Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/20

with intense concentration the gradual quieting of his blood. break out over his body, and lay down on the bed, awaiting He lay motionless, his eyes staring straight ahead; bitterness consumed him.

Yes, it was all his mother's fault. Why had she insisted so stubbornly that he study medicine? Nothing less would please her. Well, now she had her reward; now she was paid for her unlovely widowhood, for her unending labor in the coal store, for her blackened, grimy face which she never had time to wash, until the coal-dust had entered into the very pores. Now she was paid; she could reap the bitter fruit of her victory. "Come here Mother," he wanted to say, "and take a look at this doctor of yours, spat upon and despised; this doctor of yours, lying alone and waiting for death."

A doctor was what she had wanted. Nothing less would please her. And so he had studied all day and worked at night-and what had he found at the end of it? Consumption. The bitterness and melancholy of his mood mounted higher and higher, completely enveloping him. He was at a dead-end, trapped in his own body beyond help, beyond pity.

In despair, he forced his thoughts back to Anna's beloved face. If only she were with him now, the loneliness would not be suffocating him, the room would be cheery and warm, even cosier because of the rain and gray skies outside. If he had a wife to love him, she would save him, rescue him from this mire of despondency. "Ah, that damned medicine," he said aloud. "Seven whole years wasted and gone." Suppose he had devoted all that time to writing, to working on a newspaper-as he had so ardently wanted to do. Maybe by now he would have a place in the world, perhaps be a husband and father.

Hours passed as his thoughts wandered on. The rain had stopped. Now the window panes glistened in the sunlight.