"Gentlemen," said the commissary, "by order of the authorities, this dinner cannot take place. I call upon you to withdraw."
"Oh!" said Rodolphe, retiring with everyone else. "Oh! what a fatality has spoiled my dinner."
He sadly resumed the road to his dwelling, and reached it at about eleven at night.
Monsieur Benoit was awaiting him.
"Ah! it is you," said the landlord. "Have you thought of what I told you this morning? Have you brought me any money?"
"I am to receive some tonight. I will give you some of it tomorrow morning," replied Rodolphe, looking for his key and his candlestick in their accustomed place. He did not find them.
"Monsieur Rodolphe," said the landlord, "I am very sorry, but I have let your room, and I have no other vacant now—you must go somewhere else."
Rodolphe had a lofty soul, and a night in the open air did not alarm him. Besides, in the event of bad weather, he could sleep in a box at the Odeon Theater, as he had already done before. Only he claimed "his property" from Monsieur Benoit, the said property consisting of a bundle of papers.
"That is so," said the landlord. "I have no right to detain those things. They are in the bureau. Come up with me; if the person who has taken your room has not gone to bed, we can go in."
The room had been let during the day to a girl named Mimi, with whom Rodolphe had formerly begun a love duet. They recognized one another at once. Rodolphe began to whisper to Mimi and tenderly squeezed her hand.