Apollinaire turned the corner from the avenue Trudaine and proceeded up the rue des Martyrs striding gracefully through the overhanging shadows of late night Montmartre. Beneath his arm was the slender wrist of a woman unmistakably elegant, and unmistakably French. She carried her lorgnette loosely in her finger tips and made sparse comments about the dinner party from which that had recently set out, making the journey by foot from the rue de Fleurus. It was always a joy for Apollinaire to walk the streets of Paris with the spirit of wine stirring his emotions. He reached down to adjust his handkerchief, but it stuck to his finger tips when he withdrew his hand from his breast pocket and fluttered to the ground and into a puddle covering the reflected image of the moon. Apollinaire drew to a halt, swinging his mistress slowly around before allowing her palm to slide from his cuff. He stooped down and grabbed between his forefinger and thumb the part of the cloth that had not yet absorbed the muddy water. He gave it a quick jerk to shake the excess water, looked at the delicate face overlooking the small spectacle, and chuckled at its magnitude. Stepping over the puddle, he extended his arm to his lady, and they continued on up the rue des Martyrs.