The normal hubbub of daily life in the capital is suddenly, and viciously, broken. The first cries go up in Quartier Marchand, then ships' bells begin to sound as men call out in horror and surprise. Alarm bells, fire bells, whistles, the shrieking horns that warn of creeping mists, all come together in an agonizing, ear-shattering howl. The alarms spread, reaching the Quartier Publique, the Quartier Ouvrier, and even the quiet streets of the Savant. Nobles rush to their carriages, poor folk bolt their doors and take stock of their supplies. And then, cutting through the sound, striking a note so deep and powerful as to freeze the marrow in the bones, three huge, brassy knocks, as the massive bronze bell of St. Mere des Larmes, as if to make up for a thousand years of silence, begins to ring.
The horizon on the Baie de Pernault is riven, cut to pieces by the thrusting blades and spars of the rigging of ships--a dozen--two dozen--more! At their head, the massive, fierce prow of the Passeleau-built warship, her new name La Restauration in gilt, glossy letters gleaming.
Port-a-Lucine is blockaded!