They followed the long dimly-lighted Rue de Richelieu to the Boulevards, where they drifted a little while with the crowd. The glaring lights seemed to powder the air with gold. Cafes and the tables outside were crowded. There was an odor of vermouth and coffee and perfume and cigarette smoke mixed with the fumes of burnt gasoline from taxicabs. “Isn't this mad?” said Andrews. “It's always carnival at seven on the Grands Boulevards.” They started climbing the steep streets to Montmartre. At a corner they passed a hard-faced girl with rouge-smeared lips and overpowdered cheeks, laughing on the arm of an American soldier, who had a sallow face and dull-green eyes that glittered in the slanting light of a street-lamp. “Hello, Stein,” said Andrews. “Who's that?” “A fellow from our division, got here with me this morning.” “He's got curious lips for a Jew,” said Henslowe. At the fork of two slanting streets, they went into a restaurant that had small windows pasted over with red paper, through which the light came dimly. Inside were crowded oak tables and oak wainscoting with a shelf round the top, on which were shell-cans, a couple of skulls, several cracked majolica plates and a number of stuffed rats. The only people there were a fat woman and a man with long grey hair and beard who sat talking earnestly over two small glasses in the center of the room. A husky-looking waitress with a Dutch cap and apron hovered near the inner door from which came a great smell of fish frying in olive oil. “The cook here's from Marseilles,” said Henslowe, as they settled themselves at a table for four. “I wonder if the rest of them lost the way,” said Andrews. “More likely old Heinz stopped to have a drink,” said Henslowe. “Let's have some hors d'oeuvre while we are waiting.” The waitress brought a collection of boat-shaped plates of red salads and yellow salads and green salads and two little wooden tubs with herrings and anchovies. Henslowe stopped her as she was going, saying: “Rien de plus?” The waitress contemplated the array with a tragic air, her arms folded over her ample bosom. “Que voulez-vous, Monsieur, c'est l'armistice.” “The greatest fake about all this war business is the peace. I tell you, not till the hors d'oeuvre has been restored to its proper abundance and variety will I admit that the war's over.” The waitress tittered. “Things aren't what they used to be,” she said, going back to the kitchen. Heineman burst into the restaurant at that moment, slamming the door behind him so that the glass rang, and the fat woman and the hairy man started violently in their chairs. He tumbled into a place, grinning broadly. “And what have you done to Walters?” Heineman wiped his glasses meticulously. “Oh, he died of drinking raspberry shrub,” he said.... “Dee-dong peteet du ving de Bourgogne,” he shouted towards the waitress in his nasal French. Then he added: “Le Guy is coming in a minute, I just met him.”