the morning--an explanatory
conversation which grew gradually more familiar.

At four o'clock their candle went out. Rodolphe wanted to light another.

"No," said Mimi, "it is not worth the trouble. It is quite time to go to
bed."

Five minutes later her pretty brown curly head had once more resumed its
place on the pillow, and in a voice full of affection she invited
Rodolphe's lips to feast on her little white hand with their blue veins,
the pearly pallor of which vied with the whiteness of the sheets.
Rodolphe did not light the candle.

In the morning Rodolphe got up first, and pointing out several packages
to Mimi, said to her, very gently, "There is what belongs to you. You
can take it away. I keep my word."

"Oh!" said Mimi. "I am very tired, you see, and I cannot carry all these
heavy parcels away at once. I would rather call again."

And when she was dressed she only took a collar and a pair of cuffs.

"I will take away the rest by degrees," she added, smiling.

"Come," said Rodolphe, "take away all or take away none, and let there
be an end of it."

"Let it, on the contrary, begin again, and, above all, let it last,"
said Mimi, kissing Rodolphe.

After breakfasting together they started off for a day in the country.
Crossing the Luxembourg gardens Rodolphe met a great poet who had always
received him with charming kindness. Out of respect for the
conventionalities Rodolphe was about to pretend not to see him but the
poet did not give him time, and passing by him greeted him with a
friendly gesture and his companion with a smile.

"Who is that gentleman?" asked Mimi.

Rodolphe answered her by mentioning a name which made her blush with
pleasure and pride.

"Oh!" said Rodolphe. "Our meeting with the poet who has sung of love so
well is a good omen, and will bring luck to our reconciliation."

"I do love you," said Mimi, squeezing his hand, although they were in
the midst of the crowd.

"Alas!" thought Rodolphe. "Which is better; to allow oneself always to
be deceived through believing, or never to believe for fear of always
being deceived?"

CHAPTER XV

Donec Gratus

We have told how the painter Marcel made the acquaintance of
Mademoiselle Musette. United one morning by the ministry of caprice, the
registrar of the district, they had fancied, as often happens, that
their union did not extend to their hearts. But one evening when, after
a violent quarrel, they resolved to leave one