Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/368

“Well,” said Juliet, “this is the moment to go into the balcony and bid one another despairing farewells—what do you think of it?”

“The pigeon is too fast,” said Rodolphe. “It is November, and the sun does not rise till noon.”

“All the same,” said Juliet, “I am going to get up.”

“Why?”

“I feel quite empty, and I will not hide from you the fact that I could very well eat a mouthful.”

“The agreement that prevails in our sympathies is astonishing; I am awfully hungry, too,” said Rodolphe, also rising and hurriedly slipping on his clothes.

Juliet had already lit a fire, and was looking in her sideboard to see whether she could find anything. Rodolphe helped her in this search.

“Hello,” said he, “onions.”

“And some bacon,” said Juliet.

“Some butter?”

“Bread.”

Alas! that was all.

During the search the pigeon, a careless optimist, was singing on its perch.

Romeo looked at Juliet, Juliet looked at Romeo, and both looked at the pigeon.

They did not say anything, but the fate of the pigeon-clock was settled. Even if he had appealed it would have been useless, hunger is such a cruel counsellor.

Rodolphe had lit some charcoal, and was turning bacon in the spluttering butter with a solemn air.

Juliet was peeling onions in a melancholy attitude.

The pigeon was still singing, it was the song of the swan.

To these lamentations was joined the spluttering of the butter in the stew-pan.