Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [105]
111 Good Night, Good Night!
As they were leaving Henri’s restaurant Hager pointed to a hotel further down the street, and putting on a droll face he said it was a very famous hotel. Mrs. Bridge promptly wished to know why. Because, he announced with a theatrical gesture, Mademoiselle Susy used to live in that hotel. Mrs. Bridge confessed she had not heard of Mademoiselle Susy. Hager appeared rather startled; he glanced uncertainly at Mr. Bridge, but finding no comfort there, in fact no response whatever, he looked again at Mrs. Bridge and opened his mouth to explain, but changed his mind and suggested they wander toward St. Germain des Prés for a cognac. Mrs. Bridge, however, would have none of this, not until she heard the story of Mademoiselle Susy. Hager pulled off his beret and turned it inside out as though he expected to find the answer inside, and then he put it on again.
Mr. Bridge, studying him with frank curiosity, guessed that the reference to the hotel and the woman was intended as some sort of a joke. Probably she had been a notorious prostitute who conducted her business there. But the joke failed because neither of them had heard of her, so Hager had talked himself into a cul-de-sac.
“A cognac,” he said, “sounds to me like an excellent idea, Morgan.”
Mrs. Bridge suspected something was being kept from her; she repeated that she was not walking one more step until she had heard all about Mademoiselle Susy.
“She had a pony,” Hager blurted, and gave Mr. Bridge a stark, desperate look.
Mrs. Bridge, more bewildered than ever, shook her head helplessly. Hager tugged his beard and rolled his eyes.
“Let’s get that cognac,” said Mr. Bridge.
Mrs. Bridge stamped her foot. “Both of you stop right where you are. I insist on knowing what this is all about. Morgan, why did she have a pony? Did she like to ride?”
Hager said breathlessly, “I don’t know, she had an Alsatian dog, too. Listen, I’ve got to be going. I’m late. I got to meet somebody. Good night. It was sure swell meeting both of you. Good night.” He was backing away.
Mr. Bridge nodded. “Good night, Morgan.”
Mrs. Bridge was completely confused. “If you’re late, Morgan, we certainly won’t keep you. But—”
Hager was nearly staggering in his haste to get away. “Good night! Good night!” he cried.
“Good night, Morgan,” she answered, waving to him. “It’s been awfully nice. We enjoyed the evening so much.” She was still waving to him with a bewildered and hurt expression when he turned the corner.
112 J’ai Faim
The next day they got off to an early start and by noon had visited Montmartre and the church of Sacré Coeur, been to the top of Notre Dame, and spent several minutes in the Invalides peering down at Napoleon’s tomb. Then after a ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower and a tasty luncheon of lobster and chilled white wine they proceeded to the Louvre. Mrs. Bridge had been looking forward to this. First on her list were the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo, and the Winged Victory of Samothrace. They located the first two without much difficulty. But after wandering about for some time in search of the Winged Victory, meanwhile stopping to inspect vases, tapestries, paintings, mummies, and other relics, Mr. Bridge proposed to wait outside while she continued through the Louvre alone. The Louvre held an impressive and invaluable collection, but in London they had spent almost three hours at the National Gallery, to say nothing of five or six other galleries and museums, and there were more coming up in Florence and Rome. Enough was enough.
So he left her in the corridor beneath an enormous painting of some half-naked people struggling on a raft, picked up the camera from the entrance where he had checked it, and went outside and sat down on a bench in the shade of a tree. The day was very hot. He took off his linen coat and folded it across his lap. He observed the French children in blue smocks playing with hoops and balloons,