's cannon. Singular (if we were not used to
the like): Georget lay, last night, taking his ease at his inn; the King
of Siam's cannon also lay, knowing nothing of him, for a hundred years.
Yet now, at the right instant, they have got together, and discourse
eloquent music. For, hearing what was toward, Georget sprang from the
Brest Diligence, and ran. Gardes Francaises also will be here, with real
artillery: were not the walls so thick!--Upwards from the Esplanade,
horizontally from all neighbouring roofs and windows, flashes one
irregular deluge of musketry,--without effect. The Invalides lie flat,
firing comparatively at their ease from behind stone; hardly through
portholes, shew the tip of a nose. We fall, shot; and make no
impression!

Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible! Guard-rooms are
burnt, Invalides mess-rooms. A distracted 'Peruke-maker with two fiery
torches' is for burning 'the saltpetres of the Arsenal;'--had not a
woman run screaming; had not a Patriot, with some tincture of Natural
Philosophy, instantly struck the wind out of him (butt of musket on pit
of stomach), overturned barrels, and stayed the devouring element. A
young beautiful lady, seized escaping in these Outer Courts, and thought
falsely to be de Launay's daughter, shall be burnt in de Launay's sight;
she lies swooned on a paillasse: but again a Patriot, it is brave Aubin
Bonnemere the old soldier, dashes in, and rescues her. Straw is burnt;
three cartloads of it, hauled thither, go up in white smoke: almost to
the choking of Patriotism itself; so that Elie had, with singed brows,
to drag back one cart; and Reole the 'gigantic haberdasher' another.
Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as of Babel; noise as of the Crack of
Doom!

Blood flows, the aliment of new madness. The wounded are carried into
houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate not to
yield till the accursed Stronghold fall. And yet, alas, how fall?
The walls are so thick! Deputations, three in number, arrive from the
Hotel-de-Ville; Abbe Fouchet (who was of one) can say, with what almost
superhuman courage of benevolence. (Fauchet's Narrative (Deux Amis, i.
324.).) These wave their Town-flag in the arched Gateway; and stand,
rolling their drum; but to no purpose. In such Crack of Doom, de Launay
cannot hear them, dare not believe them: they return, with justified
rage, the whew of lead still singing in their ears. What to do? The
Firemen are here,