in his peculiarly frightful nasal tone he recommenced the execution of
his ballad. Satisfied with the result he had just obtained, Schaunard
congratulated himself with an exultant grimace, which mounted over his
nose like a circumflex accent whenever he had occasion to be pleased
with himself. But this triumphant happiness was destined to have no long
duration. Eleven o'clock resounded from the neighbouring steeple. Every
stroke diffused itself through the room in mocking sounds which seemed
to say to the unlucky Schaunard, "Are you ready?"

The artist bounded on his chair. "The time flies like a bird!" he
exclaimed. "I have but three-quarters of an hour left to find my
seventy-five francs and my new lodging. I shall never get them; that
would be too much like magic. Let me see: I give myself five minutes to
find out how to obtain them;" and burying his head between his knees, he
descended into the depths of reflection.

The five minutes elapsed, and Schaunard raised his head without having
found anything which resembled seventy-five francs.

"Decidedly, I have but one way of getting out of this, which is simply
to go away. It is fine weather and my friend Monsieur Chance may be
walking in the sun. He must give me hospitality till I have found the
means of squaring off with Monsieur Bernard."

Having stuffed into the cellar-like pockets of his overcoat all the
articles they would hold, Schaunard tied up some linen in a
handkerchief, and took an affectionate farewell of his home. While
crossing the court, he was suddenly stopped by the porter, who seemed to
be on the watch for him.