Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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(Chandelle dons his coat and hat. Pitou enters with more wine. He fills the glasses.)

Lamarque—Drink with us, Monsieur.

François—(asleep) Toast, Chandelle, toast.

Chandelle—(taking a glass and raising it aloft) Toast. (His face is a little red and his hand unsteady. He appears infinitely more Gallic than when he entered the wine shop.)

Chandelle—I drink to one who might have been all; who was nothing—who might have sung; who only listened—who might have seen the sun; who but watched a dying ember—who drank of gall and wore a wreath of shadow laurels—

(The others have risen, even François, who totters wildly forward.)

François—Jean, Jean, don’t go—don’t—till I, François—you can’t leave me—I’ll be all alone—alone—alone. (His voice rises higher and higher.) My God, man, can’t you see, you have no right to die—You are my soul. (He stands for a moment, then sprawls across the table. Far away in the twilight a violin sighs plaintively. The last beam of the sun rests on François’ head. Chandelle opens the door and goes out.)