The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway Page A

would be the end of all the romance. Don’t you think that’s bright of me to figure that out? It’s true, too. Look at him and see if it’s not. Where are you going, Jake?”

    â€œI’ve got to go in and see Harvey Stone a minute.”

    Cohn looked up as I went in. His face was white. Why did he sit there? Why did he keep on taking it like that?

    As I stood against the bar looking out I could see them through the window. Frances was talking on to him, smiling brightly, looking into his face each time she asked: “Isn’t it so, Robert?” Or maybe she did not ask that now. Perhaps she said something else. I told the barman I did not want anything to drink and went out through the side door. As I went out the door I looked back through the two thicknesses of glass and saw them sitting there. She was still talking to him. I went down a side street to the Boulevard Raspail. A taxi came along and I got in and gave the driver the address of my flat.

Chapter VII

    As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram.

    â€œHere is the post. And there was a lady here to see you.”

    â€œDid she leave a card?”

    â€œNo. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice.”

    â€œWas she with a friend of mine?”

    â€œI don’t know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little—” She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. “I’ll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is très, très gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see.”

    â€œThey did not leave any word?”

    â€œYes. They said they would be back in an hour.”

    â€œSend them up when they come.”

    â€œYes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is someone. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu’une, quelqu’une!”

    The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris racecourses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings.

    I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the
France.
I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the doorbell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses.

    â€œHello, darling,” said Brett. “Aren’t you going to let us in?”

    â€œCome on. I was just bathing.”

    â€œAren’t you the fortunate man. Bathing.”

    â€œOnly a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?”

    â€œI don’t know whether you like flowers, sir,” the count said, “but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses.”

    â€œHere, give them to me.” Brett took them. “Get me some water in this, Jake.” I filled the big earthenware jug