Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/319

in a world where men made history, shaped it, as Berger had dreamed to their heart's desire.

The fog, which envelops time and perspective, had lifted, revealing the panorama of her fate. Fantastic, yet real, the past unfolded once more. Spreading out into the clear air, like a white ribbon among the trees, fluttering upward, till it finally reached the last turn of the square-where it stopped abruptly in front of a green bench. Suddenly a pair of green eyes cut through her soul like a knife, plunging it into an agony of confusion.

She lunged forward, as if she were getting off a running escalator, while the road behind her kept rolling on. Her eyes glowed with exultation, but her voice, quiet as the flowing of still water, said casually, "Bon jour."

Eric shook his head, too stunned to speak. She sat down beside him. The man in the green raincoat made an attempt to rise, but he remained seated, shocked into immobility.

"What's wrong, Eric?" she said calmly. "Can't you come out of your shell? We are free now," she added, smiling bitterly, seeking to open his sealed lips. He tried to rise, but some dead weight seemed to drag him down. "There is no place to run, Eric. We've come to a dead end. Or is it only the beginning?"

He did not answer-just puffed out his cheeks which had prematurely lost their fullness and now clearly showed the outlines of the bones. His eyes, deepset under heavy brows, glowed with the fireceness of a tiger. Only his pale, slender fingers reminded her of something that was once dear.

"How you have changed," she went on, caught up in a sudden wave of pity. "Your hair is turning grey already."

Eric sat like one in a trance and did not even try to answer.

"It's a lovely afternoon, isn't it?" she said in the same