Another day goes (For fitofgrandair and/or checkmystache)

[irma_boissy]

Otro día se va,
y eres mucho más viejo.

(Otro día se va, Los Miserables- Spanish version of "At the end of the day")

Everyday the same.

She wakes the first of all the family. She dresses herself in the corridor to let her sister and her mother sleep a bit more. Grabs a bit of the bread of the day before and the fruit that Helène, her mother's maid, (who hasn't left Mother's shadow even after Father died and they couldn't pay her) has managed to get at the market.

And gets her shawl and a kiss on the cheek from Helène, despite the eternal look of disapproval (You should be married to a nice man, not working in such a place.)

She does open the door and the day, which is barely waking up itself, welcomes her while she walks in direction to the factory, eating the fruit and minding her own business, despite the fact that one can barely do so in the streets of Paris.

 She meets with her co-workers at the door. All of them sleepy eyes and dark circles under them. But also smiles, because they are like sisters. And all seem to be around Rose, who holds a letter. Her boyfriend is coming back to Paris and is going to "ask her an important question".

(Irma could care less about said question, but is happy for Rose).

They enter and begin their work.

While all of them are embroidering, the girls joke that they should find Irma a boyfriend. And make a family of her own. That meets with laughter from Irma. She has a family of her own already, and she was a natural born spinster.

"That lady who will tell stories of all our crazy youths to your grandchildren, ladies."

They all laugh heartily, which gets them a reprimand from the supervisor, and they all continue in silence till the day reaches its end.

The end of the day and she begins the path back home after she says "See you tomorrow" to the girls.

It was another day, after all.

Comments

[fitofgrandair]

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!"