glass with Bassi, Fillipo Vincenza. Bassi said no that was no test because he had already drunk twice as much as I. I said that was a foul lie and, Bacchus or no Bacchus, Fillipo Vincenza Bassi or Bassi Fillippo Vicenza had never touched a drop all evening and what was his name anyway? He said was my name Frederico Enrico or Enrico Federico? I said let the best man win, Bacchus barred, and the major started us with red wine in mugs. Half-way through the wine I did not want any more. I remembered where I was going.
“Bassi wins,” I said. “He’s a better man than I am. I have to go.”
“He does really,” said Rinaldi. “He has a rendezvous. I know all about it.”
“I have to go.”
“Another night,” said Bassi. “Another night when you feel stronger.” He slapped me on the shoulder. There were lighted candles on the table. All the officers were very happy. “Good-night, gentlemen,” I said.
Rinaldi went out with me. We stood outside the door on the patch and he said, “You better not go up there drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, Rinin. Really.”
“You’d better chew some coffee.”
“Nonsense.”
“I’ll get some, baby. You walk up and down.” He came back with a handful of roasted coffee beans. “Chew those, baby, and God be with you.”
“Bacchus,” I said.
“I’ll walk down with you.”
“I’m perfectly all right.”
We walked along together through the town and I chewed the coffee. At the gate of the driveway that led up to the British villa, Rinaldi said good-night.
“Good-night,” I said. “Why don’t you come in?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I like the simpler pleasures.”
“Thank you for the coffee beans.”
“Nothing, baby. Nothing.”
J started down the driveway. The outlines of the cypresses that lined it were sharp and clear. I looked back and saw Rinaldi standing watching me and waved to him.
I sat in the reception hail of the villa, waiting for Catherine Barkley to come down. Some one was coming down the hallway. I stood up, but it was not Catherine. It was Miss Ferguson.
“Hello,” she said. “Catherine asked me to tell you she was sorry she couldn’t see you this evening.”
“I’m so sorry. I hope she’s not ill.”
“She’s not awfully well.”
“Will you tell her how sorry I am?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Do you think it would be any good to try and see her tomorrow?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. “Good-night.”
I went out the door and suddenly I felt lonely and empty. I had treated seeing Catherine very lightly, I had gotten somewhat drunk and had nearly forgotten to come but when I could not see her there I was feeling lonely and hollow.
8
The next afternoon we heard there was to be an attack up the river that night and that we were to take four cars there. Nobody knew anything about it although they all spoke with great positiveness and strategical knowledge. I was riding in the first car and as we passed the entry to the British hospital I told the driver to stop. The other cars pulled up. I got out and told the driver to go on and that if we had not caught up to them at the junction of the road to Cormons to wait there. I hurried up the driveway and inside the reception hall I asked for Miss Barkley.
“She’s on duty.”
“Could I see her just for a moment?”
They sent an orderly to see and she came back with him.
“I stopped to ask if you were better. They told me you were on duty, so I asked to see you.”
“I’m quite well,” she said, “I think the heat knocked me over yesterday.”
“I have to go.”
“I’ll just step out the door a minute.”
“And you’re all right?” I asked outside.
“Yes, darling. Are you coming to-night?”
“No. I’m leaving now for a show up above Plava.”
“A show?”
“I don’t think it’s anything.”
“And you’ll be back?”
“To-morrow.”
She was unclasping something from her neck. She put it in my hand. “It’s a Saint Anthony,” she said. “And come to-morrow night.”
“You’re not a Catholic, are you?”
“No. But they say a Saint Anthony’s very useful.”
“I’ll take care of him for you. Good-by.”
“No,” she said, “not good-by.”
“All right.”
“Be a good boy and be careful. No, you can’t kiss me here. You can’t.”
“All right.”
I looked back and saw her standing on the steps. She waved and I kissed my hand and held it out. She waved again and then I was out of the driveway and climbing up into the seat of the ambulance and we started. The Saint Anthony was in a little white metal capsule. I opened the capsule and spilled him out into my hand.
“Saint Anthony?” asked the driver.
“Yes.”
“I have one.” His right hand left the wheel and opened a button on his tunic and pulled it out from under his shirt.
“See?”
I put my Saint Anthony back in the capsule, spilled the thin gold chain together and put it all in my breast pocket.
“You don’t wear him?”
“No.”
“It’s better to wear him. That’s what it’s for.”
“All right,” I said. I undid the clasp of the gold chain and put it around my neck and clasped it. The saint hung down on the Outside of my uniform and I undid the throat of my tunic, unbuttoned the shirt collar and dropped him in under the shirt. I felt him in his metal box against my chest while we drove. Then I forgot about him. After I was wounded I never found him. Some one probably got it at one of the dressing stations.
We drove fast when we were over the bridge and soon we saw the dust of the other cars ahead down the road. The road curved and we saw the three cars looking quite small, the dust rising from the wheels and going off through the trees. We caught them and passed them and turned off on a road that climbed up into the hills. Driving in convoy is not unpleasant if you are the first car and I settled back in the seat and watched the country. We were in the foothills on the near side of the river and as the road mounted there were the high mountains off to the north with snow still on the tops. I looked back and saw the three cars all climbing, spaced by the interval of their dust. We passed a long column of loaded mules, the drivers walking along beside the mules wearing red
