The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway Page A

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.

    â€œDoesn’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.

    â€œYou’ve got the world here all right,” Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. “Oh, my God!”

    â€œYou’ll be rich.”

    â€œI 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.

    â€œYou never come here anymore, Monsieur Barnes,” Madame Lecomte said.

    â€œToo many compatriots.”

    â€œCome at lunchtime. It’s not crowded then.”

    â€œGood. I’ll be down soon.”

    We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d’Orleans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down.

    â€œThey’re going to cut a street through.”

    â€œThey 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 footbridge 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.

    â€œIt’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.

    â€œWant to have a drink?”

    â€œNo,” 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 carne 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.

    â€œWhat do you want to do?” I asked. “Go up to the café and see Brett and Mike?”

    â€œWhy not?”

    We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne’s, and all the little café s, Damoy’s, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select.

    Michael carne toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking.

    â€œHel-lo, Jake,” he said. “Hel-lo! Hel-lo! How are you, old lad?”

    â€œYou look very fit, Mike.”

    â€œOh, I am. I’m frightfully fit. I’ve done