“You can’t imagine it.  Nana plumps down out of Russia.  I don’t know why—­some dispute with her prince.  She leaves her traps at the station; she lands at her aunt’s—­you remember the old thing.  Well, and then she finds her baby dying of smallpox.  The baby dies next day, and she has a row with the aunt about some money she ought to have sent, of which the other one has never seen a sou.  Seems the child died of that:  in fact, it was neglected and badly cared for.  Very well; Nana slopes, goes to a hotel, then meets Mignon just as she was thinking of her traps.  She has all sorts of queer feelings, shivers, wants to be sick, and Mignon takes her back to her place and promises to look after her affairs.  Isn’t it odd, eh?  Doesn’t it all happen pat?  But this is the best part of the story:  Rose finds out about Nana’s illness and gets indignant at the idea of her being alone in furnished apartments.  So she rushes off, crying, to look after her.  You remember how they used to detest one another—­like regular furies!  Well then, my dear, Rose has had Nana transported to the Grand Hotel, so that she should, at any rate, die in a smart place, and now she’s already passed three nights there and is free to die of it after.  It’s Labordette who told me all about it.  Accordingly I wanted to see for myself—­”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Caroline in great excitement “We’ll go up to her.”

They had arrived at their destination.  On the boulevard the coachman had had to rein in his horses amid a block of carriages and people on foot.  During the day the Corps Legislatif had voted for war, and now a crowd was streaming down all the streets, flowing along all the pavements, invading the middle of the roadway.  Beyond the Madeleine the sun had set behind a blood-red cloud, which cast a reflection as of a great fire and set the lofty windows flaming.  Twilight was falling, and the hour was oppressively melancholy, for now the avenues were darkening away into the distance but were not as yet dotted over by the bright sparks of the gas lamps.  And among the marching crowds distant voices swelled and grew ever louder, and eyes gleamed from pale faces, while a great spreading wind of anguish and stupor set every head whirling.

“Here’s Mignon,” said Lucy.  “He’ll give us news.”

Mignon was standing under the vast porch of the Grand Hotel.  He looked nervous and was gazing at the crowd.  After Lucy’s first few questions he grew impatient and cried out: 

“How should I know?  These last two days I haven’t been able to tear Rose away from up there.  It’s getting stupid, when all’s said, for her to be risking her life like that!  She’ll be charming if she gets over it, with holes in her face!  It’ll suit us to a tee!”

The idea that Rose might lose her beauty was exasperating him.  He was giving up Nana in the most downright fashion, and he could not in the least understand these stupid feminine devotions.  But Fauchery was crossing the boulevard, and he, too, came up anxiously and asked for news.  The two men egged each other on.  They addressed one another familiarly in these days.