"What a lot of houses!"
"What's that?" said the medico. "There are ten times as many in London. There are a hundred thousand of these women there."
The cabmen sat on their boxes quiet and indifferent as in other streets; on the pavement walked the same passers-by. No one was in a hurry; no one hid his face in his collar; no one shook his head reproachfully. And in this indifference, in the confused sound of the pianos and fiddles, in the bright windows and wide-open doors, something very free, impudent, bold and daring could be felt. It must have been the same as this in the old times on the slave-markets, as gay and as noisy; people looked and walked with the same indifference.
"Let's begin right at the beginning," said the painter.
The friends walked into a narrow little passage lighted by a single lamp with a reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black jacket rose lazily from the yellow sofa in the hall. He had an unshaven lackey's face and sleepy eyes. The place smelt like a laundry, and of vinegar. From the hall a door led into a brightly lighted room. The medico and the painter stopped in the doorway, stretched out their necks and peeped into the room together:
"Buona sera, signore, Rigoletto—huguenote—traviata!—" the painter began, making a theatrical bow.
"Havanna—blackbeetlano—pistoletto!" said the medico, pressing his hat to his heart and bowing low.
Vassiliev kept behind them. He wanted to bow theatrically too and say something silly. But he only smiled, felt awkward and ashamed, and awaited impatiently what was to follow. In the door appeared a little fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, wearing a short blue dress with a white bow on her breast.
"What are you standing in the door for?" she said. "Take off your overcoats and come into the salon."
The medico and the painter went into the salon, still speaking Italian. Vassiliev followed them irresolutely.