There were sentinels at every gate, groups of soldiers at each end of every corridor, the great--now empty--courtyards, thronged with prisoners in the daytime, were alive with soldiery even now.

Some walked up and down with fixed bayonet on shoulder, others sat in groups on the stone copings or squatted on the ground, smoking or playing cards, but all of them were alert and watchful.
Heron was recognised everywhere the moment he appeared, and though in these days of equality no one presented arms, nevertheless every guard stood aside to let him pass, or when necessary opened a gate for the powerful chief agent of the Committee of General Security.
Indeed, de Batz had no keys such as these to open the way for him to the presence of the martyred little King.
Thus the two men wended their way on in silence, one preceding the other.

De Batz walked leisurely, thought-fully, taking stock of everything he saw--the gates, the barriers, the positions of sentinels and warders, of everything in fact that might prove a help or a hindrance presently, when the great enterprise would be hazarded.

At last--still in the wake of Heron--he found himself once more behind the main entrance gate, underneath the archway on which gave the guichet of the concierge.
Here, too, there seemed to be an unnecessary number of soldiers: two were doing sentinel outside the guichet, but there were others in a file against the wall.
Heron rapped with his keys against the door of the concierge's lodge, then, as it was not immediately opened from within, he pushed it open with his foot.
"The concierge ?" he queried peremptorily.
From a corner of the small panelled room there came a grunt and a reply: "Gone to bed, quoi!" The man who previously had guided de Batz to Heron's door slowly struggled to his feet.

He had been squatting somewhere in the gloom, and had been roused by Heron's rough command.