Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/89

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"Just go down into the streets." Anna retorted. "Then you'll see who 'we' are. Thousands and hundreds of thousands-all together. That's who 'we' are."

"Just the same there'll always be rich and poor," Gertrude insisted stubbornly, clinging to her cynical philosophy. "The ones who are exploited will always cry to the high heavens, and the exploiters will go on stuffing themselves. The Jews will always insist their God is the only one, and the Christians will stick to their beliefs."

"Then a new Messiah will emerge," Anna said, "and he'll proclaim one God for the whole world. A God that will create harmony out of all the extremes."

"I don't understand a word you're saying," Gertrude commented. The faint lines around her lips deepened in maternal sympathy.

Anna didn't answer. She herself was wondering about the ideas she had just expressed, wondering who had first uttered them. Was it Berger or Eric? No it wasn't Eric; his thoughts were bounded by the present; he had no wings to fly into the future. His life was confined within the triangle of flesh and blood and bone. And thinking of him she felt the sudden protest of her own body sacrificed as a burnt offering on the altar of humanity. "What have I to do with humanity?" she cried inwardly. "I am a woman, fashioned for love. Listen," she gasped, as Gertrude stared at her with you all frightened eyes. "I want to tell you, I want to tell about-listen..."

  • * *

And now Gertrude knew. The peacocks on the red-papered wall knew, and the table with the missing leg, and the flickering gaslight. All knew, all. The secret had burst by itself,

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