Paris – Mother of the Arts.
Bohemia – the Latin Quartier – where young talent suffers and starves... and waits for fame...
More certain than love or fame – the visit of the landlord on the first of the month.
Oh, Art, she is a fickle jade, if you work for her, you'll ne'er be paid! La, la, la la la!
Where saint and sinner, genius and guttersnipe, meet as equals – the Mont de Pieté, municipal pawnshop of Paris.
Vimconte Paul, a true aristocrat, who did nothing, but did it very gracefully.
Now that our rent is paid, we can all starve to death comfortably.
Easter... and to the world and its sorrow... comes another Spring...
The country calls... and like light-hearted, emotional children... the artists answer...
He was in love. Now his dreams had a focus, his words an object, his play a motive. She was in love. Now she had someone to care for, to cherish, to serve as only a woman can.
Rodolphe had sought to forget his bitterness by fleeing – but flight is a poor substitute for love.
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