There was Marcel's Musette, Rodolphe's new flame, Mimi, a lovely creature, with a voice like a pair of cymbals, and Schaunard's idol, Phemie Teinturiere.

That night, Phemie, according to agreement, had her bonnet on.

As to Madame Colline that should have been, no one ever saw her; she was always at home, occupied in punctuating her husband's manuscripts.

After the coffee, which was on this great occasion escorted by a regiment of small glasses of brandy, they called for punch.

The waiter was so little accustomed to the order, that they had to repeat it twice.