Anne. O Virgin, have mercy! [She turns a stricken face upon her brother.] It is that—
Louis [biting his nails]. Of course. Our spy. [He takes a hesitating step toward the desk; but swings about, goes to the door at the rear, shoots the bolt back and forth, apparently unable to decide upon a course of action; finally leaves the door bolted and examines the hinges. Anne, meanwhile, has hurried to the desk, and, seizing a candle there, begins to light others in a candelabrum on the dressing-table. The noise outside grows to an uproar; the "Marseillaise" changes to "Ça ira"; and a shaft of the glare from the torches below shoots through the window and becomes a staggering red patch on the ceiling.]
Anne [feverishly]. Lights! Light those candles in the sconce, Eloise! Light all the candles we have. [Eloise, resentful, does not move.]
Louis. No, no! Put them out!
Anne. Oh, fatal! [She stops him as he rushes to obey his own command.] If our window is lighted he will believe we have no thought of leaving, and pass by. [She hastily lights the candles in a sconce upon the wall as she speaks; the shabby place is now brightly illuminated.]
Louis. He will not pass by. [The external tumult culminates in riotous yelling, as, with a final roll, the drums cease to beat. Madame de Laseyne runs again to the window.]
Eloise [sullenly]. You are disturbing yourselves without reason. They will not stop here.
Anne [in a sickly whisper]. They have stopped.
Louis. At the door of this house? [Madame de Laseyne, leaning against the wall, is unable to reply, save by a gesture. The noise from the street dwindles to a confused, expectant murmur. Louis takes a pistol from beneath his blouse, strides to the door, and listens.]
Anne [faintly]. He is in the house. The soldiers followed him.