go by. Colline, who
was of the party, brought up the rear, carrying the ladies' parasols. An
hour later the whole of the joyous band were scattered about the fields
at Fontenay-aux-Roses.

When they returned home, very late at night, Colline, who during the day
had discharged the duties of treasurer, stated that they had omitted to
spend six francs, and placed this balance on the table.

"What shall we do with it?" asked Marcel.

"Suppose we invest it in Government stock," said Schaunard.

CHAPTER XVIII

Francine's Muff

Among the true Bohemians of the real Bohemia I used to know one, named
Jacques D. He was a sculptor, and gave promise of great talent. But
poverty did not give him time to fulfill this promise. He died of
debility in March, 184-, at the Saint Louis Hospital, on bed No. 14 in
the Sainte Victoria ward.

I made the acquaintance of Jacques at the hospital, when I was detained
there myself by a long illness. Jacques had, as I have said, the makings
of a great talent, and yet he was quite unassuming about it. During the
two months I spent in his company, and during which he felt himself
cradled in the arms of Death, I never once heard him complain or give
himself up to those lamentations which render the unappreciated artist
so ridiculous. He died without attitudinizing. His death brings to my
mind, too, one of the most horrible scenes I ever saw in that
caravanserai of human sufferings. His father, informed of the event,
came to reclaim the body, and for a long time haggled over giving the
thirty-six francs demanded by the hospital authorities. He also haggled
over the funeral service, and so persistently that they ended by
knocking off six francs. At the moment of putting the corpse into the
coffin, the male nurse took off the hospital sheet, and asked one of the
deceased's friends who was there for money for a shroud. The poor devil,
who had not a sou, went to Jacques' father, who got into a fearful rage,
and asked when they would finish bothering him.

The sister of charity, who was present at this horrible discussion, cast
a glance at the corpse, and uttered these simple and feeling words:

"Oh! sir, you cannot have him buried like that, poor fellow, it is so
cold. Give him at least a shirt, that he may not arrive quite naked
before his God."

The father gave five francs to the friend to get a shirt, but
recommended him to go to a wardrobe shop in the Rue Grace-aux-Belles,
where the