“You did not know him,” he replied at last. “He was a bad man.”
“He is a little pagan,” said the landlady. “For that matter, they are all the same, these mountebanks, tumblers, artists, and what not. They have no interior.”
But the Doctor was still scrutinising the little pagan, his eyebrows knotted and uplifted.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Jean-Marie,” said the lad.
Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden flashes of excitement, and felt his head all over from an ethnological point of view.
“Celtic, Celtic!” he said.
“Celtic!” cried Madame Tentaillon, who had perhaps confounded the word with hydrocephalous. “Poor lad! is it dangerous?”
“That depends,” returned the Doctor grimly. And then once more addressing the boy: “And what do you do for your living, Jean-Marie?” he inquired.
“I tumble,” was the answer.