Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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It was a sleepy provincial village with two high lines of silver sycamores along its principal street, at the end of which a fine fountain purred crystal water from a cat’s mouth of cold stone. Around the fountain was a square and on the sidewalks of the square several groups of small iron tables indicated open-air cafés. A farm wagon drawn by a single white ox was toiling toward the fountain and several cheap French cars, together with a 1910 Ford, were parked at intervals along the street.

“It’s a hick town,” he said to himself with some disgust. “Reg’lar hick town.”

But it was peaceful and green, and he caught sight of two stockingless ladies entering the door of a shop—and the little tables by the fountain were inviting. He walked up the street and at the first café sat down and ordered a large beer.

“I’m free,” he said to himself. “Free, by God!”

His decision to desert Milly had been taken suddenly—in Cherbourg, as they got on the train. Just at that moment he had seen a little French girl who was the real thing, and he realized that he didn’t want Milly “hanging on him” anymore. Even on the boat he had played with the idea, but until Cherbourg he had never quite made up his mind. He was rather sorry now that he hadn’t thought to leave Milly a little money, enough for one night—but then somebody would be sure to help her when she got to Paris. Besides, what he didn’t know didn’t worry him, and he wasn’t going ever to hear about her again.