This low-class concert-hall was frequented by soldiers, who, out on leave, would visit the taverns, the beer-houses, and finish the evening on the squalid benches of this Eldorado of the provinces.
On this particular evening these critical gentlemen of the Army were less satisfied than ever. There had been three "first appearances," of poor quality, and they accused the management of having filled the hall with civilians in order to secure a good reception for these mediocre performers. Hussars and cuirassiers joined forces and made a frightful uproar.
"Take the comic man away!"
"He shall not sing!"
Then the entire audience shouted one name, demanded one performer only.
"Nichoune!... Nichoune!... Nichoune!"
Nichoune was indeed the star of the company!
She was rather pretty, her face was intelligent, and what was rare enough in that hall, her tone was almost pure and true, and, above all, she sang popular ditties so that the audience could join in the chorus. As usual, after every singer, male or female, there were loud demands for Nichoune. 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."