[first lines]
Man Selling French Postcards: [scene: a Paris street cafe] Des cartes postales, m'sieur? Des cartes postales, sir?
[Man seated with lady shoos the vendor away]
Man Selling French Postcards: [approaching Gordon and Hector's table] Postal cards, m'sier? *Dirty* postcards?
Hector Stribling: [turning away, disgusted] Uh!
Gordon Evers: Charming.
[taking the cards]
Gordon Evers: Would you like to look at them, Hector?
Hector Stribling: Certainly not!
Gordon Evers: How much are they?
Man Selling French Postcards: Twenty francs.
Gordon Evers: There you are.
Man Selling French Postcards: Merci m'sieur. Merci.
[Gordon tears up the cards, bows to the vendor, and throws the pieces away]
Hector Stribling: Why... why on earth did you do that?
Gordon Evers: Who knows, it may save the soul of some American tourist.