But before he could make his way through the soldiers, a musket shot rang out, and De Pascal fell dead.
Philip drew back.
"To our own house, Pierre," he exclaimed to his lackey, who was keeping close behind him; "we can do nothing here, and the door may resist for a few minutes." There was no one in front of the entrance, though at all the doors marked with a white cross the soldiers were hammering with the butts of their arquebuses.

They slipped in, pushed the bars across, ran upstairs and made their way on to the roof, and climbed along it until they reached the window of the house in which De Valecourt lodged; felt their way across the room till they discovered the door, issued out and, as soon as they found the staircase, ran down.
Already there was a turmoil below.

A light streamed out from a door of the count's apartments on the first floor.

Philip ran in.

Claire de Valecourt was standing with one hand resting on the table, deadly pale, but quiet.