uilt by the Romans, and with his head covered by his famous broad
brimmed hat, a dome of beaver, beneath which buzzed a swarm of
hyperphysical dreams, and which was nicknamed Mambrino's Helmet of
Modern Philosophy, Gustave Colline was walking slowly along, chewing the
cud of the preface of a book that had already been in the press for the
last three months--in his imagination. As he advanced towards the spot
where Rodolphe was standing, Colline thought for a moment that he
recognized him, but the supreme elegance displayed by the poet threw the
philosopher into a state of doubt and uncertainty.

"Rodolphe with gloves and a walking stick. Chimera! Utopia! Mental
aberration! Rodolphe curled and oiled; he who has not so much as Father
Time. What could I be thinking of? Besides, at this present moment my
unfortunate friend is engaged in lamentations, and is composing
melancholy verses upon the departure of Mademoiselle Mimi, who, I hear,
has thrown him over. Well, for my part, I too, regret the loss of that
young woman. She was a dab hand at making coffee, which is the beverage
of serious minds. But I trust that Rodolphe will console himself, and
soon get another Kettle-holder."

Colline was so delighted with his wretched joke, that he would willingly
have applauded it, had not the stern voice of philosophy woke up within
him, and put an energetic stop to this perversion of wit.

However, as he halted close to Rodolphe, Colline was forced to yield to
evidence. It was certainly Rodolphe, curled, gloved, and with a cane. It
was impossible, but it was true.

"Eh! Eh! By Jove!" said Colline. "I am not mistaken. It is you, I am
certain."

"So am I," replied Rodolphe.

Colline began to look at his friend, imparting to his countenance the
expression pictorially made use of by M. Lebrun, the king's painter in
ordinary, to express surprise. But all at once he noted two strange
articles with which Rodolphe was laden--firstly, a rope ladder, and
secondly, a cage, in which some kind of a bird was fluttering. At this
sight, Gustave Colline's physiognomy expressed a sentiment which
Monsieur Lebrun, the king's painter in ordinary, forgot to depict in his
picture of "The Passions."

"Come," said Rodolphe to his friend, "I see very plainly the curiosity
of your mind peeping out through the window of your eyes; and I am going
to satisfy it, only, let us quit the public thoroughfare. It is cold
enough here to freeze your questions and