Bohemians of the Latin Quarter | Page 8

strings of nonsense-verses which the libretti-makers call, not without
reason, monsters, and which they improvise very readily as a
ground-work for the composer's inspiration. Only Schaunard's were no
nonsense-verses, but very good sense, expressing with sufficient
clearness the inquietude awakened in his mind by the rude arrival of
that date, the eighth of April.
Thus they ran:
"Eight and eight make sixteen just, Put down six and carry one: My
poor soul would be at rest Could I only find some one, Some honest

poor relation, Who'd eight hundred francs advance, To pay each
obligation, Whenever I've a chance."
Chorus
"And ere the clock on the last and fatal morning Should sound mid-day,
To old Bernard, like a man who needs no warning, To old Bernard, like
a man who needs no warning, To old Bernard, like a man who needs no
warning, My rent I'd pay!"
"The duece!" exclaimed Schaunard, reading over his composition, "one
and some one--those rhymes are poor enough, but I have no time to
make them richer. Now let us try how the notes will unite with the
syllables." And in his peculiarly frightful nasal tone he recommenced
the execution of his ballad. Satisfied with the result he had just
obtained, Schaunard congratulated himself with an exultant grimace,
which mounted over his nose like a circumflex accent whenever he had
occasion to be pleased with himself. But this triumphant happiness was
destined to have no long duration. Eleven o'clock resounded from the
neighbouring steeple. Every stroke diffused itself through the room in
mocking sounds which seemed to say to the unlucky Schaunard, "Are
you ready?"
The artist bounded on his chair. "The time flies like a bird!" he
exclaimed. "I have but three-quarters of an hour left to find my
seventy-five francs and my new lodging. I shall never get them; that
would be too much like magic. Let me see: I give myself five minutes
to find out how to obtain them;" and burying his head between his
knees, he descended into the depths of reflection.
The five minutes elapsed, and Schaunard raised his head without
having found anything which resembled seventy-five francs.
"Decidedly, I have but one way of getting out of this, which is simply
to go away. It is fine weather and my friend Monsieur Chance may be
walking in the sun. He must give me hospitality till I have found the
means of squaring off with Monsieur Bernard."

Having stuffed into the cellar-like pockets of his overcoat all the
articles they would hold, Schaunard tied up some linen in a
handkerchief, and took an affectionate farewell of his home. While
crossing the court, he was suddenly stopped by the porter, who seemed
to be on the watch for him.
"Hallo! Monsieur Schaunard," cried he, blocking up the artist's way,
"don't you remember that this is the eighth of April?"
"Eight and eight make sixteen just, Put down six and carry one,"
hummed Schaunard. "I don't remember anything else."
"You are a little behindhand then with your moving," said the porter;
"it is half-past eleven, and the new tenant to whom your room has been
let may come any minute. You must make haste."
"Let me pass, then," replied Schaunard; "I am going after a cart."
"No doubt, but before moving there is a little formality to be gone
through. I have orders not to let you take away a hair unless you pay
the three quarters due. Are you ready?"
"Why, of course," said Schaunard, making a step forward.
"Well come into my lodge then, and I will give you your receipt."
"I shall take it when I come back."
"But why not at once?" persisted the porter.
"I am going to a money changer's. I have no change."
"Ah, you are going to get change!" replied the other, not at all at his
ease. "Then I will take care of that little parcel under your arm, which
might be in your way."
"Monsieur Porter," exclaimed the artist, with a dignified air, "you
mistrust me, perhaps! Do you think I am carrying away my furniture in

a handkerchief?"
"Excuse me," answered the porter, dropping his tone a little, "but such
are my orders. Monsieur Bernard has expressly charged me not to let
you take away a hair before you have paid."
"But look, will you?" said Schaunard, opening his bundle, "these are
not hairs, they are shirts, and I am taking them to my washerwoman,
who lives next door to the money changer's twenty steps off."
"That alters the case," said the porter, after he had examined the
contents of the bundle. "Would it be impolite, Monsieur Schaunard, to
inquire your new address?"
"Rue de Rivoli!" replied the artist, and having once got outside the gate,
he made off as fast as possible.