I put it in my pocket.

Why, confound it, here it is still!" he exclaimed, displaying a key.

"This is witchcraft." "Phantasmagoria," said Colline.
"Fancy," added Rodolphe.
"But," resumed Schaunard, whose voice betrayed a commencement of alarm, "do you hear that ?" "What ?" "What ?" "My piano, which is playing of its own accord _do la mi re do, la si sol re._ Scoundrel of a re, it is still false." "But it cannot be in your room," said Rodolphe, and he added in a whisper to Colline, against whom he was leaning heavily, "he is tight." "So I think.

In the first place, it is not a piano at all, it is a flute." "But you are screwed too, my dear fellow," observed the poet to the philosopher, who had sat down on the landing, "it is a violin." "A vio--, pooh! I say, Schaunard," hiccupped Colline, pulling his friend by the legs, "here is a joke, this gentleman makes out that it is a vio--" "Hang it all," exclaimed Schaunard in the height of terror, "it is magic." "Phantasma-goria," howled Colline, letting fall one of the bottles he held by his hand.
"Fancy," yelled Rodolphe in turn.
In the midst of this uproar the room door suddenly opened, and an individual holding a triple-branched candlestick in which pink candles were burning, appeared on the threshold.
"What do you want, gentlemen ?" asked he, bowing courteously to the three friends.
"Good heavens, what am I about?
I have made a mistake, this is not my room," said Schaunard.
"Sir," added Colline and Rodolphe, simultaneously, addressing the person who had opened the door, "be good enough to excuse our friend, he is as drunk as three fiddlers." Suddenly a gleam of lucidity flashed through Schaunard's intoxication, he read on his door these words written in chalk: "I have called three times for my New Year's gift--PHEMIE." "But it is all right, it is all right, I am indeed at home," he exclaimed, "here is the visiting card Phemie left me on New Year's Day; it is really my door." "Good heavens, sir," said Rodolphe, "I am truly bewildered." "Believe me, sir," added Colline, "that for my part, I am an active partner in my friend's confusion." The young fellow who had opened the door could not help laughing.
"If you come into my room for a moment," he replied, "no doubt your friend, as soon as he has looked around, will see his mistake." "Willingly." And the poet and philosopher each taking Schaunard by an arm, led him into the room, or rather the palace of Marcel, whom no doubt our readers have recognized.
Schaunard cast his eyes vaguely around him, murmuring, "It is astonishing how my dwelling is embellished!" "Well, are you satisfied now ?" asked Colline.
But Schaunard having noticed the piano had gone to it, and was playing scales.
"Here, you fellows, listen to this," said he, striking the notes, "this is something like, the animal has recognized his master,_ si la sol, fa mi re._ Ah! wretched re, you are always the same.

I told you it was my instrument." "He insists on it," said Colline to Rodolphe.
"He insists on it," repeated Rodolphe to Marcel.
"And that," added Schaunard, pointing to the star-adorned petticoat that was lying on a chair, "it is not an adornment of mine, perhaps?
Ah!" And he looked Marcel straight in the face.
"And this," continued he, unfastening from the wall the notice to quit already spoken of.
And he began to read, "Therefore Monsieur Schaunard is hereby required to give up possession of the said premises, and to leave them in tenantable repair, before noon on the eighth day of April.