RUD. (bowing)
King Louis Philippe: to my monarch I bow.
RUD., MAR., SCH. and COL. Shall King Louis Philippe at our feet thus lie low?
(SCHAUNARD will go on recounting his good luck, but the others continue to arrange everything on the table.)
SCH. Now I'll explain.
This gold has—or rather silver—
Has its own noble story.
MAR. First the stove to replenish.
COL. So much cold has he suffered,
SCH. 'Twas an Englishman, then—
Lord, or mi-lord, as may be—
Desired a musician.
MAR. (throwing COLLINE'S books from the table)
Off! Let us furnish the table.
SCH. I flew to him.
RUD. Where is the food?