The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger
the philosopher, who loved eccentric metaphors.
And he went out with Rodolphe. Schaunard and Marcel were left alone together.
“By-the-by,” remarked the former, “how if instead of reclining upon the pillow of far niente I should issue forth in quest of gold wherewith to allay M. Bernard’s cupidity?”
“Why, do you still contemplate moving out?” Marcel asked uneasily.
“Lord! yes, there is no help for it,” said Schaunard. “I have had notice to quit served on me by a bailiff at a cost of five francs.”
“But if you are moving out, are you going to take away your furniture?”
“That is what I purpose to do; I am not going to leave a hair, as M. Bernard says.”
“The devil! then I shall be in a fix,” said Marcel, “for I took your room as a furnished apartment.”
“Stay a bit, though! true; aye, so it is,” returned Schaunard. “Pshaw,” he added ruefully, “there is nothing to show that I shall find my seventy francs to-day, or to-morow, or the next day.”
“Hold on, though,” cried Marcel, “I have an idea.”
“Produce it,” said Schaunard.
“This is the situation: legally speaking, this lodging is mine, for I paid a month’s rent in advance.”
“The room, yes; but as to the furniture, if I pay I have a legal right to remove it; and if I could, I would even remove it illegally,” said Schaunard.
“So as it stands,” continued Marcel, “you have furniture, and nowhere to put it; and I have a room, and nothing to put in it.”
“That is it.”
“For my own part, I like this room,” continued Marcel.
“So do I,” put in Schaunard, “never liked it like this before.”
“What do you say?”
“Liked it like, for liked it so much. Oh, I know my native language!”
“Well, so we can settle these matters,” Marcel went on. “Stay with me; I will find the lodgings, and you shall find the furniture.”
“And how about the rent?”
“I will pay what is owing, as I have money just now. It will be your turn next time. Consider it.”
“I never consider anything, especially if it is an offer that suits me. I accept out of hand. Music and painting are, in fact, sisters.”
“Sisters-in-law,”* rejoined Marcel, and at that moment Colline and Rodolphe came in together. They had met on the way.
“Gentlemen,” cried Rodolphe, jingling the money in his pockets, “I propose that those present should dine with me.”
“That is precisely what I was about to have the honour to propose myself,” said Colline, pulling a gold piece out of his pocket and sticking it in his eye. “My prince gave me this to buy a Hindostanee-Arabic grammar, for which I have just paid six sous sterling.”
“And I got the cashier of the Iris to let me have thirty francs in advance, on the pretext that I wanted the money to get myself vaccinated.”
“It is pay day, it seems,” remarked Schaunard, “I am the only one that has not taken handsel. It is humiliating.”
“Meantime, my offer of dinner is still open,” repeated Rodolphe.
“So is mine,” said Colline.
“Very well, let us toss to see who shall pay the bill.”
“No,” cried Schaunard, “I know a better way than that; an infinitely better way of getting out of the difficulty.”
“Let us see it!”
“Rodolphe shall give the dinner and Colline will entertain us at supper.”
“That is what I call the wisdom of Solomon,” cried the philosopher.
“It is worse than Gamacho’s wedding-feast,” added Marcel.
The dinner duly took place in a Provençal restaurant in the Rue Dauphine, well known for its ayoli and the literary tastes of its waiters. As it was expedient to leave room for supper, they ate and drank in moderation. The acquaintance begun the previous evening between Colline and Schaunard, and later still with Marcel, was ripening into intimacy. Each one of the party hoisted the flag of his opinions on art, and all four discovered that they possessed the same courage and the same hope. In the course of chat and discussion they perceived that they had sympathies in common; they all had the same turn for the light and dexterous word-play which raises laughter and leaves no wounds; and lastly, that all the fair virtues of youth had by no means departed from them and left their hearts empty, for they were readily moved by anything beautiful which they heard or saw. And since all four had left a common starting-point to reach the same goal, it seemed to them that it was something more than a mere everyday quid pro quo of Chance, which had brought them thus together; was it not quite possible that it might be Providence, who watches over those left to themselves, that had joined their hands and whispered in their ears the Evangelist’s words, “Love one another. Bear ye one another’s burdens,” sayings which ought to constitute the one and only Charter of Humanity?
The end of the meal found them almost grave. When Rodolphe got up and proposed that they should drink to the Future, Colline replied with a little speech that certainly was not taken out of an old book, nor had any pretension to style. He spoke quite simply in that artless vernacular which tells so well what is said so ill.
“What a fool the philosopher is!” muttered Schaunard, bending over his glass. “He has made me mix water with my wine.”
After dinner they went to the Café à Momus, where they had spent the previous evening. From that day the establishment became uninhabitable for the rest of its patrons.
Coffee and liqueurs despatched, the Bohemian clan (now definitely founded) returned to Marcel’s quarters, which received the name of “Schaunard’s Elysium.” Colline went out to order the promised supper, and the rest, meanwhile, provided themselves with crackers, rockets, and other pyrotechnical devices. These they let off from the windows before sitting down to supper; and the magnificent display fairly turned the house upside down, the four friends singing at the top of their voices—
“Let us celebrate this great day!”
Next morning they again found themselves together, but this time it did not cause them any astonishment. Before separating for the business of the day they shared a frugal lunch at the Café Momus, where they agreed to meet again in the evening. For a long time they kept to this daily routine.
These then are the characters who will pass in and out of the short stories which form this book. It is not a novel, and has no other pretension than that indicated by its title, for the Scenes of Bohemian Life are but studies of people belonging to a class hitherto misunderstood, whose chief fault is irregularity. Still, they can say in excuse that this irregularity is a necessity of their life.
* See CHAMPFLEURY, Les Confessions de Sylvius.
* Belle-sœurs.
II
A MESSENGER OF PROVIDENCE
SCHAUNARD and Marcel, after working valiantly all the morning, had come to a sudden stop.
“How hungry it is, by Jove!” exclaimed Schaunard; then he added carelessly, “is there not to be any lunch to-day?”
Never