The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway [5]
"Thanks, we'll be in," I said. I went back to the small room.
"Who are your friends?" Georgette asked.
"Writers and artists."
"There are lots of those on this side of the river."
"Too many."
"I think so. Still, some of them make money."
"Oh, yes."
We finished the meal and the wine. "Come on," I said. "We're going to have coffee with the others."
Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips with the lip-stick, and straightened her hat.
"Good," she said.
We went into the room full of people and Braddocks and the men at his table stood up.
"I wish to present my fiancée, Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc," I said. Georgette smiled that wonderful smile, and we shook hands all round.
"Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?" Mrs. Braddocks asked.
"Connais pas," Georgette answered.
"But you have the same name," Mrs. Braddocks insisted cordially.
"No," said Georgette. "Not at all. My name is Hobin."
"But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did," insisted Mrs. Braddocks, who in the excitement of talking French was liable to have no idea what she was saying.
"He's a fool," Georgette said.
"Oh, it was a joke, then," Mrs. Braddocks said.
"Yes," said Georgette. "To laugh at."
"Did you hear that, Henry?" Mrs. Braddocks called down the table to Braddocks. "Mr. Barnes introduced his fiancee as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is actually Hobin."
"Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I've known her for a very long time."
"Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin," Frances Clyne calIed, speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out really French. "Have you been in Paris long? Do you like it here? You love Paris, do you not?"
"Who's she?" Georgette turned to me. "Do I have to talk to her?"
She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed ready to start talking again.
"No, I don't like Paris. It's expensive and dirty."
"Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of the cleanest cities in all Europe."
"I find it dirty."
"How strange! But perhaps you have not been here very long."
"I've been here long enough."
"But it does have nice people in it. One must grant that."
Georgette turned to me. "You have nice friends."
Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started for Braddocks's dancing-club.
The dancing-club was a bal musette in the Rue de la Montagne Sainte Genevieve. Five nights a week the working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. One night a week it was the dancingclub. On Monday nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the proprietor himself. The daughter of the house came down-stairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor.
"I wish people would come earlier," Braddocks said. The daughter came up and wanted to know what we would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool beside the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced. It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring.
"My God," Georgette said. "What a box to sweat in!"
"It's hot."
"Hot, my God!"
"Take off your hat."
"That's a good idea."
Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could