"Madame," observed Colline, who had ceased to take the fresh air, to Mimi, "Champagne is iced with ice. Ice is formed by the condensation of water, in Latin aqua. Water freezes at two degrees, and there are four seasons, spring, summer, autumn, and winter, which was the cause of the retreat from Moscow."
All at once Colline suddenly slapped Rodolphe on the shoulder, and in a thick voice that seemed to mash all the syllables together, said to him—
"Tomorrow is Thursday, is it not?"
"No," replied Rodolphe. "Tomorrow is Sunday."
"Thursday."
"No, I tell you. Tomorrow is Sunday."
"Sunday!" said Colline, wagging his head, "not a bit of it, it is Thursday."
And he fell asleep, making a mold for a cast of his face in the cream cheese that was before him in his plate.
"What is he harping about Thursday?" observed Marcel.
"Ah, I have it!" said Rodolphe, who began to understand the persistency of the philosopher, tormented by a fixed idea, "it is on account of his article in 'The Beaver.' Listen, he is dreaming of it aloud."