Chapter 1: 7.vii

At Versailles.

But already Pallas Athene (in the shape of Demoiselle Théroigne)
is busy with Flandre and the dismounted Dragoons. She, and such
women as are fittest, go through the ranks; speak with an earnest
jocosity; clasp rough troopers to their patriot bosom, crush down
spontoons and musketoons with soft arms: can a man, that were
worthy of the name of man, attack famishing patriot women?

One reads that Théroigne had bags of money, which she distributed
over Flandre:—furnished by whom? Alas, with money-bags one seldom
sits on insurrectionary cannon. Calumnious Royalism! Théroigne
had only the limited earnings of her profession of
unfortunate-female; money she had not, but brown locks, the
figure of a heathen Goddess, and an eloquent tongue and heart.

Meanwhile, Saint-Antoine, in groups and troops, is continually
arriving; wetted, sulky; with pikes and impromptu billhooks:
driven thus far by popular fixed-idea. So many hirsute figures
driven hither, in that manner: figures that have come to do they
know not what; figures that have come to see it done!
Distinguished among all figures, who is this, of gaunt stature,
with leaden breastplate, though a small one;[243] bushy in red
grizzled locks; nay, with long tile-beard? It is Jourdan, unjust
dealer in mules; a dealer no longer, but a Painter’s Layfigure,
playing truant this day. From the necessities of Art comes his
long tile-beard; whence his leaden breastplate (unless indeed he
were some Hawker licensed by leaden badge) may have come,—will
perhaps remain for ever a Historical Problem. Another Saul among
the people we discern: “_Père Adam_, Father Adam,” as the groups
name him; to us better known as bull-voiced Marquis Saint-Huruge;
hero of the _Veto;_ a man that has had losses, and deserved them.
The tall Marquis, emitted some days ago from limbo, looks
peripatetically on this scene, from under his umbrella, not
without interest. All which persons and things, hurled together
as we see; Pallas Athene, busy with Flandre; patriotic Versailles
National Guards, short of ammunition, and deserted by d’Estaing
their Colonel, and commanded by Lecointre their Major; then
caracoling Bodyguards, sour, dispirited, with their buckskins
wet; and finally this flowing sea of indignant Squalor,—may they
not give rise to occurrences?

Behold, however, the Twelve She-deputies return from the Château.
Without President Mounier, indeed; but radiant with joy, shouting
‘_Life to the King and his House_.’ Apparently the news are good,
Mesdames? News of the best! Five of us were admitted to the
internal splendours, to the Royal Presence. This slim damsel,
“Louison Chabray, worker in sculpture, aged only seventeen,” as
being of the best looks and address, her we appointed speaker. On
whom, and indeed on all of us, his Majesty looked nothing but
graciousness. Nay, when Louison, addressing him, was like to
faint, he took her in his royal arms; and said gallantly, ‘It was
well worth while (_Elle en valût bien la peine_).’ Consider, O
women, what a King! His words were of comfort, and that only:
there shall be provision sent to Paris, if provision is in the
world; grains shall circulate free as air; millers shall grind,
or do worse, while their millstones endure; and nothing be left
wrong which a Restorer of French Liberty can right.

Good news these; but, to wet Menads, all too incredible! There
seems no proof, then? _Words_ of comfort are words only; which
will feed nothing. O miserable people, betrayed by Aristocrats,
who corrupt thy very messengers! In his royal arms, Mademoiselle
Louison? In his arms? Thou shameless minx, worthy of a name—that
shall be nameless! Yes, thy skin is soft: ours is rough with
hardship; and well wetted, waiting here in the rain. No children
hast thou hungry at home; only alabaster dolls, that weep not!
The traitress! To the Lanterne!—And so poor Louison Chabray, no
asseveration or shrieks availing her, fair slim damsel, late in
the arms of Royalty, has a garter round her neck, and furibund
Amazons at each end; is about to perish so,—when two Bodyguards
gallop up, indignantly dissipating; and rescue her. The
miscredited Twelve hasten back to the Château, for an “answer in
writing.”

Nay, behold, a new flight of Menads, with “M. Brunout Bastille
Volunteer,” as impressed-commandant, at the head of it. These
also will advance to the Grate of the Grand Court, and see what
is toward. Human patience, in wet buckskins, has its limits.
Bodyguard Lieutenant, M. de Savonnières, for one moment, lets his
temper, long provoked, long pent, give way. He not only
dissipates these latter Menads; but caracoles and cuts, or
indignantly flourishes, at M. Brunout, the impressed-commandant;
and, finding great relief in it, even chases him; Brunout flying
nimbly, though in a pirouette manner, and now with sword also
drawn. At which sight of wrath and victory two other Bodyguards
(for wrath is contagious, and to pent Bodyguards is so solacing)
do likewise give way; give chase, with brandished sabre, and in
the air make horrid circles. So that poor Brunout has nothing for
it but to retreat with accelerated nimbleness, through rank after
rank; Parthian-like, fencing as he flies; above all, shouting
lustily, ‘_On nous laisse assassiner_, They are getting us
assassinated?’

Shameful! Three against one! Growls come from the Lecointrian
ranks; bellowings,—lastly shots. Savonnières” arm is raised to
strike: the bullet of a Lecointrian musket shatters it; the
brandished sabre jingles down harmless. Brunout has escaped, this
duel well ended: but the wild howl of war is everywhere beginning
to pipe!

The Amazons recoil; Saint-Antoine has its cannon pointed (full of
grapeshot); thrice applies the lit flambeau; which thrice refuses
to catch,—the touchholes are so wetted; and voices cry:
‘_Arrêtez, il n’est pas temps encore_, Stop, it is not yet
time!’[244] Messieurs of the Garde-du-Corps, ye had orders not to
fire; nevertheless two of you limp dismounted, and one war-horse
lies slain. Were it not well to draw back out of shot-range;
finally to file off,—into the interior? If in so filing off,
there did a musketoon or two discharge itself, at these armed
shopkeepers, hooting and crowing, could man wonder? Draggled are
your white cockades of an enormous size; would to Heaven they
were got exchanged for tricolor ones! Your buckskins are wet,
your hearts heavy. Go, and return not!

The Bodyguards file off, as we hint; giving and receiving shots;
drawing no life-blood; leaving boundless indignation. Some three
times in the thickening dusk, a glimpse of them is seen, at this
or the other Portal: saluted always with execrations, with the
whew of lead. Let but a Bodyguard shew face, he is hunted by
Rascality;—for instance, poor “M. de Moucheton of the Scotch
Company,” owner of the slain war-horse; and has to be smuggled
off by Versailles Captains. Or rusty firelocks belch after him,
shivering asunder his—hat. In the end, by superior Order, the
Bodyguards, all but the few on immediate duty, disappear; or as
it were abscond; and march, under cloud of night, to
Rambouillet.[245]

We remark also that the Versaillese have now got ammunition: all
afternoon, the official Person could find none; till, in these so
critical moments, a patriotic Sublieutenant set a pistol to his
ear, and would thank him to find some,—which he thereupon
succeeded in doing. Likewise that Flandre, disarmed by Pallas
Athene, says openly, it will not fight with citizens; and for
token of peace, has exchanged cartridges with the Versaillese.

Sansculottism is now among mere friends; and can “circulate
freely;” indignant at Bodyguards;—complaining also considerably
of hunger.