Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/146

“I understand,” said Marcel, offering musette his arm. He took her to his studio on the Quai aux Fleurs.

Musette was hardly able to keep awake, but she still had strength enough to say to Marcel, taking him by the hand, “You remember what you have promised.”

“Oh! Musette, charming creaure!” said the artist in a somewhat moved tone, “you are here beneath a hospitable roof, sleep in peace. Good-night, I am off.”

“Why so?” said Musette, her eyes half-closed; “I am not afraid, I can assure you. In the first place, there are two rooms, I will sleep on your sofa.”

“My sofa is too hard to sleep on, it is stuffed with carded pebbles. I will give you hospitality here, and ask it for myself from a friend who lives on the same landing. It will be more prudent,” said he; “I usually keep my word, but I am twenty-two and you are eighteen, Musette,—and I am off. Good-night.”

The next morning at eight o’clock Marcel entered her room with a pot of flowers that he had gone and bought in the market. He found Musette, who had thrown herself fully dressed on the bed, and was still sleeping. At the noise made by him she woke, and held out her hand. “What a good fellow,” said she.

“Good fellow,” repeated Marcel, “is not that a term of ridicule?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Musette, “why should you say that to me? It is not nice. Instead of saying spiteful things offer me that pretty pot of flowers.”

“It is, indeed, for you that I have brought them up,” said Marcel. “ Take it, and in return for my hospitality sing me one of your songs, the echo of my garret may perhaps retain something of your voice, and I shall still hear you after you have departed.”

“Oh! so you want to show me the door?” said Musette.