Now it was lurid and red, as if stained with blood; anon it was white like a shroud but it was always there.
Through it he saw the Pont-au-Change, which he crossed, then far down on the Quai de l'Ecole to the left the corner house behind St.Germain l'Auxerrois, where Blakeney lodged--Blakeney, who for the sake of a stranger had forgotten all about his comrade and Jeanne.
Through it he saw the network of streets which separated him from the neighbourhood of the Temple, the gardens of ruined habitations, the closely-shuttered and barred windows of ducal houses, then the mean streets, the crowded drinking bars, the tumble-down shops with their dilapidated awnings.
He saw with eyes that did not see, heard the tumult of daily life round him with ears that did not hear.

Jeanne was in the Temple prison, and when its grim gates closed finally for the night, he--Armand, her chevalier, her lover, her defender--would be within its walls as near to cell No.

29 as bribery, entreaty, promises would help him to attain.
Ah! there at last loomed the great building, the pointed bastions cut through the surrounding gloom as with a sable knife.
Armand reached the gate; the sentinels challenged him; he replied: "Vive le roi!" shouting wildly like one who is drunk.
He was hatless, and his clothes were saturated with moisture.

He tried to pass, but crossed bayonets barred the way.

Still he shouted: "Vive le roi!" and "A bas la republique!" "Allons! the fellow is drunk!" said one of the soldiers.
Armand fought like a madman; he wanted to reach that gate.