It doesn't take as long as he had expected to find the place. He does stop to ask for directions and a bit of money, and somehow secures both. Find an open face, play your cards right, and it is never too difficult to secure a favor.
The city itself is too much to take in, really. Everything jumbled, the architecture makes little sense, and strange contraptions barreled through the streets. Almost everything and everyone feels slightly out of place, somehow. And nothing quite clicks in. 'What is this place. What is any of this.' Grantaire doesn't try to make everything fit into sense (or whatever can be classed as sense), but allows the input to pass through his mind and stick if it will.
Upon reaching the cafe, Grantaire purchases a bottle of wine, searching for the girl. He cannot recall an exact impression, but surely once he sees her...
She finds him first. And when Grantaire turns, he does find a flicker of recollection, though he might not know her if she hadn't spoken first. There is both more and less life to her, and she no longer looks the part of a down-and-out beggar. She looks... Well. Could perhaps be called attractive, though he notes this at the back of his mind. What he finds familiar is a sense--in her face, mostly, but perhaps discernible in her very stance--of some war between oppression and vitality.
For his own part, Grantaire is something of a mess (not that this is particularly out of the ordinary). His final hours in Paris had been filled with drinking and then sleeping off said drink while the battle raged outside. Add to that a worn (but, Grantaire had been glad to find, well-cut) coat obtained shortly after arrival, and yes, he was a little more mussed than usual.
It would be nice to have his own jacket, but alas, it is back in Paris, all alone and without him. How sad to be a jacket and alone.
"M'lady."
He returns a mock curtsey, then pats her on the shoulder. "It is Grantaire." There is much to ask, much to say, and he is impatient, even eager to hear her news. "Shall we?"
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The city itself is too much to take in, really. Everything jumbled, the architecture makes little sense, and strange contraptions barreled through the streets. Almost everything and everyone feels slightly out of place, somehow. And nothing quite clicks in. 'What is this place. What is any of this.' Grantaire doesn't try to make everything fit into sense (or whatever can be classed as sense), but allows the input to pass through his mind and stick if it will.
Upon reaching the cafe, Grantaire purchases a bottle of wine, searching for the girl. He cannot recall an exact impression, but surely once he sees her...
She finds him first. And when Grantaire turns, he does find a flicker of recollection, though he might not know her if she hadn't spoken first. There is both more and less life to her, and she no longer looks the part of a down-and-out beggar. She looks... Well. Could perhaps be called attractive, though he notes this at the back of his mind. What he finds familiar is a sense--in her face, mostly, but perhaps discernible in her very stance--of some war between oppression and vitality.
For his own part, Grantaire is something of a mess (not that this is particularly out of the ordinary). His final hours in Paris had been filled with drinking and then sleeping off said drink while the battle raged outside. Add to that a worn (but, Grantaire had been glad to find, well-cut) coat obtained shortly after arrival, and yes, he was a little more mussed than usual.
It would be nice to have his own jacket, but alas, it is back in Paris, all alone and without him. How sad to be a jacket and alone.
"M'lady."
He returns a mock curtsey, then pats her on the shoulder. "It is Grantaire." There is much to ask, much to say, and he is impatient, even eager to hear her news. "Shall we?"