In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the Rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boulevard des Capucines to the Opéra, and up to my office. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands. The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the sidewalk in damp letters. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office.
Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got off a good morning's work. At eleven o'clock I went over to the Quai d'Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign-office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Francaise diplomat in hornrimmed spectacles, talked and answered questions for half an hour. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from the Quai d'Orsay with Woolsey and Krum.
"What do you do nights, Jake?" asked Krum. "I never see you around."
"Oh, I'm over in the Quarter."
"I'm coming over some night. The Dingo. That's the great place, isn't it?"
"Yes. That, or this new dive, the Select."
"I've meant to get over," said Krum. "You know how it is, though, with a wife and kids."
"Playing any tennis?" Woolsey asked.
"Well, no," said Krum. "I can't say I've played any this year. I've tried to get away, but Sundays it's always rained, and the courts are so damned crowded."
"The Englishmen all have Saturday off," Woolsey said.
"Lucky beggars," said Krum. "Well, I'll tell you. Some day I'm not going to be working for an agency. Then I'll have plenty of time to get out in the country."
"That's the thing to do. Live out in the country and have a little car."
"I've been thinking some about getting a car next year."
I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. "Here's my street," I said. "Come in and have a drink."
"Thanks, old man," Krum said. Woolsey shook his head. "I've got to file that line he got off this morning."
I put a two-franc piece in Krum's hand.
"You're crazy, Jake," he said. "This is on me."
"It's all on the office, anyway."
"Nope. I want to get it."
I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. "See you at the lunch on Wednesday."
"You bet."
I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. "Hello, Jake," he said. "Going out to lunch?"
"Yes. Let me see if there is anything new."
"Where will we eat?"
"Anywhere."
I was looking over my desk. "Where do you want to eat?"
"How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors d'oeuvres."
In the restaurant we ordered hors d'oeuvres and beer. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the stems, and cold. There were a dozen different dishes of hors d'oeuvres.
"Have any fun last night?" I asked.
"No. I don't think so."
"How's the writing going?"
"Rotten. I can't get this second book going."
"That happens to everybody."
"Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though."
"Thought any more about going to South America?"
"I mean that."
"Well, why don't you start off?"
"Frances."
"Well," I said, "take her with you."
"She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing she likes. She likes a lot of people around."
"Tell her to go to hell."
"I can't. I've got certain obligations to her."
He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a pickled herring.
"What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?"
"Her name's Lady Ashley. Brett's her own name. She's a nice girl," I said. "She's getting a divorce and she's going to marry Mike Campbell. He's over in Scotland now. Why?"
"She's a remarkably attractive woman."
"Isn't she?"
"There's a certain quality about her, a certain fineness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight."
"She's very nice."
"I don't know how to describe the quality," Cohn said. "I suppose it's breeding."
"You sound as though you liked her pretty well."
"I do. I shouldn't wonder if I were in love with her."
"She's a drunk," I said. "She's in love with Mike Campbell, and she's going to marry him. He's going to be rich as hell some day."
"I don't believe she'll ever marry him."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I just don't believe it. Have you known her a long time?"
"Yes," I said. "She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was in during the war."
"She must have been just a kid then."
"She's thirty-four now."
"When did she marry Ashley?"
"During the war. Her own true love had just kicked off with the dysentery."
"You talk sort of bitter."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts."
"I don't believe she would marry anybody she didn't love."
"Well," I said. "She's done it twice."
"I don't believe it."
"Well," I said, "don't ask me a lot of fool questions if you don't like the answers."
"I didn't ask you that."
"You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley."
"I didn't ask you to insult her."
"Oh, go to hell."
He stood up from the table his face white, and stood there white and angry behind the little plates of hors d'ceuvres.
"Sit down," I said. "Don't be a fool."
"You've got to take that back."
"Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff."
"Take it back."
"Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. How's that?"
"No. Not that. About me going to hell."
"Oh, don't go to hell," I said. "Stick around. We're just starting lunch."
Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn't sat down? "You say such damned insulting things, Jake."
"I'm sorry. I've got a nasty tongue. I never mean it when I say nasty things."
"I know it," Cohn said. "You're really about the best friend I have, Jake."
God help you, I thought. "Forget what I said," I said out loud. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right. It's fine. I was just sore for a minute."
"Good. Let's get something else to eat."
After we finished the lunch we walked up to the Café de la Paix and had coffee. I could feel Cohn wanted to bring up Brett again, but I held him off it. We talked about one thing and another, and I left him to come to the office.
第二天早晨，我沿着圣米歇尔大街走到索弗洛路去喝咖啡，吃奶油小圆蛋糕。这是个晴朗的早晨。卢森堡公园里的七叶树开了花。使人感到一种热天清晨凉爽宜人的气氛。我一边喝咖啡，一边看报，然后抽了一支烟。卖花女郎正从市场归来，在布置供一天出售的花束。过往学生有的上法学院，有的去巴黎大学的文理学院。来往电车和上班的人流使大街热闹非常。我登上一辆公共汽车，站在车后的平台上，驶向马德林教堂。从马德林教堂沿着嘉布遣会修士大街走到歌剧院，然后走向编辑部。我在一位手执跳蛙和玩具拳击手的男子身边走过。他的女伙计用一根线操纵玩具拳击手。她站着，交叉着的双手擦着线头，眼睛却盯着别处。我往旁边绕着走，免得碰在线上。那男子正向两位旅游者兜售。另外三位旅游者站停了观看。我跟在一个推着滚筒、 往人行道上印上湿涌涌的CINZANO字样的人后面走着。一路上行人都是上班去的。上班是件令人愉快的事情。我穿过马路拐进编辑部。
在楼上的写字间里，我读了法国各家晨报，抽了烟，然后坐在打字机前干了整整一上午的活。十一点钟，我搭出租汽车前住凯道赛。我进去和十几名记者一起坐了半小时，听一位外交部发言人（一位戴角质框眼镜的《新法兰西评论》派年轻外交官）讲活并回答问题。参议院议长正在里昂发表演说，或者更确切一点说，他正在归途中。有几个人提问题是说给他们自己听的。有些通讯社记者提了两三个问题是想了解真相的。没有新闻。我和伍尔塞及克鲁姆从凯道赛一同坐一辆出租汽车回去。
“每天晚上你都干些什么，杰克？”克鲁姆问。“哪儿也见不着你。”
“喔，我经常待在拉丁区。”
“哪天晚上我也去。丁戈咖啡馆。那是最好玩的地方，是不是？”
“是的。丁戈，或者新开张的雅士咖啡馆。”
“我早就想去，”克鲁姆说。“可是有了老婆孩子，你也知道是怎么回事。”
“你玩不玩网球？”伍尔塞问。
“哦，不玩，”克鲁姆说。“可以说，这一年我一次也没有玩过。我总想抽空去一次，可是星期天老下雨，网球场又那么挤。”
“英国人在星期六都休息的，”伍尔塞说。
“这帮小子有福气，”克鲁姆说。“哦，我跟你说吧。有朝一日，我要不再给通讯社干。那时候我就有充裕的时间到乡间去逛逛罗。”
“这就对了。在乡间住下，再弄辆小汽车。”
“我打算明年买一辆。”我敲敲车窗。司机刹住车。“我到了，”我说。“上去喝一杯吧。”“不了，谢谢，老朋友，”克鲁姆说。伍尔塞摇摇头说，“我得把他上午发表的消息写成稿件发出去。”
我在克鲁姆手里塞了个两法郎的硬币。
“你真是神经病，杰克，”他说。“这趟算我的。”
“反正都是编辑部出的钱。”
“不行。我来付。”
我挥手告别。克鲁姆从车窗里伸出头来。“星期三吃饭时再见。”
“一定。”我坐电梯到了写字间。罗伯特.科恩正等着我。“嗨，杰克，”他说。“出去吃饭好吗？”
“好。我来看看有什么新到的消息。”
“上哪儿去吃？”
“哪儿都行。”
我扫了我的办公桌一眼。“你想到哪儿去吃？”
“‘韦泽尔’怎么样？那里的冷盘小吃很好。”
到了饭店，我们点了小吃和啤酒。洒保头儿端来啤酒，啤酒很凉，高筒酒杯外面结满水珠。有十几碟不同花色的小吃。
“昨儿晚上玩得很开心？”我问。
“不怎么样。”
“你的书写得怎么样啦？”
“很糟。第二部我都写不下去了。”
“谁都会碰到这种情况的。”
“唉，你说的我明白。不过，烦死我了。”
“还惦着到南美去不？”
“还想去。”“那你为什么还不动身？”“就因为弗朗西丝。”“得了，”我说，“带她一起去。”“她不愿意去。这种事情她不喜欢。她喜欢人多热闹的地方。”
“那你就叫她见鬼去吧！”
“我不能这么做。我对她还得尽某种义务。”他把一碟黄瓜片推到一边，拿了一碟腌渍青鱼。
“你对勃莱特.阿施利夫人了解多少，杰克？”
“得称她阿施利夫人。勃莱特是她自己的名字。她是个好姑娘，”我说。“她正在打离婚，将要和迈克.坎贝尔结婚。迈克眼前在苏格兰。你打听她干吗？”
“这个女人很有魅力。”
“是吗？”
“她有某种气质，有某种优雅的风度。她看来绝对优雅而且正直。”
“她非常好。”
“她这种气质很难描述，”科恩说。“我看是良好的教养吧。”
“听你的口气似乎你非常喜欢她。”
“我很喜欢她。要是我爱上她，那是一点不奇怪的。”
“她是个酒鬼，”我说。“她爱迈克.坎贝尔，她要嫁给他。迈克迟早会发大财的。”
“我不相信她终究会嫁给他。”
“为什么？”
“不知道。我就是不相信。你认识她很久了？”
“是的，”我说，“我在大战期间住院时，她是志愿救护队的护士。”
“那时候她该是个小姑娘吧，”
“她现在三十四岁。”
“她什么时候嫁给阿施利的？”
“在大战期间。那时候，她真心爱的人刚刚死于痢疾。”
“你说得真挖苦。”
“对不起。我不是有意的。我只不过是想把事实告诉你。”
“我不相信她会愿意嫁给一个自己不爱的人。”
“咳，”我说。“她已经这样干过两次了。”
“我不相信。”
“行了，”我说，“如果你不喜欢这样的回答，你就别向我提那么一大堆愚蠢的问题。”
“我并没有问你那些。”
“是你向我打听勃莱特.阿施利的情况。”
“我并没有叫你说她的坏话。”
“哼，你见鬼去吧！”
他的脸色一下子变得煞白，从座位上站起来，气急败坏地站在摆满小吃碟子的桌子后面。
“坐下，”我说。“别傻气了。”
“收回你这句话。”
“别耍在补习学校时候的老脾气了。”
“收回！”
“好。什么都行。勃莱特的情况我一点也不知道。这行了吧？”
“不。不是那件事。是你叫我见鬼去的那句话。”
“噢，那就别见鬼去，”我说，“坐着别走，我们刚开始吃哩。”
科恩重新露出笑容，并且坐了下来。看来他是乐意坐下的。他如果不坐下又能干什么呢？“你竟说出这种无礼的话，杰克。”“很抱歉。我说话不好听。但心里可绝对不是那个意思。”“我明白了，”科恩说。“实际上，你可算得上是我最好的朋友了，杰克。”愿上帝保佑你，我心里寻思。“我说的话你别往心里去，”我说出口来。“对不起。”“没事儿了。好了。我生气只是一阵子。”“这就好。我们另外再弄点吃的。”吃完饭之后，我们漫步来到和平咖啡馆喝咖啡。我感觉到科恩还想提勃莱特，但是我把话叉开了。我们扯了一通别的事情，然后我向他告别，回到编辑部。