91.)

Counsel dwells not under the plumed hat. If the Eumenides awaken, and
Broglie has given no orders, what can a Besenval do? When the Gardes
Francaises, with Palais-Royal volunteers, roll down, greedy of more
vengeance, to the Place Louis Quinze itself, they find neither Besenval,
Lambesc, Royal-Allemand, nor any soldier now there. Gone is military
order. On the far Eastern Boulevard, of Saint-Antoine, the Chasseurs
Normandie arrive, dusty, thirsty, after a hard day's ride; but can find
no billet-master, see no course in this City of confusions; cannot get
to Besenval, cannot so much as discover where he is: Normandie must even
bivouac there, in its dust and thirst,--unless some patriot will treat
it to a cup of liquor, with advices.

Raging multitudes surround the Hotel-de-Ville, crying: Arms! Orders!
The Six-and-twenty Town-Councillors, with their long g