riving at? Why and wherefore this
lecture?"

"You thoroughly understand me," replied Marcel, in the same serious
tones. "Just now I saw you, like myself, assailed by recollections that
made you regret the past. You were thinking of Mimi and I was thinking
of Musette. Like me, you would have liked to have had your mistress
beside you. Well, I tell you that we ought neither of us to think of
these creatures; that we were not created and sent into the world solely
to sacrifice our existence to these commonplace Manon Lescaut's, and
that the Chevalier Desgrieux, who is so fine, so true, and so poetical,
is only saved from being ridiculous by his youth and the illusions he
cherishes. At twenty he can follow his mistress to America without
ceasing to be interesting, but at twenty-five he would have shown Manon
the door, and would have been right. It is all very well to talk; we are
old, my dear fellow; we have lived too fast, our hearts are cracked, and
no longer ring truly; one cannot be in love with a Musette or a Mimi
for three years with impunity. For me it is all over, and I wish to be
thoroughly divorced from her remembrance. I am now going to commit to
the flames some trifles that she has left me during her various stays,
and which oblige me to think of her when I come across them."

And Marcel, who had risen, went and took from a drawer a little
cardboard box in which were the souvenirs of Musette--a faded bouquet, a
sash, a bit of ribbon, and some letters.

"Come," said he to the poet, "follow my example, Rodolphe."

"Very well, then," said the latter, making an effort, "you are right. I
too will make an end of it with that girl with the white hands."

And, rising suddenly, he went and fetched a small packet containing
souvenirs of Mimi of much the same kind as those of which Marcel was
silently making an inventory.

"This comes in handy," murmured the painter. "This trumpery will help us
to rekindle the fire which is going out."

"Indeed," said Rodolphe, "it is cold enough here to hatch polar bears."

"Come," said Marcel, "let us burn in a duet. There goes Musette's prose;
it blazes like punch. She was very fond of punch. Come Rodolphe,
attention!"

And for some minutes they alternately emptied into the fire, which
blazed clear and noisily, the reliquaries of their past love.

"Poor Musette!" murmured Marcel to himself, looking at the last object
remaining in his hands.

It was a little faded bouquet of