Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/364

are impossible. A clock, the hands of which stretch to your bed and prick yours whilst you are still plunged in the soft delights of your first awakening. A clock, whose voice cries to you, ‘Ting, ting, ting; it is the hour for business. Leave your charming dream, escape from the caresses of your visions, and sometimes of realities. Put on your hat and boots. It is cold, it rains, but go about your business. It is time—ting, ting.’ It is quite enough already to have an almanac. Let my clock remain paralyzed, or—”

Whilst delivering this monologue he was examining his new dwelling, and felt himself moved by that secret uneasiness which one almost always feels when going into a fresh lodging.

“I have noticed,” he reflected, “that the places we inhabit exercise a mysterious influence upon our thoughts, and consequently upon our actions. This room is cold and silent as a tomb. If ever mirth reigns here it will be brought in from without, and even then it will not be for long, for laughter will die away without echoes under this low ceiling, cold and white as a snowy sky. Alas! what will my life be like within these four walls?”

However, a few days later this room, erst so sad, was full of light, and rang with joyous sounds, it was the house-warming, and numerous bottles explained the lively humor of the guests. Rodolphe allowed himself to be won upon by the contagious good humor of his guests. Isolated in a corner with a young woman who had come there by chance, and whom he had taken possession of, the poet was sonnetteering with her with tongue and hands. Towards the close of the festivities he had obtained a rendezvous for the next day.

“Well!” said he to himself when he was alone, “the