Bohemians of the Latin Quarter Part 61

"Do not be alarmed. Hostilities were not resumed. Musette came to pa.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 heart would leap to let you in: Since at your name it trembles still-- Muse of oblivious fantasy!-- Return and share, if share you will, Joy's consecrated bread with me.

The decorations of the nest Which saw our mutual ardor burn, Already seem to wear their best At the mere hope of return.

Come, see if you can recognize Things your departure reft of glee, The bed, the gla.s.s of extra size, In which you often drank for me.

You shall resume the plain white gown You used to look so nice in, then; On Sunday we can still run down To wander in the woods again.

Beneath the bower, at evening, Again we'll drink the liquid bright In which your song would dip its wing Before in air it took to flight.

Musette, who has at last confessed The carnival of life was gone, Came back, one morning, to the nest Whence, like a wild bird, she had flown: But, while I kissed the fugitive, My heart no more emotion knew, For, she had ceased, for me, to live, And "You," she said, "no more are you."

"Heart of my heart!" I answered, "Go!

We cannot call the dead love back; Best let it lie, interred, below The tombstone of the almanac Perhaps a spirit that remembers The happy time it notes for me May find some day among its embers Of a lost Paradise the key."

"Well," said Marcel, when he had finished, "you may feel rea.s.sured now, my love for Musette is dead and buried here," he added ironically, indicating the ma.n.u.script of the poem.

"Poor lad," said Rodolphe, "your wit is fighting a duel with your heart, take care it does not kill it."

"That is already lifeless," replied the painter, "we are done for, old fellow, we are dead and buried. Youth is fleeting! Where are you going to dine this evening?"

"If you like," said Rodolphe, "we will go and dine for twelve sous at our old restaurant in the Rue du Four, where they have plates of huge crockery, and where we used to feel so hungry when we had done dinner."

"No," replied Marcel, "I am quite willing to look back at that past, but it must be through the medium of a bottle of good wine and sitting in a comfortable armchair. What would you, I am corrupted. I only care for what is good!"