my answers."

And they both went into a cafe.

Colline's eyes remained riveted on the rope ladder as well as the cage,
in which the bird, thawed by the atmosphere of the cafe, began to sing
in a language unknown to Colline, who was, however, a polyglottist.

"Well then," said the philosopher pointing to the rope ladder, "what is
that?"

"A connecting link between my love and me," replied Rodolphe, in lute
like accents.

"And that?" asked Colline, pointing to the bird.

"That," said the poet, whose voice grew soft as the summer breeze, "is a
clock."

"Tell me without parables--in vile prose, but truly."

"Very well. Have you read Shakespeare?"

"Have I read him? 'To be or not to be?' He was a great philosopher. Yes,
I have read him."

"Do your remember _Romeo and Juliet_?"

"Do I remember?" said Colline, and he began to recite:

"Wilt thou begone? It is not yet day,
It was the nightingale, and not the lark."

"I should rather think I remember. But what then?"

"What!" said Rodolphe, pointing to the ladder and the bird. "You do not
understand! This is the story: I am in love, my dear fellow, in love
with a girl named Juliet."

"Well, what then?" said Colline impatiently.

"This. My new idol being named Juliet, I have hit on a plan. It is to go
through Shakespeare's play with her. In the first place, my name is no
longer Rodolphe, but Romeo Montague, and you will oblige me by not
calling me otherwise. Besides, in order that everyone may know it, I
have had some new visiting cards engraved. But that is not all. I shall
profit by the fact that we are not in Carnival time to wear a velvet
doublet and a sword."

"To kill Tybalt with?" said Colline.

"Exactly," continued Rodolphe. "Finally, this ladder that you see is to
enable me to visit my mistress, who, as it happens, has a balcony."

"But the bird, the bird?" said the obstinate Colline.

"Why, this bird, which is a pigeon, is to play the part of the
nightingale, and indicate every morning the precise moment when, as I am
about to leave her loved arms, my mistress will throw them about my neck
and repeat to me in her sweet tones the balcony scene, 'It is not yet
near day,' that is to say, 'It is not yet eleven, the streets are muddy,
do not go yet, we are comfortable here.' In order to perfect the
imitation, I will try to get a nurse, and place her under the orders of
my beloved and I hope that the almanac will be kind enough to grant me