Thoughtfully he caressed his tuft of red beard, puffed out his cheeks, and raised his eyes to the ceiling in appeal or denunciation to the heaven which he believed was somewhere beyond it.
"Nevertheless, he must be awakened," he repeated.
And then Fate came to his assistance.

Somewhere in the house a door banged like a cannon-shot.

Perspiration broke upon the secretary's brow.
He sank limply back in his chair, giving himself up for lost.

Anselme started and bit the knuckle of his forefinger in a manner suggesting an inarticulate imprecation.
My Lord the Seneschal moved.

The noise of his slumbers culminated in a sudden, choking grunt, and abruptly ceased.