"A good little girl in Paris, who earns her bread by singing in the streets. It now seems that she is the sister of Fanfar. It is a very strange sorrow, one fall of sorrow!"
"And Fanfar—whom do you call Fanfar?" asked the old man, with a troubled face.
Caillette started. She remembered that her love had been disdained, but she was kind-hearted, of the stuff of which martyrs are made.
"Fanfar was a foundling. He is now a young man both good and handsome."
"Where have I heard that name?" Labarre said to himself.
Suddenly the woman seated in the chair looked up.
"Excuse the simplicity of the arrangements—the inn does as well as possible."
"Françoise Fougère!" he cried.
Françoise started up, as if sustained by supernatural strength.