Tender is the Night. ФрÑнÑÐ¸Ñ Ð¡ÐºÐ¾Ñ‚Ñ‚ Фицджеральд
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very fast, but Milly walked slowly because ahead of her she saw only the yellow arc of the waiting-room and the door that led out of it and after that she did not know where she would go.
By 10 p.m. Mr. Bill Driscoll was usually weary, for by that time he had a full twelve-hour day behind him. After that he only went out with the most celebrated people. If someone had tipped off a multimillionaire or a moving-picture director—at that time American directors were swarming over Europe looking for new locations—about Bill Driscoll, he would fortify himself with two cups of coffee, adorn his person with his new dinner-coat and show them the most dangerous dives of Montmartre in the very safest way.
Bill Driscoll looked well in his new dinner-coat, with his reddish brown hair soaked in water and slicked back from his attractive forehead. Often he regarded himself admiringly in the mirror, for it was the first dinner-coat he had ever owned. He had earned it himself, with his wits, as he had earned the swelling packet of American bonds which awaited him in a New York bank. If you have been in Paris during the past two years you must have seen his large white auto-bus with the provoking legend on the side:
WILLIAM DRISCOLL
he shows you things not in the guidebook
When he found Milly Cooley it was after three o’clock and he had just left Director and Mrs. Claude Peebles at their hotel after escorting them to those celebrated apache dens, Zelli’s and Le Rat Mort (which are about as dangerous, all things considered, as the Biltmore Hotel at noon), and he was walking homeward toward his pension on the left bank. His eye was caught by two disreputable-looking parties under the lamp-post who were giving aid to what was apparently a drunken girl. Bill Driscoll decided to cross the street—he was aware of the tender affection which the French police bore toward embattled Americans, and he made a point of keeping out of trouble. Just at that moment Milly’s subconscious self came to her aid and she called out, “Let me go!” in an agonized moan.
The moan had a Brooklyn accent. It was a Brooklyn moan.
Driscoll altered his course uneasily and, approaching the group, asked politely what was the matter; whereat one of the disreputable parties desisted in his attempt to open Milly’s tightly clasped left hand.
The man answered quickly that she had fainted. He and his friend were assisting her to the gendarmery. They loosened their hold on her and she collapsed gently to the ground.
Bill came closer and bent over her, being careful to choose a position where neither man was behind him. He saw a young, frightened face that was drained now of the color it possessed by day.
“Where did you find her?” he inquired in French.
“Here. Just now. She looked to be so tired—”
Billy put his hand in his pocket and when he spoke he tried very hard to suggest by his voice that he had a revolver there.
“She is American,” he said. “You leave her to me.”
The man made a gesture of acquiescence and took a step backward, his hand going with a natural movement to his coat as if he intended buttoning it. He was watching Bill’s right hand, the one in his coat-pocket, and Bill happened to be left-handed. There is nothing much faster than an untelegraphed left-hand blow—this one traveled less than eighteen inches and the recipient staggered back against a lamp-post, embraced it transiently and regretfully and settled to the ground. Nevertheless Bill Driscoll’s successful career might have ended there, ended with the strong shout of “Voleurs!” which he raised into the Paris night, had the other man had a gun. The other man indicated that he had no gun by retreating ten yards down the street. His prostrate companion moved slightly on the sidewalk and, taking a step toward him, Billy drew back his foot and kicked him full in the head as a football player kicks a goal from placement. It was not a pretty gesture, but he had remembered that he was wearing his new dinner-coat and he didn’t want to wrestle on the ground for the piece of poisonous hardware.
In a moment two gendarmes in a great hurry came running down the moonlit street.
Two days after this it came out in the papers—“War hero deserts wife en route to Paris,” I think, or “American bride arrives penniless, husbandless at Gare du Nord.” The police were informed, of course, and word was sent out to the provincial departments to seek an American named James Cooley who was without carte d’identité. The newspapers learned the story at the American Aid Society, and made a neat, pathetic job of it, because Milly was young and pretty and curiously loyal to her husband. Almost her first words were to explain that it was all because his nerves had been shattered in the war.
Young Driscoll was somewhat disappointed to find that she was married. Not that he had fallen in love at first sight—on the contrary, he was unusually level-headed—but after the moonlight rescue, which rather pleased him, it didn’t seem appropriate that she should have a heroic husband wandering over France. He had carried her to his own pension that night, and his landlady, an American widow named Mrs. Horton, had taken a fancy to Milly and wanted to look after her, but before eleven o’clock on the day the paper appeared, the office of the American Aid Society was literally jammed with Samaritans. They were mostly rich old ladies from America who were tired of the Louvre and the Tuileries, and anxious for something to do. Several eager but sheepish Frenchmen, inspired by a mysterious and unfathomable gallantry, hung about outside the door.
The most insistent of the ladies was a Mrs. Coots, who considered that Providence had sent her Milly as a companion. If she had heard Milly’s story in the street she wouldn’t have listened to a word, but print makes things respectable. After it got into the Franco-American Star, Mrs. Coots was sure Milly wouldn’t make off with her jewels.
“I’ll pay you well, my dear,” she insisted shrilly. “Twenty-five a week. How’s that?”
Milly cast an anxious glance at Mrs. Horton’s faded, pleasant face.
“I don’t know—” she said hesitantly.
“I can’t pay you anything.” Mrs. Horton was confused by Mrs. Coots’ affluent, positive manner. “You do as you like. I’d love to have you.”
“You’ve certainly been kind,” said Milly, “but I don’t want to impose—”
Driscoll, who had been walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, stopped and turned toward her quickly.
“I’ll take care of that,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Mrs. Coots’ eyes flashed at him indignantly.
“She’s better with me,” she insisted. “Much better.” She turned to the secretary and remarked in a pained, disapproving stage whisper, “Who is this forward young man?”
Again Milly looked appealingly at Mrs. Horton.
“If it’s not too much trouble I’d rather stay with you,” she said. “I’ll help you all I can—”
It took another half hour to get rid of Mrs. Coots, but finally it was arranged that Milly was to stay at Mrs. Horton’s pension, until some trace of her husband was found. Later the same day they ascertained that the American Bureau of Military Graves had never heard of Jim Cooley—he had no job promised him in France.
However distressing her situation, Milly was young and she was in Paris in mid-June. She decided to enjoy herself. At Mr. Bill Driscoll’s invitation she went on an excursion to Versailles next day in his rubberneck wagon. She had never been on such a trip before. She sat among garment buyers from Sioux City and school-teachers from California and honeymoon couples from Japan, and was whirled through fifteen centuries of Paris, while their guide stood up in front with the megaphone pressed to his voluble and original mouth.
“Building on your left is the Louvre, ladies and gentlemen. Excursion number twenty-three leaving to-morrow at ten sharp takes you inside. Sufficient to remark now that it contains fifteen thousand works of art of every description. The oil used in its oil paintings would lubricate