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 Châlons 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 assertion had relieved her fears.
Vagualame evaded a direct answer.