And, rising suddenly, he went and fetched a small packet containing souvenirs of Mimi of much the same kind as those of which Marcel was silently making an inventory.
"This comes in handy," murmured the painter. "This trumpery will help us to rekindle the fire which is going out."
"Indeed," said Rodolphe, "it is cold enough here to hatch polar bears."
"Come," said Marcel, "let us burn in a duet. There goes Musette's prose; it blazes like punch. She was very fond of punch. Come Rodolphe, attention!"
And for some minutes they alternately emptied into the fire, which blazed clear and noisily, the reliquaries of their past love.
"Poor Musette!" murmured Marcel to himself, looking at the last object remaining in his hands.
It was a little faded bouquet of wildflowers.
"Poor Musette, she was very pretty though, and she loved me dearly, is it not so, little bouquet? Her heart told you so the day she wore you at her waist. Poor little bouquet, you seem to be pleading for mercy; well, yes; but on one condition; it is that you will never speak to me of her any more, never, never!"
And profiting by a moment when he thought himself unnoticed by Rodolphe, he slipped the bouquet into his breast pocket.
"So much the worse, it is stronger than I am. I am cheating," thought the painter.