Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day
Who: Jean open
When: 7 a.m.
Where: The streets

Another good night's work at the Moulin Noir had ended with the dawn; Jean had been called to encore "O How I Love Being In The Gestapo" three times, each rendition becoming increasingly over-the-top until on the fourth run-through his dance partner had actually broken down laughing, and the show had broken down with him as the lights came up.  Not terribly professional, but the Moulin wasn't a terribly professional place at the best of times - after all, it existed as self-parody from the start - and the amusement of it still sparkled in the young man's eyes and put a bounce in his step as he made his way home.

His face still bore smeared traces of mime's facepaint - it sweated off terribly during an evening's performance under the gaslights in the catacombs, and he never bothered to wash it all the way off until he was in his own bath - and the requisite striped shirt showed beneath his unbuttoned coat; the exaggerated half-dancing way he bobbed through the swiftly-growing crowds in the street was imbued with more than a trace of the theatrical.  He ducked and bowed and tipped his hat at everyone who caught his eye, with an especially formal flourish for those in German uniform.

A small girl being hustled down the street by a stern-looking caregiver twisted to watch him as she passed, and he spun to walk a few steps backward and reward her curiosity with a bit of entertainment - only to bump straight into someone as he turned back around.  He immediately adopted a dramatically stricken face and whipped his hat from his head in pantomime apology.