When they had all three gained the top of the stairs, the ascent of
which had been as lengthy as it was difficult, Schaunard, who was the
foremost, uttered a cry of astonishment at finding the key in the
keyhole of his door.

"What is the matter?" asked Rodolphe.

"I cannot make it out," muttered the other. "I find the key in the door,
though I took it away with me this morning. Ah! we shall see. I put it
in my pocket. Why, confound it, here it is still!" he exclaimed,
displaying a key. "This is witchcraft."

"Phantasmagoria," said Colline.

"Fancy," added Rodolphe.

"But," resumed Schaunard, whose voice betrayed a commencement of alarm,
"do you hear that?"

"What?"

"What?"

"My piano, which is playing of its own accord _do la mi re do, la si sol
re._ Scoundrel of a re, it is still false."

"But it cannot be in your room," said Rodolphe, and he added in a
whisper to Colline, against whom he was leaning heavily, "he is tight."