Centre Grenadiers are to
take the Guard-room they of old occupied as Gardes Francaises;--for
indeed the Gardes du Corps, its late ill-advised occupants, are gone
mostly to Rambouillet. That is the order of this night; sufficient
for the night is the evil thereof. Whereupon Lafayette and the two
Municipals, with highflown chivalry, take their leave.

So brief has the interview been, Mounier and his Deputation were not yet
got up. So brief and satisfactory. A stone is rolled from every heart.
The fair Palace Dames publicly declare that this Lafayette, detestable
though he be, is their saviour for once. Even the ancient vinaigrous
Tantes admit it; the King's Aunts, ancient Graille and Sisterhood, known
to us of old. Queen Marie-Antoinette has been heard often say the like.
She alone, among all women and all men, wore a face of courage, of lofty
calmness and resolve, this day. She alone saw clearly what she meant
to do; and Theresa's Daughter dares do what she means, were all France
threatening her: abide where her children are, where her husband is.

Towards three in the morning all things are settled: the watches set,
the Centre Grenadiers put into their old Guard-room, and harangued;
the Swiss, and few remaining Bodyguards harangued. The wayworn Paris
Batallions, consigned to 'the hospitality of Versailles,' lie dormant
in spare-beds, spare-barracks, coffeehouses, empty churches. A troop
of them, on their way to the Church of Saint-Louis, awoke poor
Weber, dreaming troublous, in the Rue Sartory. Weber has had his
waistcoat-pocket full of balls all day; 'two hundred balls, and two
pears of powder!' For waistcoats were waistcoats then, and had flaps
down to mid-thigh. So many balls he has had all day; but no opportunity
of using them: he turns over now, execrating disloyal bandits; swears a
prayer or two, and straight to sleep again.

Finally, the National Assembly is harangued; which thereupon, on motion
of Mirabeau, discontinues the Penal Code, and dismisses for this night.
Menadism, Sansculottism has cowered into guard-houses, barracks of
Flandre, to the light of cheerful fire; failing that, to churches,
office-houses, sentry-boxes, wheresoever wretchedness can find a lair.
The troublous Day has brawled itself to rest: no lives yet lost but that
of one warhorse. Insurrectionary Chaos lies slumbering round the Palace,
like Ocean round a Diving-bell,--no crevice yet disclosing itself.

Deep sleep has fallen promiscuous