Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger
told me that you intend this portrait for your family."
"Certainly."
"Well, then, you ought to be represented in your at-home dress—in your dressing gown. It is the custom to be so."
"But I haven't any dressing gown here."
"But I have. The case is provided for," quoth Schaunard, presenting to his sitter a very ragged garment, so ornamented with paint-marks that the honest provincial hesitated about setting into it.
"A very odd dress," said he.
"And very valuable. A Turkish vizier gave it to Horace Vernet, and he gave it to me when he had done with it. I am a pupil of his."
"Are you a pupil of Vernet's?"
"I am proud to be," said the artist. "Wretch that I am!" he muttered to himself, "I deny my gods and masters!"
"You have reason to be proud, my young friend," replied the delegate donning the dressing-gown with the illustrious origin.
"Hang up Monsieur Blancheron's coat in the wardrobe," said Schaunard to his friend, with a significant wink.
"Ain't he too good?" whispered Marcel as he pounced on his prey, and nodded towards Blancheron. "If you could only keep a piece of him."
"I'll try; but do you dress yourself, and cut. Come back by ten; I will keep him till then. Above all, bring me something in your pocket."
"I'll bring you a pineapple," said Marcel as he evaporated.
He dressed himself hastily; the dress-coat fit him like a glove. Then he went out by the second door of the studio.
Schaunard set himself to work. When it was fairly night, Monsieur Blancheron heard the clock strike six, and remembered that he had not dined. He informed Schaunard of the fact.
"I am in the same position," said the other, "but to oblige you, I will go without today, though I had an invitation in the Faubourg St. Germain. But we can't break off now, it might spoil the resemblance." And he painted away harder than ever. "By the way," said he, suddenly, "we can dine without breaking off. There is a capital restaurant downstairs, which will send us up anything we like." And Schaunard awaited the effect of his trial of plurals.
"I accept your idea," said Blancheron, "an in return, I hope you will do me the honor of keeping me company at table."
Schaunard bowed. "Really," said he to himself, "this is a fine fellow—a very god-send. Will you order the dinner?" he asked his Amphitryon.
"You will oblige me by taking that trouble," replied the other, politely.
"So much the worse for you, my boy," said the painter as he pitched down the stairs, four steps at a time. Marching up to the counter, he wrote out a bill of fare that made the Vatel of the establishment turn pale.
"Claret! Who's to pay for it?"
"Probably not I," said Schaunard, "but an uncle of mine that you will find up there, a very good judge. So, do your best, and let us have dinner in half an hour, served on your porcelain."
At eight o'clock, Monsieur Blancheron felt the necessity of pouring into a friend's ear his idea on the sugar question, and accordingly recited his pamphlet to Schaunard, who accompanied him on the piano.
At ten, they danced the galop together.
At eleven, they swore never to separate, and to make wills in each other's favor.
At twelve, Marcel returned, and found them locked in a mutual embrace, and dissolved in tears. The floor was half an inch deep in fluid—either from that cause or the liquor that had been spilt. He stumbled against the table, and remarked the splendid relics of the sumptuous feast. He tried the bottles, they were utterly empty. He attempted to rouse Schaunard, but the later menaced him with speedy death, if he tore him from his friend Blancheron, of whom he was making a pillow.
"Ungrateful wretch!" said Marcel, taking out of his pocket a handful of nuts, "when I had brought him some dinner!"
CHAPTER III
LENTEN LOVES
One evening in Lent Rodolphe returned home early with the idea of working. But scarcely had he sat down at his table and dipped his pen in the ink than he was disturbed by a singular noise. Putting his ear to the treacherous partition that separated him from the next room, he listened, and plainly distinguished a dialogue broken by the sound of kisses and other amourous interruptions.
"The deuce," thought Rodolphe, glancing at his clock, "it is still early, and my neighbor is a Juliet who usually keeps her Romeo till long after the lark has sung. I cannot work tonight."
And taking his hat he went out. Handing in his key at the porter's lodge he found the porter's wife half clasped in the arms of a gallant. The poor woman was so flustered that it was five minutes before she could open the latch.
"In point of fact," though Rodolphe, "there are times when porters grow human again."
Passing through the door he found in its recess a sapper and a cook exchanging the luck-penny of love.
"Hang it," said Rodolphe, alluding to the warrior and his robust companion, "here are heretics who scarcely think that we are in Lent."
And he set out for the abode of one of his friends who lived in the neighborhood.
"If Marcel is at home," he said to himself, "we will pass the evening in abusing Colline. One must do something."
As he rapped vigorously, the door was partly opened, and a young man, simply clad in a shirt and an eye-glass, presented himself.
"I cannot receive you," said he to Rodolphe.
"Why not?" asked the latter.
"There," said Marcel, pointing to a feminine head that had just peeped out from behind a curtain, "there is my answer."
"It is not a pretty one," said Rodolphe, who had just had the door closed in his face. "Ah!" said he to himself when he got into the street, "what shall I do? Suppose I call on Colline, we could pass the time in abusing Marcel."
Passing along the Rue de l'Ouest, usually dark and unfrequented, Rodolphe made out a shade walking up and down in melancholy fashion, and muttering in rhyme.
"Ho, ho!" said Rodolphe, "who is this animated sonnet loitering here? What, Colline!"
"What Rodolphe! Where are you going?"
"To your place."
"You won't find me there."
"What are you doing here?"
"Waiting."
"What are you waiting for?"
"Ah!" said Colline in a tone of raillery, "what can one be waiting for when one is twenty, when there are stars in the sky and songs in the air?"
"Speak in prose."
"I am waiting for a girl."
"Good night," said Rodolphe, who went on his way continuing his monologue. "What," said he, "is it St. Cupid's Day and cannot I take a step without running up against people in love? It is scandalously immoral. What are the police about?"
As the gardens of the Luxembourg were still open, Rodolphe passed into them to shorten his road. Amidst the deserted paths he often saw flitting before him, as though disturbed by his footsteps, couples mysteriously interlaced, and seeking, as a poet has remarked, the two-fold luxury of silence and shade.