Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/312

Anna buried her head in the pillow. All the faceless faces that were and were not, scorched her mind with the fires of Hell. All the torment of humanity seething like hot ashes in her pulsing brain...

During the visiting periods, Pierre came to see her. He brought a bunch of dahlias and a tin of American sardines. Noticing her depressed mood, he became impatient and disquieted.

"You've got to get hold of yourself, Anna darling," he said with assumed liveliness. "No need to make such a fuss about a wound in your shoulder. Anyway, who needs a left arm? What's the good of it? And besides, it'll be as good as new in no time."

Anna did not answer. Her melancholia was like a wall separating them. He sat down beside her. He could sense that there was a deeper wound inside her than the one in her flesh; and he knew, too, that to heal this wound was beyond his power.

Nervously, he shifted on the chair. Ever since the liberation he had had to face many disappointments and heart- aches; but this one, he felt, would be the most difficult to endure. Restlessly, he got up and stepped out of the ward to smoke.

He came back. Anna had not moved.

He sat down again and bent earnestly over her. "Listen, my dearest," he said. "You must leave this hospital. The sooner the better. The atmosphere here is what depresses you. Outside there's a living world, new life, new hope. Get a grip on yourself. You can't yield to the luxury of self-pity. That's for the decadent ones; the bourgeoisie. Go out and face the world-like the soldier you are! Paris is boiling with new life!"

His words were like a bracing tonic to Anna. She forced