ps and white blouses had come in sight, uttering a
rhythmical cry which suggested the beat of hammers upon an anvil.

"To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin!" And the crowd stared in gloomy
distrust yet felt themselves already possessed and inspired by heroic
imaginings, as though a military band were passing.

"Oh yes, go and get your throats cut!" muttered Mignon, overcome by an
access of philosophy.

But Fontan thought it very fine, indeed, and spoke of enlisting. When
the enemy was on the frontier all citizens ought to rise up in defense
of the fatherland! And with that he assumed an attitude suggestive of
Bonaparte at Austerlitz.

"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 i