“They didn't mind having naked women about, did they?” said the private in Aviation, a morose foul-mouthed little man who had been in the woolen business. “D'ye blame them?” “No, I can't say's I do.... I bet they was immoral, them guys,” he continued vaguely. They wandered about the streets of Fontainebleau listlessly, looking into shop windows, staring at women, lolling on benches in the parks where the faint sunlight came through a lacework of twigs purple and crimson and yellow, that cast intricate lavender-grey shadows on the asphalt. “Let's go have another drink,” said the private in Aviation. Fuselli looked at his watch; they had hours before train time. A girl in a loose dirty blouse wiped off the table. “Vin blank,” said the other man. “Mame shows,” said Fuselli. His head was full of gold and green mouldings and silk and crimson velvet and intricate designs in which naked pink-fleshed cupids writhed indecently. Some day, he was saying to himself, he'd make a hell of a lot of money and live in a house like that with Mabe; no, with Yvonne, or with some other girl. “Must have been immoral, them guys,” said the private in Aviation, leering at the girl in the dirty blouse. Fuselli remembered a revel he'd seen in a moving picture of “Quo Vadis,” people in bath robes dancing around with large cups in their hands and tables full of dishes being upset. “Cognac, beaucoup,” said the private in Aviation. “Mame shows,” said Fuselli. The cafe was full of gold and green silks, and great brocaded beds with heavy carvings above them, beds in which writhed, pink-fleshed and indecent, intricate patterns of cupids. Somebody said, “Hello, Fuselli.” He was on the train; his ears hummed and his head had an iron band round it. It was dark except for the little light that flickered in the ceiling. For a minute he thought it was a goldfish in a bowl, but it was a light that flickered in the ceiling. “Hello, Fuselli,” said Eisenstein. “Feel all right?” “Sure,” said Fuselli with a thick voice. “Why shouldn't I?” “How did you find that house?” said Eisenstein seriously. “Hell, I don't know,” muttered Fuselli. “I'm goin' to sleep.” His mind was a jumble. He remembered vast halls full of green and gold silks, and great beds with crowns over them where Napoleon and Josephine used to sleep. Who were they? O yes, the Empire,--or was it the Abdication? Then there were patterns of flowers and fruits and cupids, all gilded, and a dark passage and stairs that smelt musty, where he and the man in Aviation fell down. He remembered how it felt to rub his nose hard on the gritty red plush carpet of the stairs. Then there were women in open-work skirts standing about, or were those the pictures on the walls? And there was a bed with mirrors round it. He opened his eyes. Eisenstein was talking to him. He must have been talking to him for some time.