The Sun Also Rises Read Free

smiled and blinked.

    â€œDid I talk out loud just then?”

    â€œSomething. But it wasn’t clear.”

    â€œGod, what a rotten dream!”

    â€œDid the typewriter put you to sleep?”

    â€œGuess so. I didn’t sleep all last night.”

    â€œWhat was the matter?”

    â€œTalking,” he said.

    I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Café Napolitain to have an
apéritif
and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard.

Chapter III

    It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the
poules
going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up.

    â€œWell, what will you drink?” I asked.

    â€œPernod.”

    â€œThat’s not good for little girls.”

    â€œLittle girl yourself. Dites garçon, un pernod.”

    â€œA pernod for me, too.”

    â€œWhat’s the matter?” she asked. “Going on a party?”

    â€œSure. Aren’t you?”

    â€œI don’t know. You never know in this town.”

    â€œDon’t you like Paris?”

    â€œNo.”

    â€œWhy don’t you go somewhere else?”

    â€œIsn’t anywhere else.”

    â€œYou’re happy, all right.”

    â€œHappy, hell!”

    Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen.

    â€œWell,” I said, “are you going to buy me a dinner?”

    She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling
fiacre
we moved lip the Avenue de l’Opéra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the
New York Herald
bureau with the window full of clocks.

    â€œWhat are all the clocks for?” she asked.

    â€œThey show the hour all over America.”

    â€œDon’t kid me.”

    We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away.

    â€œNever mind.”

    â€œWhat’s the matter? You sick?”

    â€œYes.”

    â€œEverybody’s sick. I’m sick, too.”

    We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints Pères.

    â€œYou oughtn’t to drink pernod if you’re sick.”

    â€˜â€˜You neither.”

    â€œIt doesn’t make any difference with me. It doesn’t make any difference with a woman.”

    â€œWhat are you called?”

    â€œGeorgette. How are you called?”

    â€œJacob.”

    â€œThat’s a Flemish name.”

    â€œAmerican too.”

    â€œYou’re not Flamand?”

    â€œNo, American.”

    â€œGood, I detest Flamands.”

    By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the
cocher
to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks of the place. “This is no great thing of a restaurant.”

    â€œNo,” I