And gradually all noises died away around the old Fort Gayole.

The shouts and laugher of the merrymakers, who had quickly recovered from their fright, now came only as the muffled rumble of a distant storm, broken here and there by the shrill note of a girl's loud laughter, or a vigorous fanfare from the brass trumpets.
The room where so much turmoil had taken place, where so many hearts had beaten with torrent-like emotions, where the awesome tragedy of revenge and hate, of love and passion had been consummated, was now silent and at peace.
The soldiers had gone: some in pursuit of the revellers, some with Collot d'Herbois, others with Hebert and the calotin who was to ring the Angelus.
Chauvelin, overcome with the intensity of his exultation and the agony of the suspense which he had endured, sat, vaguely dreaming, hardly conscious, but wholly happy and content.

Fearless, too, for his triumph was complete, and he cared not now if he lived or died.
He had lived long enough to see the complete annihilation and dishonour of his enemy.
What had happened to Sir Percy Blakeney now, what to Marguerite, he neither knew nor cared.

No doubt the Englishman had picked himself up and got away through the window or the door: he would be anxious to get his wife out of the town as quickly as possible.

The Angelus would ring directly, the gates would be opened, the harbour made free to everyone....
And Collot was a league outside Boulogne by now...