Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/122

thought, seething, adolescent emotion and half-spoken words wrenched out of her despair.

"Why do you not hurry, Eric? The night is rushing on. The sun is fleeing from my window. The white of my window draperies are dimming. Night creeps forward all about me-and still you are not here . . . the white veils in the distant heavens are reddening. But there is no flush of shame on my cheeks. Have I sinned? Am I lost in regret? Or doubts? Far away is my lover but his footsteps pound on my skull. He climbs the steps of the Metro two at a time. Driven by longing, he rushes to me. His eyes searching for the street. The wind plays with his hair, like dishevelled waves, cool and caressing.

"Don't you see the way, Eric? Right past the Café des Trois Couronnes. Just follow the avenue. You'll see the lights, flashing directly in front of you-'Hotel de France.' Take the stairway to your left and come right up ...

"Gladly, would I come to meet you, Eric, but my knees are trembling so, and my heart has stopped beating out of sheer excitement. Open quickly, do not delay. Why do you wrinkle your brow so? Are you lost in wonder? Are you surprised? What is there to be surprised at? It is love that made me so beautiful.

"Sit down near me dearest. You don't want to? ...What then do you want? Fly? Soar?

"I am only a country girl, Eric, who has somehow blundered into this teeming city from the spacious fields. Please, Eric, show me the way. Be the center of my universe. Let me revolve around you...Take me under your wing. Teach my slumbering energies to soar away with you. I am so helpless, like a willow swaying in the wind. Soo-soo-soo-the wind blows and couples east with west . . . Oh, Eric,