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.
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