Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/13

It was during the slack season that Anna had met Eric. She was having a cup of black coffee at the cafe d'Harcourt, when his voice startled her.

"Won't you have a croissant, Mademoiselle," he said, and pushed a basket of fresh buns towards her.

And when Anna had dropped her eyes in confusion, she had seen a smooth hand with long and sensitive fingers. A blue vein, appearing from beneath the sleeve cuff, divided into two branches, forming a small triangle. Anna started violently. Jean! A thousand bells rang within her. Her throat felt dry, her voice was gone.

"Expecting someone, Mademoiselle?" he asked casually.

She nodded, seeking hard to hide her agitation with a forced smile that broke into a slight giggle.

"Probably one of these hungry artists who flush at the sight of a bun," he thought. He was studying her closely; her profile, pale and grave, was no clue to her identity. Her tailored suit, her beret basque, her flat-heeled shoes could belong to any St. Michel student, and yet she had no books. She was clutching her handbag nervously.

"Française?" he asked with stiff elegance.

"No," she said distantly.

"Spanish then?" he tried to probe her origin.

"Let's make it a guessing game," she laughed, relieved by his easy manner.

“Then who is responsible for these beautiful eyes," he grinned.

"Guess again," she parried.

He circled the globe in his eagerness to tag her and when he failed, she finally admitted she was Jewish. He looked stunned for a moment and then they were both laughing.

"What a coincidence," he thought, remembering his father's tale of the Jewish bogeyman with his black beard