“The proof is that he wishes to see you, that he thinks only of you, and that you are there before him like a star which he would like to have, and that he looks—”
When he had finished the father was deadly pale and he had great drops on his forehead. He dared not look at the clown who remained with his eyes fixed on the workman. And what was he going to say, this Boum-Boum? Was he going to dismiss him, take him for a fool and put him out the door?
“You live?” asked Boum-Boum.
“Oh! very near! Street of the Abessess!”
“Come!” said the other. “Your boy wants to see Boum-Boum? Ah, well, he is going to see Boum-Boum.”
When the door opened and showed the clown, Jacques Legrand cried out joyfully to his son:
“François, be happy, child! See, here he is, Boum-Boum!”
A look of great joy came over the child’s face. He raised himself on his mother’s arm and turned his head toward the two men who approached, questioning, for a moment, who it was by the side of his father; this gentleman in an overcoat, whose good, pleasant face he did not know. When they said to him: “It is Boum-Boum!” he slowly fell back on the pillow and remained there, his eyes fixed, his beautiful large, blue eyes, which looked beyond the walls of the little room, and were always seeking the spangles and the butterfly of Boum-Boum, like a lover who pursues his dream.
“No,” replied the child with a voice which was no longer dry, but full of despair, “no, it is not Boum-Boum.”