Passing along the Rue de l'Ouest, usually dark and unfrequented, Rodolphe made out a shade walking up and down in melancholy fashion, and muttering in rhyme.
"Ho, ho!" said Rodolphe, "who is this animated sonnet loitering here? What, Colline!"
"What Rodolphe! Where are you going?"
"To your place."
"You won't find me there."
"What are you doing here?"
"Waiting."
"What are you waiting for?"
"Ah!" said Colline in a tone of raillery, "what can one be waiting for when one is twenty, when there are stars in the sky and songs in the air?"
"Speak in prose."