sat in the sunshine, and even danced in the sunshine, a
dazed young thing together with hundreds of other dazed young things,
not thinking, not planning, not hoping. Existing only in a state of
semi-consciousness like one recovering from a blinding blow. The francs
dribbled away. Sometimes he played baccarat and won; oftener he played
baccarat and lost. He moved in a sort of trance, feeling nothing.
Vaguely he knew that there was a sort of Conference going on in Paris.
Sometimes he thought of Winnebago, recalling it remotely, dimly, as one
is occasionally conscious of a former unknown existence. Twice he went
to Paris for periods of some months, but he was unhappy there and even
strangely bewildered, like a child. He was still sick in mind and body,
though he did not know it. Driftwood, like thousands of others, tossed
up on the shore after the storm; lying there bleached and useless and
battered.

Then, one day in Nice, there was no money. Not a franc. Not a centime.
He knew hunger. He knew terror. He knew desperation. It was out of this
period that there emerged Giddy, the gigolo. Now, though, the name
bristled with accent marks, thus: Gedeon Gore.

This Gedeon Gore, of the Nice dansants, did not even remotely resemble
Gideon Gory of Winnebago, Wisconsin. This Gedeon Gore wore French
clothes of the kind that Giddy Gory had always despised. A slim, sallow,
sleek, sad-eyed gigolo in tight French garments, the pants rather flappy
at the ankle; effeminate French shoes with fawn-coloured uppers and
patent-leather eyelets and vamps, most despicable; a slim cane; hair
with a magnificent natural wave that looked artificially marcelled and
that was worn with a strip growing down from the temples on either side
in the sort of cut used only by French dandies and English stage
butlers. No, this was not Giddy Gory. The real Giddy Gory lay in a smart
but battered suitcase under the narrow bed in his lodgings. The suitcase
contained:

Item; one grey tweed suit with name of a London tailor inside.

Item; one pair Russia calf oxfords of American make.

Item; one French aviation uniform with leather coat, helmet, and gloves
all bearing stiff and curious splotches of brown or rust-colour which
you might not recognize as dried blood stains.

Item; one handful assorted medals, ribbons, orders, etc.

All Europe was dancing. It seemed a death dance, grotesque, convulsive,
hideous. Paris, Nice, Berlin, Budapest, Rome, Vienna, London