Early evening finds Grantaire in a remarkably fine mood. A jocund morning at the studio (even among the most devoted of students, there was little push for work when a new member joined their ranks), a session of savate followed by wine, and now to the Café Musain, with who knew what amusements to follow. If nothing else, there would be more wine and extensive talk, and he is no man to minimize the worth of either. The weather is pleasant enough, and today the sight of people--people simply passing on the street, men arguing, women adjusting their skirts or gazing through windows--energizes him. The human race may be a shabby sort, but its men and women hold complications keen enough to grab his mind, ambiguities with which a questioning consciousness may weave enchanting stories.

But hold.

Who is this? This woman walking toward him, a new face, surely, for it is one that could not easily pass from memory. Amid the throng of men and women scuttling about their business, she alone truly arrests attention, her skin as if untouched by Parisian grime, her figure the very standard of ideal proportions. She might come from the sky, she might have stepped from the most perfect of paintings. This is a girl created as much for praise as for the eye's appeasement.

And who is he to pass up such an opportunity?

There can be no harm in speaking. There is never any harm in speaking. If the girl will not grant the favor of her acknowledgement, he may at least have the pleasure of watching her blush.

As she approaches, he takes a few abrupt steps forward before reaching for a standstill, hand clutching his chest. "Great gods above, can such things be?"

Feigning a quick recovery, he continues with deference. "Mademoiselle, please, I cry your pardon."

Now he offers an exaggerated bow, never taking his eyes off of her own, his smile unfaltering. "But you must forgive me, or I pray at least that you may. It is only that I have been stunned--staggered, Mademoiselle!--by your countenance, by the sudden appearance of such an angel! Ah, do not believe I exaggerate, for yours is a face to fire the passionate imagination of even the most barbaric men (and how much more arresting for a man such as I? I, who--rude though I may seem, clumsy as I am in manner--possess at least a touch of learned cultivation).

"Do I have your mercy? Do not, oh do not allow me to be the cause of any displeasure that might crease your noble brow!"