ERNEST HEMINGWAY - Premium Edition. Ernest Hemingway

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      CHAPTER 7

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      As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram.

      “Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see you.”

      “Did she leave a card?”

      “No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice.”

      “Was she with a friend of mine?”

      “I don’t know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little—” She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. “I’ll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is très, très gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see.”

      “They did not leave any word?”

      “Yes. They said they would be back in an hour.”

      “Send them up when they come.”

      “Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is some one. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu’une, quelqu’une!”

      The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings.

      I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the France. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses.

      “Hello, darling,” said Brett. “Aren’t you going to let us in?”

      “Come on. I was just bathing.”

      “Aren’t you the fortunate man. Bathing.”

      “Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?”

      “I don’t know whether you like flowers, sir,” the count said, “but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses.”

      “Here, give them to me.” Brett took them. “Get me some water in this, Jake.” I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table.

      “I say. We have had a day.”

      “You don’t remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?”

      “No. Did we have one? I must have been blind.”

      “You were quite drunk, my dear,” said the count.

      “Wasn’t I, though? And the count’s been a brick, absolutely.”

      “You’ve got hell’s own drag with the concierge now.”

      “I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs.”

      “Don’t be a damned fool.”

      “His,” she said, and nodded at the count.

      “I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late.”

      “He’s wonderful,” Brett said. “He remembers everything that’s happened.”

      “So do you, my dear.”

      “Fancy,” said Brett. “Who’d want to? I say, Jake, do we get a drink?”

      “You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is.”

      “Rather.”

      While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed.

      “What’s the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?”

      She kissed me coolly on the forehead.

      “Oh, Brett, I love you so much.”

      “Darling,” she said. Then: “Do you want me to send him away?”