with feet. Marcel was quarreling with Musette about a new bonnet which
he had not given her. Mimi and Rodolphe, who were in their honeymoon,
carried on a silent conversation, alternated with suspicious noises. As
to Colline, he went about from one to the other, distributing among them
all the polite and ornamental phrases which he had picked up in the
"Muses' Almanac."

While this joyous company was thus abandoning itself to sport and
laughter, a stranger at the bottom of the room, who occupied a table by
himself, was observing with extraordinary attention the animated scene
before him. For a fortnight or thereabout, he had come thus every night,
being the only customer who could stand the terrible row which the club
made. The boldest pleasantries had failed to move him; he would remain
all the evening, smoking his pipe with mathematical regularity, his eyes
fixed as if watching a treasure, and his ears open to all what was said
around him. As to his other qualities, he seemed quiet and well off, for
he possessed a watch with a gold chain; and one day, Marcel, meeting
him at the bar, caught him in the act of changing a louis to pay his
score. From that moment, the four friends designated him by the name of
"The Capitalist."

Suddenly Schaunard, who had very good eyes, remarked that the glasses
were empty.

"Yes," exclaimed Rodolphe, "and this is Christmas Eve! We are good
Christians, and ought to have something extra."

"Yes, indeed," added Marcel, "let's call for something supernatural."

"Colline," continued Rodolphe, "ring a little for the waiter."

Colline rang like one possessed.

"What shall we have?" asked Marcel.

Colline made a low bow and pointed to the women.

"It is the business of these ladies to regulate the nature and order of
our refreshment."

"I," said Musette, smacking her lips, "should not be afraid of
Champagne."

"Are you crazy?" exclaimed Marcel. "Champagne! That isn't wine to begin
with."

"So much the worse; I like it, it makes a noise."

"I," said Mimi, with a coaxing look at Rodolphe, "would like some
Beaune, in a little basket."

"Have you lost your senses?" said Rodolphe.

"No, but I want to lose them," replied Mimi. The poet was thunderstruck.

"I," said Phemie, dancing herself on the elastic sofa, "would rather
have parfait amour; it's good for the stomach."

Schaunard articulated, in a nasal tone, some words which made Phemie
tremble on her spring foundation.

"B