The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger

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      “The maid with the golden hair

      Flings her mantilla by,

      Then to the heavens so fair

      Raises a tear-dimmed eye;

      Then in the silvery wave

      Rippling the lake so blue——

      “What! what!” cried Schaunard, justly indignant. “A silvery wave in a blue lake. I never noticed that till now. Too romantic by half. After all, the poet is an idiot; he never saw silver nor yet a lake in his life. His ballad is stupid into the bargain; the length of his lines does not fit into my music. I shall compose my own words in future, which is to say that I mean to set about it, and that no later than at once. I feel I am in the vein. I will rough out some model couplets and adapt my tune to them afterwards.”

      Schaunard, with his head between his hands, assumed the pensive attitude proper to a mortal in commerce with the Muse. Then, after a few moments of this divine intercourse, he brought into the world one of the misshapen conceptions known as dummy-verses, which librettists throw off with considerable facility, to serve as a provisional basis for the composer’s art. Schaunard’s dummy, however, was not devoid of common sense. It represented accurately enough the disturbance aroused in his brain by the brutal reality of the date—the 8th of April.

      Here are the couplets—

      Eight and eight make sixteen

      (Six, and you carry the one);

      Pleased and proud I had been

      If, ere the quarter was done,

      I had found some one to lend

      (Somebody honest and poor)

      Eight hundred francs to a friend;

      I’d have paid up, I am sure.

      REFRAIN.

      Then, when a quarter to twelve

      Sounds from the dial of Fate,

      I’ll go to my landlord myself (thrice),

      And settle accounts up to date.

      “The deuce!” exclaimed Schaunard, looking over his composition; “self and twelve! A beggarly pair of rhymes, but I have not time now to enrich them. Let us try the music wedded to the words.”

      Again he attacked his ballad, with a frightful nasal intonation peculiarly his own. The result was doubtless pleasing to him, for he hailed it with the jubilant grin which, like a circumflex accent, bestrode his visage whenever he was particularly pleased with himself. But his proud ecstasy was of short duration.

      Eleven o’clock sounded from the neighbouring steeple. Every sonorous stroke, ringing through the miserable Schaunard’s chamber, died away in mocking echoes that seemed to inquire, “Are you ready?”

      He started violently on his chair.

      “Time runs like a stag. I have to find seventy-five francs and new lodgings, and only three-quarters of an hour to do it in—which I never shall. It is altogether too much in the conjuring line. See here, I will give myself five minutes to find out how to do it,” and, burying his head between his knees, he dived into the abysmal depths of reflection.

      The five minutes went by. Schaunard lifted his head again, but he had found nothing that in the least resembled his seventy-five francs.

      “If I am to get out of this there is precisely one way of setting about it, and that is to walk out quite naturally. My friend Chance may be taking a stroll outside in the sun; he surely will offer me hospitality until I can settle with M. Bernard.”

      So saying, Schaunard stuffed everything that could be stowed into his great-coat pockets (two receptacles capacious as cellars), tied up a selection of linen into a bundle, took leave of his room with a few words of farewell, and went downstairs.

      The concierge seemed to be on the look-out, for he called across the yard to Schaunard, and barred his passage out.

      “Hi! M. Schaunard. Can you have forgotten? To-day is the 8th.”

      “Eight and eight make sixteen

      (Six, and you carry the one),”

      hummed Schaunard. “It is the one thought in my mind.”

      “You are a little behindhand with your moving, and that is a fact,” remarked the concierge. “It is half-past eleven; the new tenant may come in at any moment and want your room. You had better look sharp.”

      “Very well, then, just let me pass. I am going out to find a cart to remove my things.”

      “No doubt; but there is one little formality to discharge first. My orders are not to let you take away so much as a hair till you have paid up what you owe for the three last terms. You are ready to do so, I suppose?”

      “Rather!” returned Schaunard, taking a step forward.

      “Then, if you will step into my room, I will give you the receipts at once.”

      “I will look in for that when I come back.”

      “But why not now?” persisted the man.

      “I am going out to get change.”

      “Oho! you are going out to get change, are you?” returned the other suspiciously. “Well, then, just to oblige you, I’ll take care of that little bundle you have under your arm; you might find it in your way.”

      “Monsieur le concierge!” said Schaunard with much dignity, “is it possible that you harbour any suspicions of me? Can you suppose that I am capable of removing my furniture in a pocket-handkerchief?”

      “I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the man, lowering his tone a little, “those are my orders. M. Bernard expressly forbade me to allow you to take away one hair until you had paid up.”

      “Now, just look,” said Schaunard, untying his bundle, “there are no hairs here. These are shirts that I am taking to the laundress, not twenty paces away, next door to the money-changer’s.”

      “That is another thing,” the concierge admitted after a scrutiny of the contents. “If it’s a fair question, M. Schaunard, may I ask for your new address?”

      “I am staying in the Rue de Rivoli,” Schaunard answered coolly; but by this time he had one foot in the street, and was out and away at his utmost speed.

      “Rue de Rivoli,” muttered the concierge with a finger to his nose, “Rue de Rivoli. It is very odd that anybody should let him take a room in the Rue de Rivoli without coming here to ask about him, very odd! After all, he can’t take away his things, at any rate, without paying his rent. If only the new lodger does not come in just as M. Schaunard is going out. A pretty row there would be on the stairs! Hullo! just as I thought,” he cried, suddenly popping his head out at the wicket, “here comes the new lodger himself.”

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