About the middle of his third bottle of wine, Firmin's cold, relentless courage was suddenly restored to him.

He began to talk firmly about his duty to his master, his resolve to die, if need were, in defence of his interests, of his utter contempt for burglars--probably Parisians.

But he did not go into the hall.
Doubtless the pleasant warmth of the kitchen fire held him in his chair.
He had described to his wife, with some ferocity, the cruel manner in which he would annihilate the first three burglars who entered the hall, and was proceeding to describe his method of dealing with the fourth, when there came a loud knocking on the front door of the chateau.
Stricken silent, turned to stone, Firmin sat with his mouth open, in the midst of an unfinished word.

Madame Firmin scuttled to the kitchen door she had left unlocked on her return from the scullery, and locked it.

She turned, and they stared at one another.
The heavy knocker fell again and again and again.