A constant
forward movement seemed to sweep the roadway, and the cry kept
recurring; obstinately, abruptly, there rang from thousands of throats:
"A BERLIN! A BERLIN! A BERLIN!"
The room on the fourth floor upstairs cost twelve francs a day,
since Rose had wanted something decent and yet not luxurious, for
sumptuousness is not necessary when one is suffering. Hung with Louis
XIII cretonne, which was adorned with a pattern of large flowers, the
room was furnished with the mahogany commonly found in hotels. On
the floor there was a red carpet variegated with black foliage. Heavy
silence reigned save for an occasional whispering sound caused by voices
in the corridor.
"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.
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