"The deuce. That will cause some modification in our bill of fare. Well, thirty sous carefully laid out—. All the same it will be difficult to run to truffles," said the others.
A few minutes later the table was spread. There were three dishes most symmetrically arranged—a dish of herrings, a dish of potatoes, and a dish of cheese.
On the hearth smoldered two little brands as big as one's fist.
Snow was still falling without.
The four Bohemians sat down to table and gravely unfolded their napkins.
"It is strange," said Marcel, "this herring has a flavor of pheasant."
"That is due to the way in which I cooked it," replied Colline. "The herring has never been properly appreciated."
At that moment a joyous song rose on the staircase, and a knock came at the door. Marcel, who had not been able to help shuddering, ran to open it.
Musette threw her arms round his neck and held him in an embrace for five minutes. Marcel felt her tremble in his arms.
"What is the matter?" he asked.