squirting with their fire-pumps on the Invalides'
cannon, to wet the touchholes; they unfortunately cannot squirt so high;
but produce only clouds of spray. Individuals of classical knowledge
propose catapults. Santerre, the sonorous Brewer of the Suburb
Saint-Antoine, advises rather that the place be fired, by a 'mixture of
phosphorous and oil-of-turpentine spouted up through forcing pumps:'
O Spinola-Santerre, hast thou the mixture ready? Every man his own
engineer! And still the fire-deluge abates not; even women are firing,
and Turks; at least one woman (with her sweetheart), and one Turk. (Deux
Amis (i. 319); Dusaulx, &c.) Gardes Francaises have come: real cannon,
real cannoneers. Usher Maillard is busy; half-pay Elie, half-pay Hulin
rage in the midst of thousands.

How the great Bastille Clock ticks (inaudible) in its Inner Court there,
at its ease, hour after hour; as if nothing special, for it or the
world, were passing! It tolled One when the firing began; and is now
pointing towards Five, and still the firing slakes not.--Far down, in
their vaults, the seven Prisoners hear muffled din as of earthquakes;
their Turnkeys answer vaguely.

Wo to thee, de Launay, with thy poor hundred Invalides! Broglie is
distant, and his ears heavy: Besenval hears, but can send no help. One
poor troop of Hussars has crept, reconnoitring, cautiously along the
Quais, as far as the Pont Neuf. "We are come to join you," said
the Captain; for the crowd seems shoreless. A large-headed dwarfish
individual, of smoke-bleared aspect, shambles forward, opening his blue
lips, for there is sense in him; and croaks: "Alight then, and give
up your arms!" the Hussar-Captain is too happy to be escorted to the
Barriers, and dismissed on parole. Who the squat individual was? Men
answer, it is M. Marat, author of the excellent pacific Avis au Peuple!
Great truly, O thou remarkable Dogleech, is this thy day of emergence
and new birth: and yet this same day come four years--!--But let the
curtains of the future hang.

What shall de Launay do? One thing only de Launay could have done: what
he said he would do. Fancy him sitting, from the first, with lighted
taper, within arm's length of the Powder-Magazine; motionless, like old
Roman Senator, or bronze Lamp-holder; coldly apprising Thuriot, and all
men, by a slight motion of his eye, what his resolution was:--Harmless
he sat there, while unharmed; but the King's Fortress, meanwhile, could,
might, wou