THE PEOPLE. Forward! [_The procession starts. First comes the drummer, followed by Necker's bust, which the Porter carries on his head. He is surrounded by men armed with sticks and hatchets_-_young men, elegantly attired in silks, wearing jewels and watches, and armed with cudgels and swords; French Guards with drawn sabers; women, first among whom is_ LA CONTAT, _clinging to_ DESMOULINS' _arm. Then comes_ GONCHON, _who carries Orléans' bust, followed by the shopkeepers of the Palais-Royal. Then the rest of the Crowd. A great silence, broken now and then by the low hum of the vast crowd. In the distance, shouting is heard; it grows nearer and nearer, and finally passes through the whole line like a tremor of passion. Then silence for a moment_.] HOCHE [_to_ HULIN, _pointing at the People_]. Well, Hulin, are you convinced now? HULIN. Absurd. That disorderly mob! Attack an army? They're all going to be massacred. There's no sense to it. [_He follows the procession_.] HOCHE. Where are you going? HULIN. With them, of course. HOCHE. Old comrade, your instinct is better than your head. HULIN. You see that, do you? Do you know where those blind people are going? HOCHE. Don't bother about understanding. They know: they see for you. HULIN. Who? HOCHE. The blind. [_The lugubrious roll of the drums is heard in the distance. The People march out slowly. Silence_.] ACT II [_.Monday night, July 13-14. It is two or three o'clock in the morning._ _The scene is a street in Paris, in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. At the back, towering above the house-tops, stands the great bulk of the Bastille, the turrets of which, engulfed in the black night, soar up into the sky, and seem to strain higher and higher as dawn approaches. To the right, at the corner of a street, is_ LUCILE'S _house. A convolvulus twines itself about the balcony support, and clambers along the wall. The street is lighted by candles, placed on the window-sills. Sounds from blacksmith shops--hammers pounding on forges, are heard, and from time to time the tocsin of a church, or occasionally a far-off musket-shot. Workingmen are constructing a barricade of wood and stone at the street corner, under_ LUCILE'S _window._] A MASON. Only a few more stones now. A WORKINGMAN [_with his bed on his back_]. Here, use this. It's my bed. THE MASON. Are you sleeping here? THE WORKINGMAN. I will before long, with a bullet in me. THE MASON. You have a sense of humor. THE WORKINGMAN. If the brigands pass here, we won't need anything. Our beds are made elsewhere. A CARPENTER. Help me stretch this cord. AN APPRENTICE. What for? THE CARPENTER. To trip the horses. A PRINTER. Hey, Camuset? ANOTHER. Yes? THE PRINTER. Listen. THE OTHER. What? THE PRINTER. Don't you hear? THE OTHER. I hear anvils. They're making pikes in all the blacksmith shops. THE PRINTER. No, not that. There--[_He points to the ground_.] THE OTHER. There?