beam in my alcove which bothers me a good deal when I have company at
dinner. I should like to make a fire with it--la, la, re, mi--for I feel
my inspiration coming to me through the medium of a cold in the head. So
much the worse, but it can't be helped. Let us continue to drown our
young girl;" and while his fingers assailed the trembling keys,
Schaunard, with sparkling eyes and straining ears, gave chase to the
melody which, like an impalpable sylph, hovered amid the sonorous mist
which the vibrations of the instrument seemed to let loose in the room.

"Now let us see," he continued, "how my music will fit into my poet's
words;" and he hummed, in voice the reverse of agreeable, this fragment
of verse of the patent comic-opera sort:

"The fair and youthful maiden,
As she flung her mantle by,
Threw a glance with sorrow laden
Up to the starry sky
And in the azure waters
Of the silver-waved lake."

"How is that?" he exclaimed, in transports of just indignation; "the
azure waters of a silver lake! I didn't see that. This poet is an idiot.
I'll bet he never saw a lake, or silver either. A stupid ballad too, in
every way; the length of the lines cramps the music. For the future I
shall compose my verses myself; and without waiting, since I feel in the
humour, I shall manufacture some couplets to adapt my melody to."

So saying, and taking his head between his hands, he assumed the grave
attitude of a man who is having relations with the Muses. After a few
minutes of this sacred intercourse, he had produced one of those strings