an was so flustered that it was five minutes before she
could open the latch.

"In point of fact," though Rodolphe, "there are times when porters grow
human again."

Passing through the door he found in its recess a sapper and a cook
exchanging the luck-penny of love.

"Hang it," said Rodolphe, alluding to the warrior and his robust
companion, "here are heretics who scarcely think that we are in Lent."

And he set out for the abode of one of his friends who lived in the
neighborhood.

"If Marcel is at home," he said to himself, "we will pass the evening in
abusing Colline. One must do something."

As he rapped vigorously, the door was partly opened, and a young man,
simply clad in a shirt and an eye-glass, presented himself.

"I cannot receive you," said he to Rodolphe.

"Why not?" asked the latter.

"There," said Marcel, pointing to a feminine head that had just peeped
out from behind a curtain, "there is my answer."

"It is not a pretty one," said Rodolphe, who had just had the door
closed in his face. "Ah!" said he to himself when he got into the
street, "what shall I do? Suppose I call on Colline, we could pass the
time in abusing Marcel."

Passing along the Rue de l'Ouest, usually dark and unfrequented,
Rodolphe made out a shade walking up and down in melancholy fashion, and
muttering in rhyme.

"Ho, ho!" said Rodolphe, "who is this animated sonnet loitering here?
What, Colline!"

"What Rodolphe! Where are you going?"

"To your place."

"You won't find me there."

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Ah!" said Colline in a tone of raillery, "what can one be waiting for
when one is twenty, when there are stars in the sky and songs in the
air?"

"Speak in prose."

"I am waiting for a girl."

"Good night," said Rodolphe, who went on his way continuing his
monologue. "What," said he, "is it St. Cupid's Day and cannot I take a
step without running up against people in love? It is scandalously
immoral. What are the police about?"

As the gardens of the Luxembourg were still open, Rodolphe passed into
them to shorten his road. Amidst the deserted paths he often saw
flitting before him, as though disturbed by his footsteps, couples
mysteriously interlaced, and seeking, as a poet has remarked, the
two-fold luxury of silence and shade.

"This," said Rodolphe, "is an evening borrowed from a romance." And yet
overcome, despite himself, by a langourous charm, h