"Madame," observed Colline, who had ceased to take the fresh air, to Mimi, "Champagne is iced with ice. Ice is formed by the condensation of water, in Latin aqua. Water freezes at two degrees, and there are four seasons, spring, summer, autumn, and winter, which was the cause of the retreat from Moscow." All at once Colline suddenly slapped Rodolphe on the shoulder, and in a thick voice that seemed to mash all the syllables together, said to him-- "Tomorrow is Thursday, is it not?" "No," replied Rodolphe. "Tomorrow is Sunday." "Thursday." "No, I tell you. Tomorrow is Sunday." "Sunday!" said Colline, wagging his head, "not a bit of it, it is Thursday." And he fell asleep, making a mold for a cast of his face in the cream cheese that was before him in his plate. "What is he harping about Thursday?" observed Marcel. "Ah, I have it!" said Rodolphe, who began to understand the persistency of the philosopher, tormented by a fixed idea, "it is on account of his article in 'The Beaver.' Listen, he is dreaming of it aloud." "Good," said Schaunard. "He shall not have any coffee, eh, madame?" "By the way," said Rodolphe, "pour out the coffee, Mimi." The latter was about to rise, when Colline, who had recovered a little self possession, caught her around the waist and whispered confidentially in her ear: "Madame, the coffee plant is a native of Arabia, where it was discovered by a goat. Its use expanded to Europe. Voltaire used to drink seventy cups a day. I like mine without sugar, but very hot." "Good heavens! What a learned man!" thought Mimi as she brought the coffee and pipes. However time was getting on, midnight had long since struck, and Rodolphe sought to make his guests understand that it was time for them to withdraw. Marcel, who retained all his senses, got up to go. But Schaunard perceived that there was still some brandy in a bottle, and declared that it could not be midnight so long as there was any left. As to Colline, he was sitting astride his chair and murmuring in a low voice: "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday." "Hang it all," said Rodolphe, greatly embarrassed, "I cannot give them quarters here tonight; formerly it was all very well, but now it is another thing," he added, looking at Mimi, whose softly kindling eyes seemed to appeal for solitude for their two selves. "What is to be done? Give me a bit of advice, Marcel. Invent a trick to get rid of them." "No, I won't invent," replied Marcel, "but I will imitate. I remember a play in which a sharp servant manages to get rid of three rascals as drunk as Silenus who are at his master's." "I recollect it," said Rodolphe, "it is in 'Kean.' Indeed, the situation is the same." "Well," said Marcel, "we will see if the stage holds the glass up to human nature. Stop a bit, we will begin with Schaunard. Here, I say, Schaunard." "Eh? What is it?" replied the latter, who seemed to be floating in the elysium of mild intoxication.