There would be no real melon tonight, no real peaches. The wine was long gone. Edouard would have a beer tonight. But that did not really matter. He did not bother about the background. He looked at his value. Did he count the grapes? Of course not. Did he count the stripes on the wallpaper? No way. He cared about things as much as they would. Later, when they saw the stuff there, on the table. And 1867 sucked.
