"So I think. In the first place, it is not a piano at all, it is a
flute."

"But you are screwed too, my dear fellow," observed the poet to the
philosopher, who had sat down on the landing, "it is a violin."

"A vio--, pooh! I say, Schaunard," hiccupped Colline, pulling his friend
by the legs, "here is a joke, this gentleman makes out that it is a
vio--"

"Hang it all," exclaimed Schaunard in the height of terror, "it is
magic."

"Phantasma-goria," howled Colline, letting fall one of the bottles he
held by his hand.

"Fancy," yelled Rodolphe in turn.

In the midst of this uproar the room door suddenly opened, and an
individual holding a triple-branched candlestick in which pink candles
were burning, appeared on the threshold.

"What do you want, gentlemen?" asked he, bowing courteously to the three
friends.

"Good heavens, what am I about? I have made a mistake, this is not my
room," said Schaunard.

"Sir," added Colline and Rodolphe, simultaneously, addressing the person
who had opened the door, "be good enough to excuse our friend, he is as