"You are alone!"
"Of course!"
"Then you can take us in."
Bobichel uttered an oath. "Of course I can!" he shouted.
It was clear that he was not a ghost. Ghosts do not swear nor carry candles in their hands. Finally the three were seated in a small attic about four yards square. They all talked at once.
How did Bobichel get there? Where had he been?
He had been taken to the hospital and there detained on account of some peculiarities in his condition, which greatly excited the curiosity of the medical students. One day as Bobichel was recovering, he was in the garden and noticed a door in the wall, and saw that the gardener had left his key in it. He selected the moment judiciously, and finally found himself on the road to Paris, where he had arrived that very morning. He had not a sou, but he had rented this garret which the landlord had had on his hands for three months by reason of the rats, and therefore nobly refrained from asking money in advance. A bundle of straw had taken his remaining five sous, and on this the ex-clown extended himself, thinking of the past and resolutely closing his eyes to the future. His first care was to regain his strength, which had been sorely taxed by his journey. While half asleep, he had heard steps on the roof, and with a vague belief that the whole hospital force were in pursuit of him, he resolved to brave them. Fate had brought to him, however, his two best friends—Gudel and Fanfar.
After they had heard this explanation, it became Bobichel's turn to question.
"Let Fanfar tell you," said Gudel. "I really know nothing except that he bade me fly, that my neck has been nearly broken, and that he saved my life; but why I have been obliged to run about over roofs in this way, I really can't say."
"Perhaps you are still conspiring?" asked Bobichel, innocently.