Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/6

Though her father's inn had long since gone up in flames, her mind went back again and again to the landscape where every tree, every blade of grass, was an intimate part of her own life, spilling their green fragrance on her soul. She remembered the scene where, beyond the village, terraced slopes descended to the fields in which Benka, their red-and-white spotted cow, had pastured throughout the long summmer days until its udders were full and distended. And when day was fading, Anna would lead the gentle creature home along the winding narrow path that made its way among trees and bushes and lush grass. Carrots, cucumbers, potatoes, beets, onions and radishes grew in the garden, and below the eaves of the barn grew clusters of flowers.

All this Anna could see on the cracked wall of her attic room, which dissolved before her eyes like a fantasy of Spring. She could hear her father's deep voice, and the croaking of frogs, and the whirring of wings-all the rich sounds of summer in the village of her youth.

But today it wasn't the blossoming garden that she saw. It was the dance-hall on the rue d'Ecole. On the crowded floor ardent couples were dancing a sensuous Rhumba. Eric was holding her closely in his arms, the length of his body moulded close into hers, till she was aware of every detail of his masculine frame. His body against hers exuded a strong, primitive and exciting odor.

The revolving spotlights shed a golden rain on the dancing figures, and the orchestra blared feverishly.

"I can't stand it any more." Eric's voice whispered feverishly. She could see his hungry eyes devouring her. "I can't stand it any more." And the revolving lights and the rhythm of the music seemed to be saying it along with him. "I can't stand any more."

Anna tore her eyes from the wall and gazed frantically