The Sun Also Rises

table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him.
“Doesn’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.
“You’ve got the world here all right,” Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. “Oh, my God!”
“You’ll be rich.”
“I 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.
“You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes,” Madame Lecomte said.
“Too many compatriots.”
“Come at lunchtime. It’s not crowded then.”
“Good. I’ll be down soon.”
We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d’Orléans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down.
“They’re going to cut a street through.”
“They 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.
“It’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.
“Want to have a drink?”
“No,” 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 came 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.
“What do you want to do?” I asked. “Go up to the café and see Brett and Mike?”
“Why not?”
We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne’s, and all the little cafés, Damoy’s, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select.
Michael came toward us from the tables. He was tanned and healthy-looking.
“Hello, Jake,” he said. “Hello! Hello! How are you, old lad?”
“You look very fit, Mike.”
“Oh, I am. I’m frightfully fit. I’ve done nothing but walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my mother at tea.”
Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking with Brett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs crossed. She had no stockings on.
“It’s good to see you, Jake,” Michael said. “I’m a little tight you know. Amazing, isn’t it? Did you see my nose?”
There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose.
“An old lady’s bags did that,” Mike said. “I reached up to help her with them and they fell on me.”
Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes.
“An old lady,” said Mike. “Her bags fell on me. Let’s go in and see Brett. I say, she is a piece. You are a lovely lady, Brett. Where did you get that hat?”
“Chap bought it for me. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat.”
“Oh, we’ve so much money now,” Brett said. “I say, haven’t you met Bill yet? You are a lovely host, Jake.”
She turned to Mike. “This is Bill Gorton. This drunkard is Mike Campbell.  Mr. Campbell is an undischarged bankrupt.”
“Aren’t I, though? You know I met my ex-partner yesterday in London. Chap who did me in.”
“What did he say?”
“Bought me a drink. I thought I might as well take it. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”
“Beautiful. With this nose?”
“It’s a lovely nose. Go on, point it at me. Isn’t she a lovely piece?”
“Couldn’t we have kept the man in Scotland?”
“I say, Brett, let’s turn in early.”
“Don’t be indecent, Michael. Remember there are ladies at this bar.”
“Isn’t she a lovely piece? Don’t you think so, Jake?”
“There’s a fight tonight,” Bill said. “Like to go?”
“Fight,” said Mike. “Who’s fighting?”
“Ledoux and somebody.”
“He’s very good, Ledoux,” Mike said. “I’d like to see it, rather”⁠—he was making an effort to pull himself together⁠—“but I can’t go. I had a date with this thing here. I say, Brett, do get a new hat.”
Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and smiled out from under it. “You two run along to the fight. I’ll have