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In her remembrance Hilary Vane, whether he returned from a journey or not, had never been inside the house at that hour on a week-day; and, unlike the gentleman in "La Vie de Boheme," Euphrasia did not have to be reminded of the Sabbath. Perhaps Austen had returned! Or perhaps it was a burglar!
But it is nevertheless true that their embryonic forms have been found perfectly preserved in the rocks, and Barrande, in his "Système Silurien de la Bohème," gives us all the stages of their development, from the time when the animal is merely sketched out as a simple furrow in the embryo to its mature condition.
Always they turn to you, while I, who have so much to give, am given nothing! She set down her tea-cup and began the aria from La Bohème. Nora, without relaxing the false smile, suddenly found emptiness in everything. "Sing!" said Herr Rosen. "I am too tired. Some other time." He did not press her. Instead, he whispered in his own tongue: "You are the most adorable woman in the world!"
That is the secret of all the delicious absurdities of what the French called the Vie de Bohème until the outsider who did not understand made a tiresome cliché of it. The right time for our folly we felt was the golden May evening and the right place a beautiful Paris suburb, time and place consecrated to folly by generations of artists and students. Below us, at St.
Music was the only point at which he touched the culture of the times, like so many business men; but it pleased him also to pose as a patron of local art; so that when Rose went to stay with her childless uncle and aunt, she found long-haired artists and fiery musicians about the place, who excited and encouraged her musical gift, who sketched her while she played, and talked to the pretty, clever, unformed creature of London and Paris and Italy, and set her pining for that golden vie de Bohème which she alone apparently of all artists was destined never to know.
La Vie de Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He had brought it to London and when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be transported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them danced and loved and sang.
And it was as well to show the woman how blind and ignorant she was to make her see the difference. "Bohême" was the surprise that night. It was Ethel's first night at the opera.
Evidently he was well-known at the "Boheme", for the waiters gathered like flies around the honey-pot, and the august head-waiter himself took the order, and beamed his approval at Barry's selections. So presently there flowed in a stream of costly viands, served in outre and fantastic fashion many of them things not known even by name to Thyrsis.
For the delightful heroes and heroines of a whole range of fiction, from 'Manon Lescaut' down to Murger's 'Vie de Boheme, marriage did not apparently exist, even as a matter of argument. And as to the duties of the married woman, when she passed on to the canvas, the code was equally simple.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of Henri Murger's "Vie de Bohème." Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same destination.
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