The windows and casements shuddered spasmodically, and the festive horn and cherubs creaked dismally on the rusted hinges.

The early watch passed by, banging their staffs on the cobbles and doubtless cursing their unfortunate calling.

Two of them carried lanterns which swung in harmony to the tread of feet, causing long, weird, shadowy legs to race back and forth across the sea-walls.
The muffled stroke of a bell sounded frequently, coming presumably from the episcopal palace, since the historic bell in the Hotel de Ville was permitted no longer to ring.
Inside the tavern it was warm enough.

Maitre le Borgne, a short, portly man with a high benevolent crown, as bald as the eggs he turned into omelets, stood somewhat back from the roaring chimney, one hand under his ample apron-belt, the other polishing his shining dome.

He was perplexed.