“Look here, are you coming up with us?” Lucy asked him.

“Oh dear, no!  To catch something horrid?” he said.

On a bench in front of the Grand Hotel a man sat hiding his face in a handkerchief.  On arriving Fauchery had indicated him to Mignon with a wink of the eye.  Well, he was still there; yes, he was always there.  And the journalist detained the two women also in order to point him out to them.  When the man lifted his head they recognized him; an exclamation escaped them.  It was the Count Muffat, and he was giving an upward glance at one of the windows.

“You know, he’s been waiting there since this morning,” Mignon informed them.  “I saw him at six o’clock, and he hasn’t moved since.  Directly Labordette spoke about it he came there with his handkerchief up to his face.  Every half-hour he comes dragging himself to where we’re standing to ask if the person upstairs is doing better, and then he goes back and sits down.  Hang it, that room isn’t healthy!  It’s all very well being fond of people, but one doesn’t want to kick the bucket.”

The count sat with uplifted eyes and did not seem conscious of what was going on around him.  Doubtless he was ignorant of the declaration of war, and he neither felt nor saw the crowd.

“Look, here he comes!” said Fauchery.  “Now you’ll see.”

The count had, in fact, quitted his bench and was entering the lofty porch.  But the porter, who was getting to know his face at last, did not give him time to put his question.  He said sharply: 

“She’s dead, monsieur, this very minute.”

Nana dead!  It was a blow to them all.  Without a word Muffat had gone back to the bench, his face still buried in his handkerchief.  The others burst into exclamations, but they were cut short, for a fresh band passed by, howling, “A Berlin!  A Berlin!  A Berlin!” Nana dead!  Hang it, and such a fine girl too!  Mignon sighed and looked relieved, for at last Rose would come down.  A chill fell on the company.  Fontan, meditating a tragic role, had assumed a look of woe and was drawing down the corners of his mouth and rolling his eyes askance, while Fauchery chewed his cigar nervously, for despite his cheap journalistic chaff he was really touched.  Nevertheless, the two women continued to give vent to their feelings of surprise.  The last time Lucy had seen her was at the Gaite; Blanche, too, had seen her in Melusine.  Oh, how stunning it was, my dear, when she appeared in the depths of the crystal grot!  The gentlemen remembered the occasion perfectly.  Fontan had played the Prince Cocorico.  And their memories once stirred up, they launched into interminable particulars.  How ripping she looked with that rich coloring of hers in the crystal grot!  Didn’t she, now?  She didn’t say a word:  the authors had even deprived her of a line or two, because it was superfluous.  No, never a word!  It was grander that way, and she drove her public wild by simply