Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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“‘That isn’t a lady,’ said Louie. ‘That’s my wife.’

“Most of the Court almost broke their contracts laughing. The ones that didn’t died in the Bastille.”

That was the first of many trips that Milly took in the rubberneck wagon—to Malmaison, to Passy, to St-Cloud. The weeks passed, three of them, and still there was no word from Jim Cooley, who seemed to have stepped off the face of the earth when he vanished from the train.

In spite of a sort of dull worry that possessed her when she thought of her situation, Milly was happier than she had ever been. It was a relief to be rid of the incessant depression of living with a morbid and broken man. Moreover, it was thrilling to be in Paris when it seemed that all the world was there, when each arriving boat dumped a new thousand into the pleasure ground, when the streets were so clogged with sight-seers that Bill Driscoll’s buses were reserved for days ahead. And it was pleasantest of all to stroll down to the corner and watch the blood-red sun sink like a slow penny into the Seine while she sipped coffee with Bill Driscoll at a café.