Chapter 4 third chapter

It was a warm Spring Festival Gala. After Robert left, I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napoli Café, watching the sky darken, the electric billboards lit up, the traffic lights flashing alternately, and pedestrians coming and going , carriages dart beside the crowded ranks of taxis, and the "pheasants" are looking for dinner, some of them alone, some in pairs.I watched a pretty girl pass by my table, saw her walk down the street, disappeared from sight, then saw another, and then saw the first one come back again.She walked in front of me again and I caught her eye as she came and sat down at my table.The waiter came running up.

"Oh, what would you like to drink?" I asked. "Perno." "It's not a girl's drink." "You're a girl." "Give me a Pernod, too." "What's the matter?" she asked. "Want to have fun?" "Of course. What about you?" "Not sure. No one in this town can tell." "You don't like Paris?" "yes." "Then why don't you go anywhere else?" "There's nowhere else to go." "You're in good spirits, yes." "Very good! Damn it!" Perno is a pale green drink imitating absinthe.When watered it turns milky white.Smells like licorice, quite refreshing, but leaves you sluggish afterwards.We sat drinking Pernod, the girl sullen.

"Okay," I said, "do you want to treat me to dinner?" She grinned, and now I understood why she was trying not to smile.She was quite a pretty girl when she kept her mouth shut.I paid for the drink and we hit the streets.I hail a carriage, and the driver drives it to the sidewalk.We sat in a cab driving slowly and steadily along the Avenue des Opéra, a wide, well-lit street, almost deserted, past locked shops and lighted windows.The carriage passed the New York Herald bureau, and the windows were full of clocks. "What are all these clocks for?" she asked. "They report different times across the United States."

"Don't fool me." We turned from the main street onto the Rue des Pyramids, crossed the Rue Rivoli among the passing traffic, and entered the Twillery Gardens through a dark gate.She snuggled up against me and I put an arm around her.She looked up expecting my kiss.She reached out to touch me and I pushed her hand away. "Come on." "What's the matter? Are you sick?" "Yes." "Everyone has glass and I have glass" We came out of the Twillery Gardens into the Luminous Avenue, crossed the Seine, and turned into the Rue Pope. "You shouldn't drink Pernod when you're sick."

"You shouldn't drink either." "It doesn't matter if I drink or not. Women don't care." "What's your name?" "Georgette. What's your name?" "Jacob." "It's a Flemish name." "Americans do too." "You are not Flemish, are you?" "No, I'm an American." "Excellent. I hate Flemings." As we were talking, we arrived at the restaurant.I told the coachman to stop.We got out of the carriage and Georgette didn't like the look of the place. “This restaurant is not great.”

"Yes," I said. "Perhaps you'd rather go to 'Fauaiyo.' Why don't you take the carriage and go on?" I hooked up with her at first out of an emotionally vague idea that it would be nice to have someone to eat with.I haven't eaten with "pheasant" in so long that I have forgotten how boring it can be.We went into the dining room, past Madame Lavigne at the desk, and into a booth.After eating something, Georgette felt better. "It's not a bad place," she said. “Although it is not elegant, the food is very good.” "Better than you eat in Liege."

"You mean Brussels." We had another bottle of wine, and Georgette made a joke, and she smiled, showing her bad teeth.Let's clink glasses. "You're not a bad person," she said. "It's too bad you're sick. We're on par. What's the matter with you?" "Wounded in the war," I said. "Alas, bloody war." We would have gone on talking about the Great War and agreed that it was essentially a catastrophe for civilization and that it might be best avoided.I'm sick of it.Just then, someone called me from the next room: "Barnes! Hey, Barnes! Jacob Barnes!"

"A friend is calling me," I explained and walked out of the room. Braddocks sat at a long table with a group of people, Cohen, Frances Crane, Mrs. Braddocks, and a few others I didn't know. "You're going to the dance, aren't you?" Braddocks asked. "What dance?" "What, just dancing. Don't you know we've resumed dancing?" Mrs. Braddocks interrupted. "You must come, Jack. We'll all go," said Frances from across the table.She is tall and has a smile on her face. "Of course he's coming," Braddocks said. "Come in for coffee with us, Barnes." "Good." "Bring your friends, too," said Mrs. Braddocks, laughing.She was Canadian, and she possessed all the social elegance and grace of a Canadian.

"Thanks, we'll be there," I said.I go back to the cubicle. "Who are your friends?" Georgette asked. "Writer and artist." "There are plenty of them on this side of the Seine." "Too many." "That's right. Some of them make money, though." "Oh yes." We finished our meal and finished our wine. "Let's go," I said. "Let's have coffee with them." Georgette opened her handbag, powdered her face in the small mirror, relined her lips with lipstick, adjusted her hat. "Okay," she said.

We went into the room full of people, and Braddocks and the other men who were sitting around the table stood up. "Allow me to introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Georgette Lebrun," I said.Georgette smiled coquettishly, and we shook hands. "Are you related to the singer Georgette Lebrun?" asked Mrs. Braddocks. "I don't know." Georgette replied. "But you both have the same name," said Mrs. Braddocks sincerely. "No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobbins." "But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Miss Georgette Lebrun. He did say so," insisted Mrs. Braddocks.She was so excited to speak French that she often didn't know what she was saying.

"He's a fool," Georgette said. "Oh, it's a joke, then," said Mrs. Braddocks. "Yes," said Georgette. "Make everyone laugh." "You hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called to Braddocks across the table. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fiancée as Miss Lebron, but her surname is Hobbin." "Of course, my dear. It's Miss Hobbins. I've known her for a long time." "Miss Hobbin," Frances Klein called out.She spoke French very quickly, but unlike Mrs. Braddocks, she did not pretend to be self-satisfied because she spoke perfect French. "Have you been in Paris a long time? Do you like Paris as a place? You love Paris, don't you?" "Who is she?" Georgette turned to me. "Should I talk to her?" She looked back at Frances, who sat smiling, hands folded, head resting on her long neck, lips pursed ready to speak. "No, I don't like Paris. It's luxurious and dirty." "Really? I think it's very clean here. It's one of the cleanest cities in Europe." "I think Paris is dirty." "How queer! Perhaps you have not been long in Paris." "I've been here long enough." "But there are some very nice people here. You have to admit that." Georgette turned to me. "Your friends are so kind." Frances was slightly drunk.If the coffee wasn't brought, she would talk on and on.Lavigne served a risque, and when we were done we all walked out of the restaurant and headed to Braddocks' dance club.The dance club is in a popular dance hall on San Genevinave Hill Road.Five nights a week, the working people of the sages' feeding area dance here.One night a week is dedicated to the dance club.Closed on Monday nights.When we got there it was empty except for a policeman sitting by the door, the proprietress behind the tin bar cabinet, and the proprietor himself.After we entered the house, the owner's daughter came down from upstairs.There were benches in the room, and a row of tables running from one end to the other, and on the other side was the dance floor. "Wish people would come sooner," Braddocks said.The owner's daughter came over and asked us what we wanted to drink.The boss climbed onto a high stool near the dance floor and started playing the accordion.He wore a string of bells around one ankle, and he played the accordion while beating time with his feet.Everyone danced.It was hot in the house and we were sweating when we got off the dance floor. "My God," said Georgette. "The room looks like a steamer!" "too hot." "It's hot, my God!" "Take off your hat." "this is a good idea." Somebody asked Georgette to dance, so I went over to the bar cabinet.It was really hot in the room, and the accordion played melodiously on a muggy night.I stood at the door drinking a glass of beer and receiving the cool wind blowing from the street.Two taxis drove up the steep street.They all stopped in front of the ballroom.A group of young people got out of the car, some in sweatshirts and some without coats.I could see their hands and freshly washed curls in the light from the door.The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled.They come in.When they winked, gesticulated, and chattered as they walked in, I could clearly see their white hands, curly hair, and pale faces under the light.Brett was with them.She was lovely looking, and she got along with them. One of them saw Georgette and said, "That's weird. Here's a real whore. I'm going to dance with her, Rhett. Look." The tall brown man named Rhett said, "Don't be rash." The young man with the blond curly hair replied, "Don't worry, dear." Brett was with such people. I am very angry.Somehow they keep pissing me off.I know people always think they're joking, you have to hold back, but I want to beat one of them, any one, for that defiant, smirking poise.On a second thought, I went out and walked down the street and ordered a beer in the bar of a dance hall next door.The beer wasn't good, I just drank a cognac to get rid of the taste of beer in my mouth, but this glass was even worse.When I got back to the ballroom, the dance floor was packed, and Georgette was dancing with the tall blond guy, writhing his hips, tilting his head, rolling his eyes as he danced.As soon as the music stopped, another of them asked her to dance.They took her as their own.At this moment, I understood that they would dance with her one by one.They always have been. I sit down at a table.Cohen sat there.Frances is dancing.Mrs. Braddocks brought a man and introduced him as Robert Prentice.He was a New Yorker, from Chicago, a burgeoning literary talent who wrote fiction.He speaks with a British accent.I buy him a drink. "Thank you very much," he said, "I just had a drink." "One more." "Thank you, I'll drink it then." We beckoned the boss's daughter over, and each ordered a glass of brandy and water. "I hear you're from Kansas City," he said. "yes." "Do you think Paris is fun?" "Fun." "Really?" I'm kind of drunk.He wasn't really drunk, but he spoke to the point where he didn't choose his words. "For God's sake," I said, "really. Don't you think so?" "Why, you're so lovely when you lose your temper," he said. "I wish I had your skills." I got up and walked to the dance floor.Mrs. Braddocks followed me. "Don't be mad at Robert," she said. "You know, he's just a kid." "I'm not mad," I said. "I just felt like I was going to throw up." "Your fiancée is making a big show tonight," said Mrs. Braddocks, looking out onto the dance floor, where Georgette was being danced in the arms of a tall, brown man named Rhett. "Really?" I said. "That goes without saying," said Mrs. Braddocks.Cohen came over. "Come on, Jack," he said, "go get a drink. We went to the bar cabinet." What's the matter with you?It seems to be irritated by something. ""No.It's just that the whole trick makes me sick. ’ Brett came over to the bar cabinet. ‘Hi, friends. " "Hi, Brett," I said. "Why aren't you drunk?" "I'm never gonna get myself drunk again. Here, get me a brandy soda." She was standing with her glass, and I caught Robert Cohn looking at her.He watched with the same fixed gaze as his countryman had when he saw the land God had given him.Cohen is of course much younger.But there was also that eager, legitimate anticipation in his eyes. Brett is very good looking.She wore a jersey jumper and a tweed skirt, and her hair was combed back like a boy.This dress is her first.The curves of her figure are like the hull of a rowing boat, and the woolen jumper reveals her entire figure. "You've got a nice company, Brett," I said. "They're cute? So are you, dear. Where did you get her?" "At the Napoli Café." "Did you have a good time tonight?" "Oh, that's very interesting," I said. Brett giggled. "It's not right for you to do it, Jack. It's an insult to us all. Just look at Frances over there, and Jo." It was for Cohen. "It's trade controls," said Brett.She laughed again. "You're unusually sober," I said. "Yes. I'm not drunk, am I? You can't be drunk with the group I'm dating." The music started, and Robert Cohen said, "Can you dance this one, Mrs. Brett?" Brett smiled at him. "I've promised Jacob this one," she said with a laugh. "You're named after the Bible, Jack." "How about the next one?" Cohen asked. "We're going," Brett said. "We had a date in Montmartre. While dancing, I looked over Brett's shoulder and saw Cohen standing by the bar cabinet, still staring at her. "You've charmed someone else," I said to her. "Don't talk about it. Poor guy. I never noticed it before." "Oh well," I said. "In my opinion, the more you are, the better." "Don't talk nonsense." "You like this." "Oh, never mind. So what if I like it?" "It can't be helped," I said.We danced to the music of the accordion and someone was playing the banjo.It's hot, but I feel happy.We pass Georgette, who is dancing with another of them. "What fascinated you to bring her here?" "I don't know, I just brought her." "You're too romantic." "No, because of boredom." "What now?" "Oh, it's all right now." "Let's get out of here. Someone is taking good care of her." "You want to go?" "I don't want to go can I ask you to go?" We left the dance floor.I took my coat off the hook on the wall and put it on.Brett was standing by the bar cabinet.Cohen was talking to her.I stopped by the bar counter and asked them for an envelope.The proprietress found one.I took a fifty-franc note out of my pocket, put it in an envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the landlady. "If the girl I came with asks about me, please give her this," I said. "If she goes with any gentleman, please give it to me for safekeeping." "It's settled, sir," said the landlady. "Are you leaving now? So early?" "Yes," I said. We head for the door.Cohen was still talking to Brett.She said goodbye and took my arm. "Goodbye, Cohn," I said.Out on the street, we're looking for a taxi. "You'll lose your fifty francs for nothing," said Brett. "Oh, not bad." "No taxis." "We could walk to Sages and hire one." "Let's go, let's go to the hotel next door to have a drink and ask someone to hire him." "You don't even want to take the few steps to cross the road." "As long as I can think of not walking, I will not walk." We went into the bar next door and I sent a waiter to call for a cab. "Okay," I said, "we got rid of them." We stood beside the tall white iron bar cabinet and looked at each other silently.The waiter came and said the car was outside the door.Brett squeezed my hand tightly.I gave the waiter a franc and we came out. "Where should I tell the driver to drive?" I asked. "Oh, tell him to go around the neighborhood." I told the driver to drive to Parc Montsouri, got in the car, and slammed the door.Brett leaned back in a corner of the car, her eyes closed.I got in the car and sat next to her.The car started with a jolt. "Oh, dear, how unfortunate I am," said Brett.