Colline and Rodolphe lived at opposite ends of Paris, one on the Ile Saint Louis, and the other at Montmartre.
Schaunard, who had wholly forgotten that he was without a residence, offered them hospitality.
"Come to my place," said he, "I live close by, we will pass the night in discussing literature and art." "You shall play and Rodolphe will recite some of his verses to us," said Colline.
"Right you are," said Schaunard, "life is short, and we must enjoy ourselves whilst we can." Arriving at the house, which Schaunard had some difficulty in recognizing, he sat down for a moment on a corner-post waiting for Rodolphe and Colline, who had gone into a wine-shop that was still open to obtain the primary element of a supper.

When they came back, Schaunard rapped several times at the door, for he vaguely recollected that the porter had a habit of keeping him waiting.

The door at length opened, and old Durand, half aroused from his first sleep, and no longer recalling that Schaunard had ceased to be his tenant, did not disturb himself when the latter called out his name to him.
When they had all three gained the top of the stairs, the ascent of which had been as lengthy as it was difficult, Schaunard, who was the foremost, uttered a cry of astonishment at finding the key in the keyhole of his door.
"What is the matter ?" asked Rodolphe.
"I cannot make it out," muttered the other.

"I find the key in the door, though I took it away with me this morning.

Ah! we shall see.