Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/109

Chapter 12

On an early June evening, Eric walked along the Boulevard St. Michel bound for nowhere. Although his mind was still ruffled with thoughts of Anna, he felt a strange calm. It was good to stroll along, or rather stay in one place while the streets and boulevards pass you by, enfolding in the darkness the inner soul of a corner cafe, a shadow-hidden statue, a display in a window. Young people thronged the pavements, adding their adolescent intensity to the luxuriant warmth of the evening. Eric sensed them all, sensed Paris as one senses the glance of a beloved and knows at once that she is always beautiful, beautiful when her skies are blue and clear, deep, high-arched and proud, beautiful in her obscurity, like the body of Cleopatra, unrolled from the carpet, stunning the great Caesar with its slim, golden, majestic nakedness.

How beautiful is Paris, thought Anna, but in another part of the city. She, too, was walking along, taking firm strides, her hands thrust into her pockets, her beret perched over her eyes. Like Eric she had no goal, wandering aimlessly through a maze of streets. All she wanted for the moment was to escape from the silence of her four white walls and from the budding acacia outside her window. She knew from ample experience that in Paris a young girl can't walk alone for long without some sort of interruption. If it was not a young man who would come along to protest his infatuation,