" he exclaimed, in transports of just indignation; "the
azure waters of a silver lake! I didn't see that. This poet is an idiot.
I'll bet he never saw a lake, or silver either. A stupid ballad too, in
every way; the length of the lines cramps the music. For the future I
shall compose my verses myself; and without waiting, since I feel in the
humour, I shall manufacture some couplets to adapt my melody to."

So saying, and taking his head between his hands, he assumed the grave
attitude of a man who is having relations with the Muses. After a few
minutes of this sacred intercourse, he had produced one of those 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 m