Read Online The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway - Free Book Online Page B

was tucking in his shirt.

    â€œWhere did you get those?” I asked.

    â€œIn Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old.”

    â€œWhat were you doing?” asked Brett. “Were you in the army?”

    â€œI was on a business trip, my dear.”

    â€œI told you he was one of us. Didn’t I?” Brett turned to me. “I love you, count. You’re a darling.”

    â€œYou make me very happy, my dear. But it isn’t true.”

    â€œDon’t be an ass.”

    â€œYou see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don’t you find it like that?”

    â€œYes. Absolutely.”

    â€œI know,” said the count. ‘That is the secret. You must get to know the values.”

    â€œDoesn’t anything ever happen to your values?” Brett asked. “No. Not anymore.”

    â€œNever fall in love?”

    â€œAlways,” said the count. “I am always in love.” “What does that do to your values?”

    â€œThat, too, has got a place in my values.”

    â€œYou haven’t any values. You’re dead, that’s all.”

    â€œNo, my dear. You’re not right. I’m not dead at all.”

    We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count’s values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party.

    â€œWhere would you like to go?” asked the count after dinner.

    We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home.

    â€œWe might go up on the hill,” Brett said. “Haven’t we had a splendid party?”

    The count was beaming. He was very happy.

    â€œYou are very nice people,” he said. He was smoking a cigar again. “Why don’t you get married, you two?”

    â€œWe want to lead our own lives,” I said.

    â€œWe have our careers,” Brett said. “Come on. Let’s get out of this.”

    â€œHave another brandy,” the count said.

    â€œGet it on the hill.”

    â€œNo. Have it here where it is quiet.”

    â€œYou and your quiet,” said Brett. “What is it men feel about quiet?”

    â€œWe like it,” said the count. “Like you like noise, my dear.”

    â€œAll right,” said Brett. “Let’s have one.”

    â€œSommelier!” the count called.

    â€œYes, sir.”

    â€œWhat is the oldest brandy you have?”

    â€œEighteen eleven, sir.”

    â€œBring us a bottle.”

    â€œI say. Don’t be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake.”

    â€œListen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities.”

    â€œGot many antiquities?”

    â€œI got a houseful.”

    Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli’s it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him.

    â€œHahre you?”

    â€œGreat.”

    â€œThaats good.”

    He was all teeth and lips.

    â€œHe’s a great friend of mine,” Brett said. “Damn good drummer.”

    The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again.

    â€œLet’s go over.”

    Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd.

    â€œYou are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael’s the best dancer I know.”

    â€œHe’s splendid.”

    â€œHe’s got his points.”

    â€œI like him,” I said.