What coughing!

MIMI.  Unceasingly it shakes me,
And Rudolph now forsakes me. 
And says to me, “It is over!”
At daybreak swift escaping,
I hurried here to find him.

MAR. (watching RUDOLPH inside the tavern)
He’s moving, waking, and wants me. 
Come, then.

MIMI.  He must not see me.

MAR.  Well, hide yourself out there.

(Points to the plane-trees.  MIMI hides behind the trees.)

RUD. (coming out of the inn, hastens towards MARCEL)
Marcel! at last I’ve found you,
Where none can hear us. 
I want a separation from Mimi.

MAR.  Is that your latest whim?

RUD.  Love in my heart was dying, almost was dead,
But her blue eyes new glory on me shed. 
Love, swift revived, all me; what woe is mine!

MAR.  Ah! would you now such bitter pain recall?

(MIMI warily approaches to listen)

RUD.  Yes, always.

MAR.  Nay, be prudent!  Love is not worth the keeping,
That only ends in weeping. 
Love must thrive in mirth and gladness,
Or else it is but madness. 
’Tis that you’re jealous!

RUD.  Aye, somewhat;
And choleric, and lunatic,
And a victim of vile suspicion,
Unhappy, and stubborn!

MIMI. (aside)
He’s getting in a rage;
Poor little Mimi!

RUD.  Mimi’s a heartless maiden,
Prone to flirting with all. 
A scented dandy, some lordling,
Now striveth to win her caresses. 
With bosom swaying,
One foot displaying,
Doth she lure him on
With the magic of her smile.

MAR.  Shall I be frank?  I think ’tis hardly true.

RUD.  No, ’tis not true. 
In vain, in vain I smother
All the torture that racks me. 
I love Mimi, she is my only treasure! 
I love her, but, oh!  I fear it!

(Mimi surprised, comes closer and closer, under cover of the trees)

Mimi’s so sickly, so ailing,
Every day she grows weaker,
The poor girl, as I think, is dying.

MAR. (fearing MIMI may overhear them, tries to keep RUDOLPH further off) Oh!  Rudolph!

MIMI.  What’s he saying?

RUD.  By fierce, incessant coughing
Her fragile frame is shaken,
While in her cheeks so pallid
The fires of fever waken.

MAR. (agitated, perceiving that Mimi is listening) Softly!

MIMI. (weeping) Woe is me!  I’m dying!

RUD.  And my room’s but a squalid hovel,
No fire there burneth,
Only the cruel night wind
Waileth, waileth there ever. 
Yet she’s merry and smiling,
While, remorseful, despairing,
I feel that ’tis I that am guilty.

MAR. (eager to draw RUDOLPH aside) List but a moment!

MIMI. (disconsolately) Ah!  I’m dying!

RUD.  Mimi’s a hot-house flower!

MAR.  Nay, but listen!