Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/113

confident. She smiled back at him, seeing him as a possible buffer against the eyes of the others.

"I-I'm waiting for my husband," she stammered, a bit abashed at her white lie. "And it's very embarrassing sitting here alone."

He moved over to her table with deliberate sang-froid, taking his Vin Madére along with him. "Oh, I see you're drinking coffee," he grimaced. "You Parisians simply don't know anything about coffee. It's all in the roasting."

"You're talking like a connoisseur," she said.

"I come from the coffee country-Brazil." He extended his hand and introduced himself. His dark Latin eyes flashed at her with an insidious lure.

He noticed the slight flush in her cheeks. "Don't mind me," he apologized, "I'm extremely restless. Just came back from a hunting party."

"At night?" she asked puzzled.

"Why, nocturnal hunting is delightful!" he exclaimed. His dark olive skin was tinged with a bright color. "You invade the forest with torches, blazing lights, dogs and trumpets. Everybody goes mad with excitement - even the animals."

He noticed a keen animation in her eyes. "Did you ever hunt at night?" Anna paled at his question. "Oh," he went on, not noticing her discomfort. "Paris itself is a forest and we're all hunters-don't you think so?"

She was silent and he suddenly became mum. A pungent perfume exuded from his clothes. The street lights grew dimmer, the traffic thinned down. Prowling along the sidewalks were nocturnal Don Juans, panderers, with coat collars turned up, keeping an eye on their girls. Students who had taken a glass too much could be heard singing. Couples leaning against the rails of the bridge, were embracing each