houne. Her admirers were merciless: they had no
consideration for her fatigue: they would have kept her on the
platform from eight o'clock till midnight!

The manager rushed to Nichoune's dressing-room.

"Come! Come at once! They will smash up everything if you do not hurry
on."

Nichoune got up.

"Ah, ha! If I don't get a rise after this--well, I shall be off! You
will see! They will have to have me back, too!"

The manager showed by a shrug of the shoulders that this was a matter
of profound indifference to him.

"Come on to the platform, my dear! And be quick about it!"

Nichoune raced down the stairs and appeared before the clamouring
crowd panting. At sight of her, calm succeeded storm: the idol was
going to sing!

Nichoune swaggered down the stage and, planting herself close to the
footlights, flung the title of her song at the delighted audience in
strident tones.

"_Les Inquiets!_... Music by Delmet.... Words also.... It is I who
sing it!"

Whilst Nichoune began her song, hands on hips, she scrutinised her
audience, bestowing little smiles on her particular admirers. She
could not have been in her best form, because when about to start her
third verse she suffered a lapse of memory, hesitated, and started the
fourth. This passed unnoticed by her audience, who gave her a
vociferous ovation at the close.

"The programme! the programme!" they yelled.

As a rule Nichoune would disdainfully refuse to go down among the
audience. This evening, however, she nodded a "Yes," and, taking a
pile of little programmes from the wings, she descended the few steps
which led from the stage to the body of the hall. Twenty hands were
outstretched to help her down. She pushed them aside with mocking
looks. Shouts of admiration, compliments, clamourous declarations of
love were rained on her by the soldiers she had charmed and now swung
past with a provocative swish of her skirt and a smile of disdain.

Nichoune went on her way, bent on getting rid of her burden of
programmes with all speed.

Just as another singer appeared on the platform, Nichoune reached the
last row of chairs, and was about to leave, when she heard her name
uttered in a low voice by a man enveloped in a large cloak.

He was standing, and was leaning against the wall at the extreme end
of the concert-room: he was an aged man.

Nichoune hesitated, searching with her eyes for the person who had
called her in a low, penetrating voice. She was ab