Part 9

“You’ll be daunted after about three more pernods.” “Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I’ll go off by myself. I’m like a cat that way.” “When did you see Harvey Stone?” “At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn’t eaten for three days. Doesn’t eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad.” “He’s all right.” “Splendid. Wish he wouldn’t keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous.” “What’ll we do to-night?” “Doesn’t make any difference. Only let’s not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn’t have to go all the way down to the island to eat.” “Nix,” I said. “We’re going to have a regular meal.” “Just a suggestion,” said Bill. “Want to start now?” “Come on.” We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. “See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I’m a nature-writer.” A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. “Beautiful lady,” said Bill. “Going to kidnap us.” “Hullo!” Brett said. “Hullo!” “This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley.” Brett smiled at Bill. “I say I’m just back. Haven’t bathed even. Michael comes in to-night.” “Good. Come on and eat with us, and we’ll all go to meet him.” “Must clean myself.” “Oh, rot! Come on.” “Must bathe. He doesn’t get in till nine.” “Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe.” “Might do that. Now you’re not talking rot.” We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. “Stop at the nearest bistro,” I said. “We might as well go to the Closerie,” Brett said. “I can’t drink these rotten brandies.” “Closerie des Lilas.” Brett turned to Bill. “Have you been in this pestilential city long?” “Just got in to-day from Budapest.” “How was Budapest?” “Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful.” “Ask him about Vienna.” “Vienna,” said Bill, “is a strange city.” “Very much like Paris,” Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. “Exactly,” Bill said. “Very much like Paris at this moment.” “You _have_ a good start.” Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. “How are you, Jake?” “Great,” I said. “I’ve had a good time.” Brett looked at me. “I was a fool to go away,” she said. “One’s an ass to leave Paris.” “Did you have a good time?” “Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing.” “See anybody?” “No, hardly anybody. I never went out.” “Didn’t you swim?” “No. Didn’t do a thing.” “Sounds like Vienna,” Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. “So that’s the way it was in Vienna.” “It was like everything in Vienna.” Brett smiled at him again. “You’ve a nice friend, Jake.” “He’s all right,” I said. “He’s a taxidermist.” “That was in another country,” Bill said. “And besides all the animals were dead.” “One more,” Brett said, “and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi.” “There’s a line of them. Right out in front.” “Good.” We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. “Mind you’re at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there.” “We’ll be there,” Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. “Quite a girl,” Bill said. “She’s damned nice. Who’s Michael?” “The man she’s going to marry.” “Well, well,” Bill said. “That’s always just the stage I meet anybody. What’ll I send them? Think they’d like a couple of stuffed race-horses?” “We better eat.” “Is she really Lady something or other?” Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. “Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything.” “Well, well.” We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte’s restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some one had put it in the American Women’s Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him. “Doesn’t get us a table, though,” Bill said. “Grand woman, though.” We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. “You’ve got the world here all right,” Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. “Oh, my God!” “You’ll be rich.” “I hope so.” After the coffee and a _fine_ we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the “quaint” features, paid it, shook hands, and went out. “You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes,” Madame Lecomte said. “Too many compatriots.” “Come at lunch-time. It’s not crowded then.” “Good. I’ll be down soon.” We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d’Orléans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down. “They’re going to cut a street through.” “They would,” Bill said. We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows. “It’s pretty grand,” Bill said. “God, I love to get back.” We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other. We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Café Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cooking potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one hand. “Want to have a drink?” “No,” said Bill. “I don’t need it.” We turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, walking along smooth narrow streets with high old houses on both sides. Some of the houses jutted out toward the street. Others were cut back. We came onto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue Saint Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Grâce, set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the Boulevard du Port Royal. “What do you want to do?” I asked. “Go up to the café and see Brett and Mike?” “Why not?” We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne’s, and all the little cafés, Damoy’s, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select. Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking. “Hel-lo, Jake,” he said. “Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old lad?” “You look very fit, Mike.” “Oh, I am. I’m frightfully fit. I’ve done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea.” Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on. “It’s good to see you, Jake,” Michael said. “I’m a little tight you know. Amazing, isn’t it? Did you see my nose?” There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose. “An old lady’s bags did that,” Mike said. “I reached up to help her with them and they fell on me.” Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. “An old lady,” said Mike. “Her bags _fell_ on me. Let’s go in and see Brett. I say, she is a piece. You _are_ a lovely lady, Brett. Where did you get that hat?” “Chap bought it for me. Don’t you like it?” “It’s a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat.” “Oh, we’ve so much money now,” Brett said. “I say, haven’t you met Bill yet? You _are_ a lovely host, Jake.” She turned to Mike. “This is Bill Gorton. This drunkard is Mike Campbell. Mr. Campbell is an undischarged bankrupt.” “Aren’t I, though? You know I met my ex-partner yesterday in London. Chap who did me in.” “What did he say?” “Bought me a drink. I thought I might as well take it. I say, Brett, you _are_ a lovely piece. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” “Beautiful. With this nose?” “It’s a lovely nose. Go on, point it at me. Isn’t she a lovely piece?” “Couldn’t we have kept the man in Scotland?” “I say, Brett, let’s turn in early.” “Don’t be indecent, Michael. Remember there are ladies at this bar.” “Isn’t she a lovely piece? Don’t you think so, Jake?” “There’s a fight to-night,” Bill said. “Like to go?” “Fight,” said Mike. “Who’s fighting?” “Ledoux and somebody.” “He’s very good, Ledoux,” Mike said. “I’d like to see it, rather”—he was making an effort to pull himself together—“but I can’t go. I had a date with this thing here. I say, Brett, do get a new hat.” Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and smiled out from under it. “You two run along to the fight. I’ll have to be taking Mr. Campbell home directly.” “I’m not tight,” Mike said. “Perhaps just a little. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece.” “Go on to the fight,” Brett said. “Mr. Campbell’s getting difficult. What are these outbursts of affection, Michael?” “I say, you are a lovely piece.” We said good night. “I’m sorry I can’t go,” Mike said. Brett laughed. I looked back from the door. Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said: “Do you want to go to the fight?” “Sure,” said Bill. “If we don’t have to walk.” “Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend,” I said in the taxi. “Well,” said Bill. “You can’t blame him such a hell of a lot.” CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o’clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. “Hello, darling.” Brett put out her hand. “Hello, Jake,” Mike said. “I understand I was tight last night.” “Weren’t you, though,” Brett said. “Disgraceful business.” “Look,” said Mike, “when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?” “It would be grand.” “You wouldn’t mind, really? I’ve been at Pamplona, you know. Brett’s mad to go. You’re sure we wouldn’t just be a bloody nuisance?” “Don’t talk like a fool.” “I’m a little tight, you know. I wouldn’t ask you like this if I weren’t. You’re sure you don’t mind?” “Oh, shut up, Michael,” Brett said. “How can the man say he’d mind now? I’ll ask him later.”