er all, though," he continued,
smiling, "instead of lecturing others, I should do well to lecture
myself, for my heart is still full of Musette. Well, after all, perhaps
we shall not always be young fellows in love with such imps."

"Alas!" said Rodolphe, "there is no need to say in one's youth, 'Be off
with you.'"

"That is true," observed Marcel, "but there are days on which I feel I
should like to be a respectable old fellow, a member of the Institute,
decorated with several orders, and, having done with the Musettes of
this circle of society; the devil fly away with me if I would return to
it. And you," he continued, laughing, "would you like to be sixty?"

"Today," replied Rodolphe, "I would rather have sixty francs."

A few days later, Mademoiselle Mimi having gone into a cafe with young
Vicomte Paul, opened a magazine, in which the verses Rodolphe had
written on her were printed.

"Good," said she, laughing at first, "here is my friend Rodolphe saying
nasty things of me in the papers."

But when she finished the verses she remained intent and thoughtful.
Vicomte Paul guessing that she was thinking of Rodolphe, sought to
divert her attention.

"I will buy you a pair of earrings," said he.

"Ah!" said Mimi, "you have money, you have."

"And a Leghorn straw hat," continued the viscount.

"No," said Mimi. "If you want to please me, buy me this."

And she showed him the magazine in which she had just been reading
Rodolphe's poetry.

"Oh! As to that, no," said the viscount, vexed.

"Very well," said Mimi coldly. "I will buy it myself with money I will
earn. In point of fact, I would rather that it was not with yours."

And for two days Mimi went back to her old flower maker's workrooms,
where she earned enough to buy this number. She learned Rodolphe's
poetry by heart, and, to annoy Vicomte Paul, repeated it all day long to
her friends. The verses were as follows:

WHEN I was seeking where to pledge my truth
Chance brought me face to face with you one day;
once I offered you my heart, my youth,
"Do with them what you will," I dared to say.

But "what you would," was cruel, dear; alas!
The youth I trusted with you is no more:
The heart is shattered like a fallen glass,
And the wind sings a funeral mass
On the deserted chamber floor,
Where he who loved you ne'er may pass.