Esther, up in her little attic, knew nothing of what her English lover
was even then suffering for her sake. She herself had passed, during the
night, through every stage of horror and of fear. Soon after midnight
that execrable brigand Rateau had poked his ugly, cadaverous face in at
the door and peremptorily called for Lucienne. The woman, more dead than
alive now with terror, had answered with mechanical obedience.
"I and my friends are thirsty," the man had commanded. "Go and fetch us
a litre of eau-de-vie."