One evening, when she was humming in a low tone to herself, Vicomte Paul said to Mimi, "What are you singing, dear?"
"The funeral chant of our loves, that my lover Rodolphe has lately composed."
And she began to sing:—
"I have not a sou now, my dear, and the rule
In such a case surely is soon to forget,
So tearless, for she who would weep is a fool,
You'll blot out all mem'ry of me, eh, my pet?
Well, still all the same we have spent as you know
Some days that were happy—and each with its night,
They did not last long, but, alas, here below,
The shortest are ever those we deem most bright."
[CHAPTER XXI]
Romeo and Juliet
Attired like a fashion plate out of his paper, the "Scarf of Iris," with new gloves, polished boots, freshly shaven face, curled hair, waxed moustache, stick in hand, glass in eye, smiling, youthful, altogether nice looking, in such guise our friend, the poet Rodolphe, might have been seen one November evening on the boulevard waiting for a cab to take him home.