But Fauchery began calling the count, and the latter was rushing up without delay when a furious "damn!" burst from the corridor on the right.

Mathilde, a little drab of a miss, had just broken her washhand basin, the soapy water from which was flowing out to the stairhead.

A dressing room door banged noisily.

Two women in their stays skipped across the passage, and another, with the hem of her shift in her mouth, appeared and immediately vanished from view.

Then followed a sound of laughter, a dispute, the snatch of a song which was suddenly broken off short.