It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken.
The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what café in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave.
"Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you."
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Just looking for you."
"Been out to the races?"
"No. Not since Sunday."
"What do you hear from the States?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them."
He leaned forward and looked me in the eye.
"Do you want to know something, Jake?"
"Yes."
"I haven't had anything to eat for five days."
I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar.
"What's the matter?"
"No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's
