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Bon jour, monsieur, and a word in your ear " The old man was opening the shop door. "Yes?" "Don't go." Schaunard closed his door and retired to his office to chuckle over his joke, and Adams walked off down the Rue de la Paix.
Fit emblem of the forest he had passed through and the land that lay behind it. One hot day in June Schaunard was seated in the little office just behind his shop. He was examining an improved telescopic sight which had just been put upon the market by an opponent, criticizing it as one poet criticizes the poem of another poet that is to say, ferociously.
The same business, you may say, or there and thereabout, was being privately enacted in consequence in every garret of the neighbourhood, and a good third of the students were consciously impersonating Rodolphe or Schaunard to their own incommunicable satisfaction. Some of us went far, and some farther.
"No, it is not malaria," replied Adams, following the old man who was leading the way into the office. "I never felt better in my life. It is just the Congo. The place leaves an impression on one's mind, M. Schaunard, a flavour that is not good." He took the armchair which Schaunard kept for visitors.
The swing-door closed, shutting out the sound of the Rue de la Paix, and the old gun-merchant came forward through the silence of his shop to meet his visitor. Adams explained his business. He had come to buy some rifles for a big-game expedition. Captain Berselius had recommended him. "Ah! Captain Berselius?" said Schaunard, and an interested look came into his face.
"True, he is a customer of mine. As a matter of fact, his guns for his new expedition are already boxed and directed for Marseilles. Ah, yes you require a complete outfit, I suppose?" "Yes," said Adams. "I am going with him." "Going with Captain Berselius as a friend?" "No, as a doctor." "True, he generally takes a doctor with him," said Schaunard, running his fingers through his beard.
All your beautiful guns, Monsieur Schaunard, are now matchwood and old iron, tents, everything went, smashed to pieces, pounded to pulp by elephants." He told of the great herd they had pursued and how in the dark it had charged the camp.
Marcel continued his imprecations, which Schaunard continued to set to music. "Oh, they won't accept me," said Marcel. "Ah! the government pays them, boards them, gives them the Cross, solely for the one purpose of refusing me once a year, on the 1st of March. I see their idea clearly now I see it perfectly clearly; they are trying to drive me to break my brushes.
"That will be one on them on them on them, them, them," sang the musician, Schaunard, fitting the words to a new air he had been composing a terrible air, noisy as a gamut of thunderclaps, and the accompaniment to which was a terror to every piano in the neighborhood.
He told her the details, even as he had told them to Schaunard, but with additions. "I myself was paralyzed I could only cling to the tree and watch. The fury of that storm of beasts coming down on one was like a wind I can put it no other way like a wind that stripped one's mind of everything but just the power of sight.
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