Midnight
We have not come here to grab dead men 's shoes ; we are devils against devils , and sorrow to those whose claws are too short . The Grande-Garce has sent us here to save the Gars . He is up there ; lift your dog 's nose and see that window above the tower . '' Midnight was striking . The moon rose , giving the appearance of white smoke to the fog . Pille-Miche squeezed Marche-a-Terre 's arm and silently showed him on the terrace just above them , the triangular iron of several shining bayonets . `` The Blues are there already , '' said Pille-Miche ; `` we sha 'n' t gain anything by force . ''