before them again; a dull thread of coming ill possessed them. On
the boulevard the cry was passing, hoarse and wild:
"A BERLIN! A BERLIN! A BERLIN!"
Presently, when they were making up their minds to go, a voice was
heard calling from the passage:
Gaga opened the door in astonishment and disappeared for a moment.
"My dear," she said, "it's Fauchery. He's out there at the end of
the corridor. He won't come any further, and he's beside himself