"Yes," he said, "it's the excitement. Not because of what is going to happen. But, in spite of all my precautions, I shall be afraid until the last moment that the adversary will escape. A single act of carelessness, a stroke of ill-luck that gives the alarm . . . and I shall have to begin all over again. . . . Never mind about your revolver, Bernard."
"What!" cried Bernard. "Isn't there going to be any fighting in this expedition of yours?"
Paul did not reply. According to his custom, he expressed himself during or after action. Bernard took his revolver.
The last stroke of nine sounded as they crossed the Grande Place, amid a darkness stabbed here and there by a thin ray of light issuing from a closed shop. A group of soldiers were massed in the forecourt of the cathedral, whose shadowy bulk they felt looming overhead.
Paul flashed the light from an electric lamp upon them and asked the one in command:
"Any news, sergeant?"
"No, sir. No one has entered the house and no one has gone out."
The sergeant gave a low whistle. In the middle of the street, two men emerged from the surrounding gloom and approached the group.
"Any sound in the house?"
"No, sergeant."