Meanwhile, Clotilde, her fingers on the keys, carried away and unable to risk a gesture, stretehed her neck and addressed to the music stand this oath intended for De Nevers:
“Ah! from to-day all my blood is yours!”
The aldermen had made their entrance, a substitute, two attorneys, and a notary. The quartette was well delivered, the line: “For this holy cause—” returned, spread out, supported by half the chorus, in a continuous expansion. Cam pardon, his mouth opened wider and wider, gave the orders for the combat, with a terrible roll of syllables. And, suddenly, the chant of the monks burst forth: Trublot sang from his stomach, so as to reach the low notes.
Octave, having had the curiosity to wateh him singing, was struck with surprise, when he again cast his eyes in the direction of the window. As though carried away by the chorus, Hortense had unfastened the loop, by a movement which might have been unintentional; and, in falling, the big crimson silk curtain had completely hidden Auguste and Berthe. They were there behind it, leaning against the window bar, without a movement betraying their presence. Octave no longer troubled himself about Trublot, who was just then blessing the daggers: “Holy daggers, by us be blessed.” Whatever could they be doing behind that curtain? The fugue was commencing; to the deep tones of the monks, the chorus replied: “Death! death! death!” And still they did not move; perhaps, feeling the heat too much, they were simply watching the cabs pass. But Saint-Bris’s melodious line had again returned, by degrees all the voices uttered it with the whole strength of their lungs, progressively and in a final outburst of extraordinary force. It was like a gust of wind burying itself in the farthest corners of the too narrow room, scaring the candles, making the guests turn pale and their ears bleed. Clotilde furiously strummed away on the piano, carrying the gentlemen along with her with a glance; then the voices quieted down, almost whispering: “At midnight, let there be not a sound!” and she continued on alone, using the soft pedal, and imitating the cadenced and distant footsteps of some departing patrol.
Then, suddenly, in the midst of this expiring music, of this relief after so much uproar, one heard a voice exclaim:
“You are hurting me!”
All the heads again turned towards the window. Madame Dambreville kindly made herself useful, by going and pulling the curtain aside. And the whole drawing-room beheld Auguste looking very confused and Berthe very red, still leaning against the bar of the window.
“What is the matter, my treasure?” asked Madame Josserand earnestly.
“Nothing, mamma. Monsieur Auguste knocked my arm with the window. I was so warm!”