This is the story of how chance, which skeptics consider God's business manager, one day brought together the individuals whose fraternal affiliation would later transform them into members of a bohemian society, part of the bohemia this book's author hopes to introduce to the public.

One morning, it was the 8th of April, Alexandre Schaunard, who studied painting and music, two of the liberal arts, was rudely awakened by notes ringing out to him from a neighbor's rooster, which served as his alarm clock.

“Oh my God,” Schaunard exclaimed. “My feathered clock must be running fast. It can't possibly be today already.”

As he spoke these words, he propelled himself out of a piece of furniture he’d built himself, an ingenious invention that served as his bed by night (though it must be said that it served very badly) and served as all the rest of his furniture by day, since everything else had been burned as firewood during the bitterly cold weather the previous winter. Only this all-purpose piece remained.

To protect himself against the morning's bitingly cold drafts, Schaunard quickly slipped on the pink satin petticoat with sequins that sparkled like the stars, an item he used as his dressing gown. This fine garment had been forgotten at the artist's home one night after a masked ball by a reveler who’d been foolish enough to fall for Schaunard's empty promises. He’d been disguised as the Marquis de Mondor2 and she’d heard the sounds of a dozen silver coins clinking seductively in his pocket, though in fact these were counterfeit, theater props cut from a metal plate with a punch and borrowed by Schaunard.

Once he was dressed for the day, the artist went to open his window and shutters. A beam of sunshine, like an arrow of light, suddenly penetrated into the room and his eyes, still veiled with the mists of sleep, were forced open into a wide-eyed stare. At precisely that moment, nearby bells pealed five o’clock.

“It is Dawn herself,” he murmured. “It's amazing, but,” he continued while consulting the calendar hanging on the wall, “it's an error all the same. Scientific research clearly affirms that the sun cannot rise until five thirty at this time of year, yet it's only five and here it is up already.