ll heavy. Musette looked for a cab. She
could not see one. As she happened to be in the very street in which
dwelt her friend Madame Sidonie, the same who had sent on Marcel's
letter to her, Musette decided to run in for a few minutes until the
weather cleared up sufficiently to enable her to continue her journey.

When Musette entered Madame Sidonie's rooms she found a gathering there.
They were going on with a game of lansquenet that had lasted three
days.

"Do not disturb yourselves," said Musette. "I have only just popped in
for a moment."

"You got Marcel's letter all right?" whispered Madame Sidonie to her.

"Yes, thanks," replied Musette. "I am going to his place, he has asked
me to dinner. Will you come with me? You would enjoy yourself."

"No, I can't," said Madame Sidonie, pointing to the card table. "Think
of my rent."

"There are six louis," said the banker.

"I'll go two of them," exclaimed Madame Sidonie.

"I am not proud, I'll start at two," replied the banker, who had already
dealt several times. "King and ace. I am done for," he continued,
dealing the cards. "I am done for, all the kings are out."

"No politics," said a journalist.

"And the ace is the foe of my family," continued the banker, who then
turned up another king. "Long live the king! My dear Sidonie, hand me
over two louis."

"Put them down," said Sidonie, vexed at her loss.

"That makes four hundred francs you owe me, little one," said the
banker. "You would run it up to a thousand. I pass the deal."

Sidonie and Musette were chatting together in a low tone. The game went
on.

At about the same time the Bohemians were sitting down to table. During
the whole of the repast Marcel seemed uneasy. Everytime a step sounded
on the stairs he started.

"What is the matter?" asked Rodolphe of him. "One would think you were
expecting someone. Are we not all here?"

But at a look from the artist the poet understood his friend's
preoccupation.

"True," he thought, "we are not all here."

Marcel's look meant Musette, Rodolphe's answering glance, Mimi.

"We lack ladies," said Schaunard, all at once.

"Confound it," yelled Colline, "will you hold your tongue with your
libertine reflections. It was agreed that we should not speak of love,
it turns the sauces."

And the friends continued to drink fuller bumpers, whilst without the
snow still fell, and on the hearth the logs flamed brightly, scattering
sparks like fireworks.

Jus