Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/19

reflection in the mirror. "I've got a good, strong face, full of character." Suddenly he thought of Tshuda, the Hungar- ian student he had known. She was always so open in her admiration of his looks.

Ah, what a woman that was! Free and uninhibited. Even in the middle of the night she would come and tap at his door. A complete female animal, like a tigress with large, yellow eyes that lit up the dark, probing and panting for his naked, masculine strength. Yes, there was a time when he had been successful with women-and now he practically had to beg for a bit of sympathy and kindness. And from whom? From a pretty-faced country maid, who blushed at the very thought of a man, shuffling about, timid and bashful, with head bent, like a tulip in Krashinsky's Gardens.

Pleased with his metaphor, Soma smiled. "Not a bad journalist," he thought. "And maybe even a poet. If I could only get through the course quickly and get a job, who would be able to hold a candle to me? A journalist with a touch of the poet. What a combination!"

The wings of fantasy were always ready for Soma; and now he launched forward on them to the celestial heights. He began to hum a melody as a musical accompaniment to the journey, but the flight did not last long. Without warning there was a tickling sensation in his throat, and the song was interrupted by a hacking cough. The unexpected spasm shocked him. It was a long time since he had had an attack like that.

"To the devil with this disgusting weather," he growled, and spat out. And as always when he saw traces of blood in his sputum, he felt a sudden sinking of his heart. He pressed both hands against his chest, as though he could in this way halt the mysterious processes that were going on inside him, the fearful ferment of decay. He felt a cold perspiration