Under the Paris Sky (Sous le ciel de Paris)

UNDER THE SKY OF PARIS

UNDER THE SKY OF PARIS FLOWS THE SEINE

Heart of Paris For who are you beating?

For those riding a coach?

Those rising early Those staying up late

Those dreaming or those working?

You're sleeping along with the Seine

You're beating for those in love

Often beat up Always smitten

Listen to the heart of Paris!

Stash your tune away and be quiet, dear.

Paris is sleeping.

Paris is sleeping in the Seine's arms.

For the 800,000th time, maybe.

These two are something.

The Loire is quiet pretty, though.

Anyway-

Paris is sleeping.

And Parisians are dreaming.

From Belleville to Bagatelle, from the Butte-aux-Cailles to Passy.

From the Place de la Nation to the Opera, et cetera, et cetera.

Parisians.

They have no idea.

They have no idea that meanwhile, Fate has something for them,

and is honing her wheel.

That she's going hither and thither,

pointing out those who will be on Fate duty tomorrow,

those whose destiny will be sealed within the next 24 hours,

and whose ways, hitherto diverging or parallel,

will meet all of a sudden,

intertwining, merging until they are only one.

Let's follow her! It's her round.

Fate, she fixes everything up.

Everything but this.

The pearl-gray dawn is beyond her grasp.

She can't do anything for or against her.

The sun rises.

The comedy begins.

Curtain!

That old player, that hopeless night reveler,

the alley cat went through every trash can.

They are his night clubs.

He's telling his amorous exploits

to the cats held jealously prisoner by the old lady from the 6th floor.

She loves her cats so much, the old lady from the 6th floor.

Fate takes us there, in the outskirts.

The plant is on a silence and stillness diet.

What's up?

Two weeks ago, machines were running fine,

there was roaring, quivering, banging, it was alive!

Now something struck it still. By a strike.

It only took a bit of unwillingness, a lot of misunderstanding, and there:

no settlement, but a sit-down strike.

The wheel is spinning.

For who?

For Hermenault Jules.

A peaceful man, he was in two wars.

He likes it when ifs quiet, he's got four kids.

All of them married, except the youngest.

He also sports a good mug, with many worries behind.

Without this damn strike, he could have rested on his Saturday.

What a life!

He would have been fishing with his friend Lambollé Etienne,

another guy from Menilmuche.

Ménilmontant, where blue flowers grow between cobbles.

Ménilmontant: your turf, Chevalier Maurice.

Your song, Trenet Charles.

Your dog, Lambollé Étienne.

Lambollé Étienne, Fatty to his friends.

Sees himself as a fisherman, but fishes see him coming.

They have fun watching him fishing.

Lambollé, gudgeon buffoon.

Lambollé, a nice guy...

without a destiny.

In Montmartre, birds are talking about the news

and the sun rises late, like a Montmartrians.

After all, better stay in bed

than getting up when everybody's sleeping.

Rue de l'Abreuvoir, silence says plainly what sleeping is about.

Don't wake up the tenants of this house.

All of them artists!

1st floor: the Tibules, tap dancers with Freddie on drums.

2nd floor: French Canaan familiar, Emmanuel from the Concerts Lamoureux.

In the lofts over the courtyard are painters and ballet masters. Here...

So I! is today that Mathias the sculptor knows his star,

whether lucky or unlucky.

Tossing up for your star...

To know... to know...

To know if you're talented, and why you're tormented,

and how you're distressed.

He's someone, Mathias.

But who?

Are these faces he kneads the face of his soul?

Fate flees from our question, she darts across Paris

and we catch up with her on Rue Mouffetard.

This is the time when Malingret, king of greengrocers,

is coming cheerfully home from Les Halles.

With the gorgeous Romaine and the disdainful Chicory,

pretty strawberries and nice cherries, cherries here, cherries there!

Oh, sorry. I just can't help it.

Back up there, up under the roofs,

with the cats of the old lady from the 6th floor.

Let's listen to her.

If I could feed you only with fresh air,

everything would be fine.

Bu! 2 liters of milk...

That's 64 francs.

And it'll be two weeks before I get my pension.

I'll find these 64 francs for you lot.

Just wait for a bit.

Yes, yes...

I know.

I'm hungry, too.

But I won't eat if you don't.

I promise.

I'll get it for my hungry babes.

I'll be back. Here I go.

That's some funny times we live in, leek costs almost as much as asparagus.

Honestly!

Would you have something for my pets?

Do your cats like salad?

Would you have 64 francs to give?

Sorry, Miss Perrier, but your bill has been adding up for a while now.

Excuse me.

Poor lady.

That old crackpot and her cats. She's a pain in the neck.

Ain't there anything more interesting than cats?

Well? The plant livens up.

As papers might say: funnily enough, it's always the same who go on strikes.

It's funny indeed...

You never see the board of directors

go on a blotters strike

and stop work to claim an increase in capital.

Seems your blow-out is done for, Pops.

- Looks like it. - That's some time to party!

- What for? - His 25th wedding anniversary.

25 years? You're not easily put off, are you?

The strike's going on because of him,

since he knows how much his party's gonna cost!

- Hermenault, your kid's at the gate. - Is he?

- Hi, Dad. - Hello, lad.

Well?

It's a dead-end, negotiations failed and the strike is going on.

No...

- It was due to stop this morning. - Well it's not.

That's mean.

What about the meal ordered a! Milou's?

We'll have to tell him it won't do.

Why the long face?

I'm kinda mad. Especially when I think of...

- What? - The gifts.

Mum's been dreaming of a sewing machine for 7 years.

We'll give it to her tomorrow.

That's not the same.

- I'll go and cancel, then? - That's it.

- And I'll tell the others. - All right.

Bye, Dad.

Bye, lad.

Hey Dauber, you're not on strike are ya?

Lambollé, followed by his master,

is going to get hooked by fishes.

Do you mind? That's my job.

I'm sorry.

Hold it tight, you squint-eyed! Can't you see I'm gonna fall?

B... B?

That'd be old Brépian who passed away.

Eighty-eight is not that old...

It's the midwife!

Well, that makes things even.

One has lived, the other is going to.

Neither suspects what awaits them.

Bu! here, we have hope.

We have hope in all languages, O University!

We hope in English,

Swedish,

Spanish,

Armenian,

Chinese,

German, and Japanese.

Here, we fraternize.

Here, the universe does not cringe.

And man proves that he's made to live in society.

We weren't so sure.

It's your turn, Georges Forestier!

George Forestier, temporary intern at the Hôtel-Dieu.

A brilliant subject, subject to shyness

He can lose it over anything.

He has already missed three times the infamous entrance examination.

Today is his last chance, no wonder he's so stressed out.

He wants to get there so much.

Get there.

He got here in a station like this, on a day like this.

Georges Forestier.

Nice girl! No wonder Fate noticed her.

First glimpse of Paris for...

Denise Lambert.

Denise Lambert, 20 years and 6 days old.

Fresh from her province, unconscious and graceful,

with her pretty face and bagfuls of smiles.

And a headful of little preconceived ideas.