e ran and opened the door. But those who were coming up
always halted at one of the lower landings, and then the artist would
slowly return to his place by the fireside. Midnight struck, and Musette
had not come.

"After all," thought Marcel, "perhaps she was not in when my letter
arrived. She will find it when she gets home tonight, and she will come
tomorrow. We shall still have a fire. It is impossible for her not to
come. Tomorrow."

And he fell asleep by the fire.

At the very moment that Marcel fell asleep dreaming of her, Mademoiselle
Musette was leaving the residence of her friend Madame Sidonie, where
she had been staying up till then. Musette was not alone, a young man
accompanied her. A carriage was waiting at the door. They got into it
and went off at full speed.

The game at lansquenet was still going on in Madame Sidonie's room.

"Where is Musette?" said someone all at once.

"Where is young Seraphin?" said another.

Madame Sidonie began to laugh.

"They had just gone off together," said she. "It is a funny story. What
a strange being Musette is. Just fancy...." And she informed the company
how Musette, after almost quarreling with Vicomte Maurice and starting
off to find Marcel, had stepped in there by chance and met with young
Seraphin.

"I suspected something was up," she continued. "I had an eye on them all
the evening. He is very sharp, that youngster. In short, they have gone
off on the quiet, and it would take a sharp one to catch them up. All
the same, it is very funny when one thinks how fond Musette is of her
Marcel."

"If she is so fond of him, what is the use of Seraphin, almost a lad,
and who had never had a mistress?" said a young fellow.

"She wants to teach him to read, perhaps," said the journalist, who was
very stupid when he had been losing.

"All the same," said Sidonie, "what does she want with Seraphin when she
is in love with Marcel? That is what gets over me."

* * * * *

For five days the Bohemians went on leading the happiest life in the
world without stirring out. They remained at table from morning till
night. An admired disorder reigned in the room which was filled with a
Pantagruelic atmosphere. On a regular bed of oyster shells reposed an
army of empty bottles of every size and shape. The table was laden with
fragments of every description, and a forest of wood blazed in the
fireplace.

On the sixth day Colline, who was direc