blic who bestow fame and fortune--the one with an album of airs that
were sung at all the concerts, and which gave him the commencement of a
reputation; the other with a book that occupied the critics for a month.
As to Barbemuche he had long since given up Bohemianism. Gustave Colline
had inherited money and made a good marriage. He gave evening parties
with music and light refreshments.

One evening Rodolphe, seated in his own armchair with his feet on his
own rug, saw Marcel come in quite flurried.

"You do not know what has just happened to me," said he.

"No," replied the poet. "I know that I have been to your place, that you
were at home, and that you would not answer the door."

"Yes, I heard you. But guess who was with me."

"How do I know?"

"Musette, who burst upon me last evening like a bombshell, got up as a
_debardeur_."

"Musette! You have once more found Musette!" said Rodolphe, in a tone of
regret.

"Do not be alarmed. Hostilities were not resumed. Musette came to pass
with me her last night of Bohemianism."

"What?"

"She is going to be married."

"Bah!" said Rodolphe. "Who is the victim?"

"A postmaster who was her last lover's guardian; a queer sort of fellow,
it would seem. Musette said to him, 'My dear sir, before definitely
giving you my hand and going to the registrar's I want to drink my last
glass of Champagne, dance my last quadrille, and embrace for the last
time my lover, Marcel, who is now a gentleman, like everybody else is
seems.' And for a week the dear creature has been looking for me. Hence
it was that she burst upon me last evening, just at the moment I was
thinking of her. Ah, my friend! Altogether we had a sad night of it. It
was not at all the same thing it used to be, not at all. We were like
some wretched copy of a masterpiece? I have even written on the subject
of this last separation a little ballad which I will whine out to you if
you will allow me," and Marcel began to chant the following verses:--

I saw a swallow yesterday,
He brought Spring's promise to the air;
"Remember her," he seemed to say,
"Who loved you when she'd time to spare;"
And all the day I sate before
The almanac of yonder year,
When I did nothing but adore,
And you were pleased to hold me dear.

But do not think my love is dead,
Or to forget you I begin.

If you sought entry to my shed
My he