"He is one of those clowns who amused the peasants at Saint Amé."
"His name! his name!" cried Irène, impatiently.
"I don't know his name. He wore a gray hat—"
"Bobichel! It must be Bobichel!"
Irène had forgotten none of these names.
"Let him come in!" she cried. "Let him come in!"
In another moment Bobichel appeared. Was this the poor clown? No; there were no smiles on his lips, no quips and cranks on his tongue. His thinness had become emaciation.
Irène went forward.
"You come from him?" she said, hastily.
"From Fanfar? Oh! no—not directly, at least. They won't let me see him, you know."