Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/317

to rest. Heaps of dead leaves fluttered about her, driven in passive helplessness, by the wind of fate.

She intended to leave the city and return home to her farm in the shady hollow between the two hills.

Railroad traffic for civilians was practically at a standstill. In order to get on a train, it was necessary to have "pull." That meant contact with people-tying together the broken threads of her past, stirring up painful memories.

Just the thought of meeting people made her shudder. She wanted to leave Paris unnoticed, and decided to go the way she once went when she rose from the mud under the Sainte Marie bridge, inspired by the fiery beard which framed the face of a stranger-a man whose limbs smelled of earth and sweat.

But there was still the same unfinished business in the city-Eric.

He was waiting in the Père Lachaise gardens, as if nothing had happened between them. If only fate had not conspired to throw him into her presence. At a moment of weakness she had taken him out of the row of Nazi prisoners, saying that he was a friend. Now she must make good, repair her mistake at any cost.

The stringent odors of the hospital seemed to have fumigated her mind, stripped it of all romantic illusions, like the bare autumn trees, blown of their green splendor. Eric had become a mere problem, a mathematical equation-nothing more. He must be solved; she could not let him fly about, like a disjointed integer, a numeral that might spell disaster at the first chance. She glanced at the letter again to make sure of the designated rendezvous.

Then she rose, and walked briskly to the subway station. As she entered she felt strong again; the pain in her left shoulder had vanished. A man said, "Pardon, Mademoiselle,