drunk as three fiddlers."

Suddenly a gleam of lucidity flashed through Schaunard's intoxication,
he read on his door these words written in chalk:

"I have called three times for my New Year's gift--PHEMIE."

"But it is all right, it is all right, I am indeed at home," he
exclaimed, "here is the visiting card Phemie left me on New Year's Day;
it is really my door."

"Good heavens, sir," said Rodolphe, "I am truly bewildered."

"Believe me, sir," added Colline, "that for my part, I am an active
partner in my friend's confusion."

The young fellow who had opened the door could not help laughing.

"If you come into my room for a moment," he replied, "no doubt your
friend, as soon as he has looked around, will see his mistake."

"Willingly."

And the poet and philosopher each taking Schaunard by an arm, led him
into the room, or rather the palace of Marcel, whom no doubt our readers
have recognized.

Schaunard cast his eyes vaguely around him, murmuring, "It is
astonishing how my dwelling is embellished!"