They dream that a lovely girl throws a handkerchief at them, they dream of applause from behind fallen curtains, they dream of gay laughter and the deafening noise of midnight feasts.
The noise of cannon at their cars, an ocean of ice-cold water were needed to awake them.
They have bowed, danced, played, acted, and sung. They are heavy with wine, exhausted, and sleep a sleep as deep as death’s.
This blessed sleep almost saves them.
The people begin to think that this quiet conceals a danger. What if it means that the pensioners are already out to get help? What if it means that they stand awake, with finger on the trigger, on guard behind windows or door, ready to fall upon the first who enters?
These men are crafty, ready to fight; they must mean something by their silence. Who can think it of them, that they would let themselves be surprised in their lairs like bears?
The people bawl their “Fire, fire!” time after time, but nothing avails.
Then when all are trembling, the major’s wife herself takes an axe and bursts open the outer door.
Then she rushes alone up the stairs, throws open the door to the bachelors’ wing, and calls into the room: “Fire!”