ves color, but should
not be abused."

Carolus took up a second pile of paper, and repeated the title "Don
Lopez or, Fatality."

"I knew a Don Lopez once," said Rodolphe. "He used to sell cigarettes
and Bayonne chocolate. Perhaps he was a relative of your man. Go on."

At the conclusion of the second chapter, the poet interrupted his host:

"Don't you feel your throat a little dry?" he inquired.

"Not at all," replied Carolus. "We are coming to the history of
Inesilla."

"I am very curious to hear it, nevertheless, if you are tired--"

"Chapter third!" enunciated Carolus in a voice that gave no signs of
fatigue.

Rodolphe took a careful survey of Barbemuche and perceived that he had a
short neck and a ruddy complexion. "I have one hope left," thought the
poet on making this discovery. "He may have an attack of apoplexy."

"Will you be so good as to tell me what you think of the love scene?"

Carolus looked at Rodolphe to observe in his face what effect the
dialogue produced upon him. The poet was bending forward on his chair,
with his neck stretched out in the attitude of one who is listening for
some distant sound.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Hist!" said Rodolphe, "don't you hear? I thought somebody cried fire!
Suppose we go and see."

Carolus listened an instant but heard nothing.

"It must have been a ringing in my ears," said the other. "Go on, Don
Alvar interests me exceedingly; he is a noble youth."

Carolus continued with all the music that he could put into his voice:

"Oh Inesilla! Whatever thou art, angel or demon; and whatever be thy
country, my life is thine, and thee will follow, be it to heaven or
hell!"

Someone knocked at the door.

"It's my porter," said Barbemuche, half opening the door.

It was indeed the porter with a letter. "What an unlucky chance!" cried
Carolus, after he had perused it. "We must put off our reading until some
other time. I have to go out immediately. If you please, we will execute
this little commission together, as it is nothing private, and then we
can come back to dinner."

"There," thought Rodolphe, "is a letter that has fallen from heaven. I
recognize the seal of Providence."

When he rejoined the comrades that night, the poet was interrogated by
Marcel and Schaunard.

"Did he treat you well?" they asked.

"Yes, but I paid dear for it."

"How? Did Carolus make you pay?" demanded Schaunard with rising choler.

"He read a novel at me, insi