"Oh, indeed." Feuilly, leader-into-foul-depravities, that's just how it's been. "Terrible people, the French."

He'd had the sense to leave his book behind--tucked under a fold of a blanket, where presumably no one will dig it up; and Emilia seems to have settled into her role as extravagant foreign pet. Or else she's just not talking to him now.

Feuilly slows to look at the tapestries. "If I had brought some paper--" When they get back he'll try to draw them, get down his impressions. Jean Prouvaire--Jehan Prouvaire--would be in agonies of delight. "Is this--what room is this?"