Tales of the Jazz AgeFitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott)
General
Tales of the Jazz Age
Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott)
Short stories; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
But the little group of five which had formed farther up and was
engrossing all the watchers’ attention had stopped upon a ledge of
rock. The negroes stooped and pulled up what appeared to be a
trap-door in the side of the mountain. Into this they all disappeared,
the white-haired man first, then his wife and son, finally the two
negroes, the glittering tips of whose jewelled head-dresses caught the
sun for a moment before the trap-door descended and engulfed them all.
Kismine clutched John’s arm.
“Oh,” she cried wildly, “where are they going? What are they going to
do?”
“It must be some underground way of escape--”
A little scream from the two girls interrupted his sentence.
“Don’t you see?” sobbed Kismine hysterically. “The mountain is wired!”
Even as she spoke John put up his hands to shield his sight. Before
their eyes the whole surface of the mountain had changed suddenly to a
dazzling burning yellow, which showed up through the jacket of turf as
light shows through a human hand. For a moment the intolerable glow
continued, and then like an extinguished filament it disappeared,
revealing a black waste from which blue smoke arose slowly, carrying
off with it what remained of vegetation and of human flesh. Of the
aviators there was left neither blood nor bone--they were consumed as
completely as the five souls who had gone inside.
Simultaneously, and with an immense concussion, the château literally
threw itself into the air, bursting into flaming fragments as it rose,
and then tumbling back upon itself in a smoking pile that lay
projecting half into the water of the lake. There was no fire--what
smoke there was drifted off mingling with the sunshine, and for a few
minutes longer a powdery dust of marble drifted from the great
featureless pile that had once been the house of jewels. There was no
more sound and the three people were alone in the valley.
XI
At sunset John and his two companions reached the huge cliff which had
marked the boundaries of the Washingtons’ dominion, and looking back
found the valley tranquil and lovely in the dusk. They sat down to
finish the food which Jasmine had brought with her in a basket.
“There!” she said, as she spread the table-cloth and put the
sandwiches in a neat pile upon it. “Don’t they look tempting? I always
think that food tastes better outdoors.”
“With that remark,” remarked Kismine, “Jasmine enters the middle
class.”
“Now,” said John eagerly, “turn out your pocket and let’s see what
jewels you brought along. If you made a good selection we three ought
to live comfortably all the rest of our lives.”
Obediently Kismine put her hand in her pocket and tossed two handfuls
of glittering stones before him. “Not so bad,” cried John
enthusiastically. “They aren’t very big, but--Hello!” His expression
changed as he held one of them up to the declining sun. “Why, these
aren’t diamonds! There’s something the matter!”
“By golly!” exclaimed Kismine, with a startled look. “What an idiot I
am!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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