Page:Works of Thomas Carlyle - Volume 04.djvu/179

 extremity. Nay they do clutch hold of Lanjuinais, certain zealous Mountain-men; but cannot fling him down, for he 'cramps himself on the railing'; and 'his clothes get torn.' Brave Senator, worthy of pity! Neither will Barbaroux demit; he 'has sworn to die at his post, and will keep that oath.' Whereupon the Galleries all rise with explosion; brandishing weapons, some of them; and rush out, saying: 'Allons, then; we must save our country!' Such a Session is this of Sunday the second of June.

Churches fill, over Christian Europe, and then empty themselves; but this Convention empties not, the while: a day of shrieking contention, of agony, humiliation, and tearing of coat-skirts; illa suprema dies! Round stand Henriot and his Hundred Thousand, copiously refreshed from tray and basket: nay he is 'distributing five francs a-piece,' we Girondins saw it with our eyes; five francs to keep them in heart! And distraction of armed riot encumbers our borders, jangles at our Bar; we are prisoners in our own Hall: Bishop Grégoire could not get out for a besoin actuel without four gendarmes to wait on him! What is the character of a National Representative become? And now the sunlight falls yellower on western windows, and the chimney-tops are flinging longer shadows; the refreshed Hundred Thousand, nor their shadows, stir not! What to resolve on? Motion rises, superfluous one would think, That the Convention go forth in a body; ascertain with its own eyes whether it is free or not. Lo, therefore, from the Eastern Gate of the Tuileries, a distressed Convention issuing; handsome Hérault Séchelles at their head; he with hat on, in sign of public calamity, the rest bareheaded,—towards the Gate of the Carrousel; wondrous to see: towards Henriot and his plumed Staff. 'In the name of the National Convention, make way!' Not an inch of way does Henriot make: 'I receive no orders, till the Sovereign, yours and mine, have been obeyed.' The Convention presses on; Henriot prances back, with his Staff!, some fifteen paces, 'To arms! Cannoneers, to your guns!'—flashes out VOL. III.