The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger
opened, and somebody appeared upon the threshold, holding a candle-sconce in which three pink candles were burning.
“What do you want, gentlemen?” he asked, bowing politely to the three friends.
“Oh, heaven! What have I done? I have made a mistake. This isn’t my room,” exclaimed Schaunard.
“Be so good as to excuse my friend, monsieur,” cried Rodolphe and Colline, speaking both at once. “He is more than half seas over.”
All at once a gleam of lucidity crossed Schaunard’s tipsy brain; he had just read an inscription chalked upon his door:—
“I have been here three times for my New Year’s gift.
“PHEMIE.”
“Yes,” cried he, “I do live here. That is the very visiting card which Phémie left me on New Year’s Day. This is my door; it is, indeed.”
“Dear me, monsieur,” protested Rodolphe, “I feel truly confused.”
“Believe me, monsieur,” Colline added, “my friend in his confusion has in me an energetic collaborator.”
The man in the doorway burst out laughing in spite of himself.
“If you will step into my room for a moment,” he said, “your friend will find out his mistake, no doubt, as soon as he sees the place.”
“With pleasure.” And the poet, taking one of Schaunard’s arms and the philosopher the other, they brought him into the room, or, to be accurate, into Marcel’s palace, which the reader has doubtless recognised.
Schaunard, gazing vaguely about him, muttered—
“It is astonishing how the place is improved.”
“Well, are you convinced now?” asked Colline.
But Schaunard had caught sight of the piano, and going up to it, tried over a scale or two.
“Eh! just listen to that now, all of you!” he said, striking chord after chord. “That is right! The animal knows its master: si la sol, fa mi ré. Ah, rascally ré! Always the same, that it is! I told you it was my piano.”
“He persists,” said Colline to Rodolphe.
“He persists,” said Rodolphe, turning to Marcel.
“That now,” added Schaunard, pointing to the spangled petticoat lying on a chair, “that is not my ornament, perhaps? Oho!”
And he looked Marcel between the eyes.
“And that——” he continued, pulling down the summons, of which mention has been made previously, and proceeding to read it aloud—
“ ‘Wherefore M. Schaunard is bound to remove his effects, and to leave the premises in tenantable repair, before noon on the eighth day of April. Due notice having been served on him by me, for which the cost is five francs.’ Aha! so I am not M. Schaunard, who was served with a notice by a bailiff, and received the honour of a stamp worth five francs? There again!” he cried, as he caught sight of his slippers on Marcel’s feet, “so those are not my Turkish slippers which beloved hands bestowed on me? Monsieur,” he added, addressing Marcel, “will you in your turn explain your presence among my Lares?”
“Gentlemen,” replied Marcel, addressing himself more particularly to Colline and Rodolphe, “this gentleman” (indicating Schaunard) “is, I confess, in his own room.”
“Ha!” cried Schaunard, “that is lucky!”
“But,” resumed Marcel, “so am I.”
“Still, monsieur,” Rodolphe broke in, “if our friend recognises——”
“Yes,” said Colline, “if our friend——”
“And if you on your side recollect,” added Rodolphe, “how comes it that——”
“Yes,” echoed Colline, “how comes it——”
“Will you kindly sit down, gentlemen?” replied Marcel, “and I will clear up the mystery.”
“Suppose we moisten the explanation?” hazarded Colline.
“And take a bit to eat,” added Rodolphe.
With that they all four sat down to table and attacked the piece of cold veal bought at the wine-shop, while Marcel proceeded to narrate what had passed that morning between him and the landlord when he came to move in.
“So,” said Rodolphe, “this gentleman is perfectly right. This is his room.”
“Pray consider yourself at home in it,” Marcel returned politely.
But it was only after immense trouble that Schaunard could be got to understand what had happened, and a comical incident still further complicated matters. Schaunard was looking for something in a wall cupboard when he came upon some money; it was the change which M. Bernard had given for the five-hundred franc bill.
“Ah, I knew it!” he cried; “I knew that Chance would not leave me in the lurch! I remember now! I went out this morning to look him up. He must have come in while I was out, as it was quarter-day. We crossed each other on the way, that is all. What a good thing I left the key in the drawer!”
“Sweet delusion!” murmured Rodolphe, as he saw Schaunard dividing the coins into equal piles.
“Illusion, delusion, such is life!” added the philosopher.
Marcel laughed.
An hour later all four were fast asleep.
Next day at noon they awoke, and at first seemed very much surprised at the company in which they found themselves. Schaunard, Colline and Rodolphe looked as though they had never met before, and addressed each other as “Monsieur.” Marcel was obliged to remind them that they all came in together the night before.
Old Durand came in at that very moment.
“Monsieur,” said he, addressing Marcel, “to-day is the ninth of April, eighteen hundred and forty . . . the streets are muddy, and His Majesty Louis Philippe is still King of France and Navarre. What next!” he exclaimed, catching sight of his former lodger. “M. Schaunard! Why how did you get in?”
“By telegraph,” said Schaunard.
“But I say,” continued old Durand, “you are a droll one, you are——”
“Durand,” said Marcel, “I do not care to have my man-servant join in conversation when I am present. Go to the restaurant near by and order in breakfast for four persons. Here is the menu,” he added, holding out a slip of paper. “Now go.”
“You invited me to supper last night, gentlemen,” Marcel went on, addressing his visitors, “allow me to offer you luncheon this morning, not in my room, but in yours,” he added, holding out his hand to Schaunard.
Luncheon over, Rodolphe asked permission to speak.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “permit me to leave you——”
“Oh, no,” Schaunard said in a sentimental tone, “let us never part again!”
“True, it is very pleasant here,” assented Colline.
“——to leave you for a moment,” continued Rodolphe. “The Iris, a journal devoted to the fashions, appears to-morrow. I, as editor, must go and correct my proofs, but I will be back in an hour.”
“The deuce!” cried Colline, “that reminds me I have a lesson to give to an Indian prince who has come to Paris to learn Arabic.”
“You can go to-morrow,” said Marcel.
“Oh no, the prince ought to pay me to-day. And besides, I must confess that this beautiful day would be completely spoilt for me if I did not take a look