"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 Châlons 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-assassin.
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.