"A programme?" she asked him in a loud voice.

He gave an affirmative nod for all the world to see: then whispered low.

"Go home directly the concert is over! I must speak to you!"

"Very good," replied the singer in a submissive tone.

Then aloud she queried:

"You are a musician, are you?"

The man in the cloak gave answer audibly:

"Yes, my dear, I am a musician also, but not of your sort! It's not gaiety I deal in!" With that, the unknown displayed an accordion which was slung across his chest.

Nichoune hurried to her dressing-room. She must get away before her admirers demanded her reappearance on the platform. The old man quitted the establishment. Stepping out of the vestibule, dimly lighted by a flickering jet of gas, he strode along the narrow and tortuous streets of Chalons at a great pace. This pedestrian seemed out of humour: he marched along, bent beneath the weight of his accordion, tapping the road violently with the point of his long climbing stick. Taking a circuitous route, he at last reached a sort of little inn. It appeared a poor kind of a place, but clean. The old fellow entered with a resolute air. The porter, half asleep, offered him a candle which he lit with a twist of paper, kindled at the gas-jet. The old man mounted the stairs to his room and closed the door carefully. Having satisfied himself that the window shutters were fastened, he took off his cloak, lit his lamp, drew up a chair, and leaned his elbow on the table. The light fell on his face, and it was easy to recognise the man who had spoken to the mistress of Corporal Vinson: he was none other than Vagualame, the beggar-a.s.sa.s.sin.

Before long there was a knock at the door.

"Who is there?"

"I ... Nichoune!"

Vagualame rose and opened to her.

"Come in, my dear!" Vagualame was now the amiable friend.

He looked with delight at the pretty little face of his visitor.

"As pretty as ever, my dear! Prettier than ever!" he cried.

He stopped flattery: the singer evidently disliked it. She seated herself on the edge of a sofa and stared at him.

"I don't suppose you have come to Chalons just to tell me that!

Nothing serious?"

Vagualame shrugged his shoulders.

"No, no! Why, in Heaven's name, are you always so frightened?"

"That's all very well. It's jolly dangerous, let me tell you."

"Dangerous!" repeated Vagualame contemptuously. "Absurd! You are joking! It's dangerous for imbeciles--not for anyone else! Not a soul would ever suspect that pretty Nichoune is the 'letter-box'--the intermediary between me and 'Roubaix.'"

"You are going to give me something for Roubaix again?" Nichoune did not look as if Vagualame's a.s.sertion had relieved her fears.

Vagualame evaded a direct answer.

"You have not seen him for a week?"

"Roubaix? No."...

"And Nancy?"

"Nor Nancy."

"Well," said he, after a moment's reflection, "that does not matter in the least! I can now tell you that Belfort will certainly pa.s.s this way to-morrow morning."...

"Belfort? But he is not due then!"

"Belfort has no fixed time," replied Vagualame sharply. "I have already told you that Belfort is his own master: his is a divisional."

"A divisional? What exactly is a divisional?" demanded the singer.

"Now you are asking questions," objected Vagualame. His tone was harsh. "That is not allowed, Nichoune! I have told you so before....

What you do not know you must not try to discover.... I myself do not know all the ins and outs of the organisation!"

He continued in a less severe tone:

"In any case Belfort pa.s.ses this way to-morrow between eleven o'clock and noon.... He does not know me--is not aware of my existence.... It is through an indirect course that I learned he was coming; also that he would have something to say to you.... Will you, therefore, hand him this envelope?"

Vagualame drew from the inside pocket of his short coat a large packet sealed with red wax.

"Be very careful! This doc.u.ment is important--has been difficult to obtain--extremely difficult!... On no account must it go astray!...

Tell Belfort that it must be handed over as quickly as possible....

Well?"

Nichoune did not take the packet Vagualame was holding out to her. She remained seated, her gaze fixed on the tips of her shoes, her hands buried in her m.u.f.f.

"Well, what is it? What are you waiting for?" Vagualame repeated.

At this Nichoune blazed out:

"What the matter is? Why, that I have had enough of all this: I don't want any more of it! Not if I know it! It's too dangerous!"

Vagualame appeared stupefied.

"What, little one?" he asked very gently. "You do not wish to be our faithful letter-box any more?"

"No!"

"You do not want to hand this over to Belfort?"

"No, no! A hundred times no!" Nichoune shook her head vigorously.

"But why?"