?"

"It isn't bad, but do you seriously mean--"

"Yes, I shall go if, before I reach Marseilles, I haven't an answer from
papa; but I shall have one, for two reasons. In the first place, Papa
Chamblard knows how to reason, and he will say to himself: 'What shall I
gain by it? Instead of fooling round with little white women in Paris,
he will fool round with little yellow ones at Singapore.' And then
another reason, the best one, is that Papa Chamblard adores me, and he
can't do without me, and the little sentimental phrase at the end of my
despatch will appeal to his heart. You'll see how it will turn out. At
11.20 my telegram will leave Laroche; papa will receive it at half-past
twelve. And I'll bet you ten louis that at Dijon or Macon I'll find in
the wire screen of the station a telegram addressed to me, and worded
thus: 'Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage.' Papa's telegram
will be brief, because he is saving and suppresses unnecessary words.
Will you take the bet?"

"No, I should lose."

"I think so. Have you the papers?"

"Yes."

They read three or four papers, Parisian papers, and read them like true
Parisians. It took a short fifteen minutes. While reading they exchanged
short remarks about the new ministry, the races at Auteuil, and Yvette
Guilbert--particularly about Yvette Guilbert. Young Chamblard had been
to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain:

"Un fiacre allait trottinant
Cahin-caha
Hu dia! Hop la!
Un fiacre allait trottinant
Jaune avec un cocher blanc."

And as the light cavalryman had never heard Yvette Guilbert sing the
"Fiacre," young Chamblard threw up his arms and exclaimed: "You never
heard the 'Fiacre,' and you had three months' leave! What did you do in
Paris? _I_ know the 'Fiacre' by heart."

Upon which Raoul began to hum again, and while humming in a voice which
became more and more slow, and more and more feeble, he settled back
into his arm-chair, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber, like the big
baby that he was.

All at once he was waked up with a start by the stepping of the train,
and by the voice of the conductor, who cried, "Ouah! Ouah! Ouah!" The
cry is the same for all stations. This time it was meant for Laroche.
And now for the telegram. Young Chamblard ran to the telegraph-office.
The immovable operator counted the sixty-seven words of that queer
despatch. "All aboard, all aboard!"

Young Chamblard had scarc