Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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Chandelle—So he cheated and was murdered. My God, I’ve crossed the ocean to discover that.

Pitou—No—no—I never believed he cheated. They were laying for him—

Chandelle—(burying his face in his hands) Is that all? (He shrugs his shoulders; his voice is a trifle broken.) I scarcely expected a—saint but—well: so he was a rotter.

Pitou—(laying his hand on Chandelle’s shoulder) There Monsieur, I have talked too much. Those were rough days. Knives were drawn at anything. Your father—but hold—do you want to meet three friends of his, his best friends? They can tell you much more than I.

Chandelle—(gloomily) His friends?

Pitou—(reminiscent again) There were four of them. Three come here yet—will be here this afternoon—your father was the fourth and they would sit at this table and talk and drink. They talked nonsense—everyone said; the wine room poked fun at them—called them “les Académicians Ridicules.” Night after night would they sit there. They would slouch in at eight and stagger out at twelve—