Five o'clock in the afternoon
Five o'clock in the afternoon . Rain ever since the morning , a gray sky , so low that one can touch it with one 's umbrella , dirty weather , puddles , mud , nothing but mud , in thick pools , in gleaming streaks along the edge of the sidewalks , driven back in vain by automatic sweepers , sweepers with handkerchiefs tied over their heads , and carted away on enormous tumbrils which carry it slowly and in triumph through the streets toward Montreuil ; removed and ever reappearing , oozing between the pavements , splashing carriage panels , horses ' breasts , the clothing of the passers-by , soiling windows , thresholds , shop-fronts , until one would think that all Paris was about to plunge in and disappear beneath that depressing expanse of miry earth in which all things are jumbled together and lose their identity . And it is a pitiable thing to see how that filth invades the spotless precincts of new houses , the copings of the quays , the colonnades of stone balconies . There is some one , however , whom this spectacle rejoices , a poor , ill , disheartened creature , who , stretched out at full length on the embroidered silk covering of a divan , her head resting on her clenched fists , gazes gleefully out through the streaming window-panes and gloats over all these ugly details : `` You see , my Fairy , this is just the kind of weather I wanted to-day .