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factured placards, the inscriptions—“”Poets,” “Prose Writers,” “Classic School,” “ Romantic School.”

The ladies were to occupy a space reserved in the middle of the studio.

“Humph! chairs are lacking,” said Rodolphe.

“Oh!” remarked Marcel, “there are several on the landing, fastened along the wall. Suppose we were to gather them.”

“Certainly, let us gather them by all means,” said Rodolphe, starting off to seize on the chairs, which belonged to some neighbor.

Six o’clock struck; the two friends went off to a hasty dinner, and returned to light up the saloons. They were themselves dazzled by the result. At seven o’clock Schaunard arrived, accompanied by three ladies, who had forforgotten their diamonds and their bonnets. One of them wore a red shawl with black spots; Schaunard pointed out this lady particularly to Rodolphe.

“She is a woman accustomed to the best society,” said he; “an Englishwoman whom the fall of the Stuarts has driven into exile, she lives in a modest way by giving lessons in English. Her father was Lord Chancellor under Cromwell, she told me, so we must be polite with her; don’t be too familiar.”

Numerous footsteps were heard on the stairs. It was the guests arriving. They seemed astonished to see a fire burning in the stove.

Rodolphe’s swallow-tail went to greet the ladies, and kissed their hands with a grace worthy of the Regency. When there were a score of persons present, Schaunard asked whether it was not time for a round of drinks.

“Presently,” said Marcel. “ We are waiting for the arrival of the influential critic to set fire to the punch.”

At eight o’clock the whole of the guests had arrived, and