At about the same time the Bohemians were sitting down to table. During the whole of the repast Marcel seemed uneasy. Everytime a step sounded on the stairs he started.
"What is the matter?" asked Rodolphe of him. "One would think you were expecting someone. Are we not all here?"
But at a look from the artist the poet understood his friend's preoccupation.
"True," he thought, "we are not all here."
Marcel's look meant Musette, Rodolphe's answering glance, Mimi.
"We lack ladies," said Schaunard, all at once.
"Confound it," yelled Colline, "will you hold your tongue with your libertine reflections. It was agreed that we should not speak of love, it turns the sauces."
And the friends continued to drink fuller bumpers, whilst without the snow still fell, and on the hearth the logs flamed brightly, scattering sparks like fireworks.
Just as Rodolphe was thundering out a song which he had found at the bottom of his glass, there came several knocks at the door. Marcel, torpid from incipient drunkenness, leaped up from his chair, and ran to open it. Musette was not there.
A gentleman appeared on the threshold; he was not only bad looking, but his dressing gown was wretchedly made. In his hand he held a slip of paper.