“I assure you we’re lost.  The waiter told us to turn to the right.  What a barrack of a house!”

“Wait a bit; we must have a look.  Room number 401; room number 401!”

“Oh, it’s this way:  405, 403.  We ought to be there.  Ah, at last, 401!  This way!  Hush now, hush!”

The voices were silent.  Then there was a slight coughing and a moment or so of mental preparation.  Then the door opened slowly, and Lucy entered, followed by Caroline and Blanche.  But they stopped directly; there were already five women in the room; Gaga was lying back in the solitary armchair, which was a red velvet Voltaire.  In front of the fireplace Simonne and Clarisse were now standing talking to Lea de Horn, who was seated, while by the bed, to the left of the door, Rose Mignon, perched on the edge of a chest, sat gazing fixedly at the body where it lay hidden in the shadow of the curtains.  All the others had their hats and gloves on and looked as if they were paying a call:  she alone sat there with bare hands and untidy hair and cheeks rendered pale by three nights of watching.  She felt stupid in the face of this sudden death, and her eyes were swollen with weeping.  A shaded lamp standing on the corner of the chest of drawers threw a bright flood of light over Gaga.

“What a sad misfortune, is it not?” whispered Lucy as she shook hands with Rose.  “We wanted to bid her good-by.”

And she turned round and tried to catch sight of her, but the lamp was too far off, and she did not dare bring it nearer.  On the bed lay stretched a gray mass, but only the ruddy chignon was distinguishable and a pale blotch which might be the face.  Lucy added: 

“I never saw her since that time at the Gaite, when she was at the end of the grotto.”

At this Rose awoke from her stupor and smiled as she said: 

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed.”

Then she once more lapsed into contemplation and neither moved nor spoke.  Perhaps they would be able to look at her presently!  And with that the three women joined the others in front of the fireplace.  Simonne and Clarisse were discussing the dead woman’s diamonds in low tones.  Well, did they really exist—­those diamonds?  Nobody had seen them; it must be a bit of humbug.  But Lea de Horn knew someone who knew all about them.  Oh, they were monster stones!  Besides, they weren’t all; she had brought back lots of other precious property from Russia—­embroidered stuffs, for instance, valuable knickknacks, a gold dinner service, nay, even furniture.  “Yes, my dear, fifty-two boxes, enormous cases some of them, three truckloads of them!” They were all lying at the station.  “Wasn’t it hard lines, eh?—­to die without even having time to unpack one’s traps?” Then she had a lot of tin, besides—­something like a million!  Lucy asked who was going to inherit it all.  Oh, distant relations—­the aunt, without doubt!  It would be a pretty surprise for that old body.  She knew nothing about it yet, for the sick woman had obstinately refused to let them warn her, for she still owed her a grudge over her little boy’s death.  Thereupon they were all moved to pity about the little boy, and they remembered seeing him at the races.  Oh, it was a wretchedly sickly baby; it looked so old and so sad.  In fact, it was one of those poor brats who never asked to be born!