“The court, male and female, crowds on his passage to read their doom on his face, which exhibits, say historians, a ‘mixture of sorrow, of fervor and valor,’ singular to behold. The king, with Monsieur, with ministers and marshals, is waiting to receive him. He ‘is come,’ in his highflown chivalrous way, ‘to offer his head for the safety of his Majesty’s.’ The two Municipals state the wish of Paris; four things of quite pacific tenor. First, that the honor of guarding his sacred person be conferred on patriot National Guards, say the Centre Grenadiers, who as _Gardes Françaises_ were wont to have that privilege. Second, that provisions be got if possible. Third, that the prisons, all crowded with political delinquents, may have judges sent them. Fourth, _that it would please his Majesty to come and live in Paris_. To all which four wishes, except the fourth, his Majesty answers readily Yes; or indeed may almost say that he has already answered it. To the fourth he can answer only Yes or No, would so gladly answer Yes _and_ No! But in any case, are not their dispositions, thank Heaven, so entirely pacific? There is time for deliberation. The brunt of the danger seems past. “La Fayette and D’Estaing settle the watches; Centre Grenadiers are to take the guard-room, they of old occupied as _Gardes Françaises_; for indeed the _Gardes-de-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 La Fayette 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 La Fayette, 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 to say the like. “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 body-guard harangued. The wayworn Paris battalions, consigned to the hospitality of Versailles, lie dormant in spare beds, spare barracks, coffee-houses, empty churches. “The troublous day has brawled itself to rest; no lives yet lost but that of one war-horse. Insurrectionary Chaos lies slumbering round the palace like ocean round a diving-bell,—no crevice yet disclosing itself. Deep sleep has fallen promiscuously on the high and on the low, suspending most things, even wrath and famine. Darkness covers the earth. But, far on the northeast, Paris flings up her great yellow gleam far into the wet, black night. For all is illuminated there, as in the old July nights; the streets deserted, for alarm of war; the municipals all wakeful; patrols hailing with their hoarse _Who goes?_