The Moderns

Merci, Julien.

Monsieur Stone, madame, bonjour.

- Hem!

- My gosh! Excuse me.

Hem!

Buffy Buckley.

Hard at work, eh? My gosh!

Can I buy you a drink?

Must be awful trying to work

in a place as noisy as this.

Have a seat, Bunny.

Buffy, actually. Thank you.

You can call me Bunny if you like.

- What'll it be?

- Whiskey.

And this business of

227 pieces of shrapnel...

270 and still walking.

My God! It's a miracle.

You're all right, Bun.

Thanks, Hem. That's swell of you.

That's damn swell of ya.

Monsieur Stone? Monsieur Stone, bonjour.

Monsieur Stone. Frdric Chapelle.

Merci.

Ernest Hemingway, tell me,

are things as they should be?

What's the name?

- Napier, Eve.

- Eve.

Eve, it seems that you have your hand

on my fly rod.

Really? How rude!

Merci. Bye-bye.

Stop it.

Very original, wouldn't you say?

Monsieur I'Oiseau.

Monsieur I'Oiseau, Frdric Chapelle.

Chapelle.

Hart.

- Among the throng, but not of the throng.

- Monsieur I'Oiseau.

Bonjour, monsieur I'Oiseau.

Who are all these people?

Seems like a new boatload of expatriates

gets dumped here every day.

You think we should change cafs?

Easier to change your mind

than your caf, Oisif.

Don't call me Oisif.

- You almost finished?

- Done.

Good thing they don't pay me

by the hour for this.

I may have to make up

my column this week.

- I can't find my notes.

- You'd make it up anyway.

It's what The Tribune expects.

It's what they deserve.

Did I tell you?

They won't let me out of my contract

and transfer to Hollywood.

They just don't see that Hollywood is

the city of the future.

You said the same thing about Paris

six years ago.

The future doesn't just

stand still, you know.

Oiseau!

Don't forget me

in your column next week, chri.

You should come with me, Hart.

To Hollywood? Come on, Oisif.

I think it'll be more fun

to watch the movies than to make them.

Au revoir.

Bunny,

if she comes back here, I'm gonna hit her.

Listen, Hart, you're flat broke.

- It's time to move on.

- Send me a postcard.

Besides, it's okay to be broke in Paris.

In America, it's downright immoral.

I don't ever want to be

on the scrounge again in America. Never.

- Do you know what's wrong with you?

- No, but I'm sure you're gonna tell me.

You don't know what you want.

Luckily for you, I do.

I'll tell you what I want, Oiselle.

I want that woman over there.

I want to make love to her for five days.

Maybe in a cabin.

In a snowstorm. Yeah.

Then I want to paint her.

Then I don't care what happens.

Good. Then we'll go to Hollywood.

- Who's the big spender with her?

- That's Bertram Stone.

- Who's he?

- Self-made money.

Came here from New York in April.

In rubber, as I recall.

I read once that he apprenticed

with Houdini to be an escape artist.

- Escape artist?

- Yeah.

Now he's buying his way into culture.

Charming fellow. Totally ruthless.

It's rumored he killed a man.

- A killer? Tell me about her.

- You mean, his wife?

His wife.

It's well-known.

Not just another rumor?

If it had been rumor, you'd have read it

in my column a long time ago.

- Introduce me.

- Come on, Hart.

Stone's the kind of man you hate.

You don't want to meet him.

No. I want to meet her. Introduce me.

Now, Oisif.

Don't call me that

in front of them, all right?

Mais oui, monsieur I'Oiseau.

Hart, buy me a drink.

Yeah. Just a minute.

Scrounging for tidbits, Oisou?

You know how it is, Stone.

Everyone hates repeating gossip,

but what else is there to do with it?

That's funny.

- Isn't that funny, Bertie?

- Yes.

I think everything about Oisou is a joke.

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