In the evening Jacques Legrand brought the child a jointed clown, all stitched with spangles, which he had bought in a passageway and which was very expensive. It was the price of four of his working days! But he would have given twenty, thirty, he would have given the price of a year’s labor to bring back a smile to the pale lips of the sick child. The child looked at the plaything a moment as it glistened on the white cover of the bed, then said, sadly: “It is not Boum-Boum!--I want to see Boum-Boum!” Ah! if Jacques could have wrapped him up in his blankets, could have carried him to the circus, could have shown him the clown dancing under the lighted chandelier and have said to him, Look! He did better, Jacques, he went to the circus, demanded the address of the clown, and timidly, his legs shaking with fear, he climbed, one by one, the steps which led to the apartment of the artist, at Montmartre. It was very bold this that Jacques was going to do! But after all the comedians go to sing and recite their monologues in drawing-rooms, at the houses of the great lords. Perhaps the clown--oh! if he only would--would consent to come and say good-day to François. No matter, how would they receive him, Jacques Legrand, here at Boum-Boum’s house? He was no longer Boum-Boum! He was Monsieur Moreno, and, in the artistic dwelling, the books, the engravings, the elegance was like a choice decoration around the charming man who received Jacques in his office like that of a doctor. Jacques looked, but did not recognize the clown, and turned and twisted his felt hat between his fingers. The other waited. Then the father excused himself. “It was astonishing what he came there to ask, it could not be--pardon, excuse--But in short, it was concerning the little one--A nice little one, monsieur. And so intelligent! Always the first at school, except in arithmetic, which he did not understand--A dreamer, this little one, do you see! Yes, a dreamer. And the proof--wait--the proof--” Jacques now hesitated, stammered; but he gathered up his courage and said bruskly: “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!”