ed several times at the door, for he vaguely recollected
that the porter had a habit of keeping him waiting. The door at length
opened, and old Durand, half aroused from his first sleep, and no longer
recalling that Schaunard had ceased to be his tenant, did not disturb
himself when the latter called out his name to him.

When they had all three gained the top of the stairs, the ascent of
which had been as lengthy as it was difficult, Schaunard, who was the
foremost, uttered a cry of astonishment at finding the key in the
keyhole of his door.

"What is the matter?" asked Rodolphe.

"I cannot make it out," muttered the other. "I find the key in the door,
though I took it away with me this morning. Ah! we shall see. I put it
in my pocket. Why, confound it, here it is still!" he exclaimed,
displaying a key. "This is witchcraft."

"Phantasmagoria," said Colline.

"Fancy," added Rodolphe.

"But," resumed Schaunard, whose voice betrayed a commencement of alarm,
"do you hear that?"

"What?"

"What?"

"My piano, which is playing of its own accord _do la mi re do, la si sol
re._ Scoundrel of a re, it is still false."

"But it cannot be in your room," said Rodolphe, and he added in a
whisper to Colline, against whom he was leaning heavily, "he is tight."

"So I think. In the first place, it is not a piano at all, it is a
flute."

"But you are screwed too, my dear fellow," observed the poet to the
philosopher, who had sat down on the landing, "it is a violin."

"A vio--, pooh! I say, Schaunard," hiccupped Colline, pulling his friend
by the legs, "here is a joke, this gentleman makes out that it is a
vio--"

"Hang it all," exclaimed Schaunard in the height of terror, "it is
magic."

"Phantasma-goria," howled Colline, letting fall one of the bottles he
held by his hand.

"Fancy," yelled Rodolphe in turn.

In the midst of this uproar the room door suddenly opened, and an
individual holding a triple-branched candlestick in which pink candles
were burning, appeared on the threshold.

"What do you want, gentlemen?" asked he, bowing courteously to the three
friends.

"Good heavens, what am I about? I have made a mistake, this is not my
room," said Schaunard.

"Sir," added Colline and Rodolphe, simultaneously, addressing the person
who had opened the door, "be good enough to excuse our friend, he is as
drunk as three fiddlers."

Suddenly a gleam of lucidity flashed through Schaunard's intoxication,
he read o