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.