* * * * *
Since I wrote that last sentence I have been out, alone--to decide.
Padre, it was in my mind never to come back.
I walked a long, long way, to the Champs-Elysees. I was very tired, and
I sat down--almost dropped down--on a seat under the high canopy of
chestnut trees. I could not think, but I had a sense of expectation as
if I were waiting for somebody who would tell me what to do. Paris in
the autumn twilight was a dream of beauty. Suddenly the dream seemed to
open, and draw me in. Some one far away, whom I had known and loved, was
_dreaming me_! What I should decide about the future, depended no longer
on myself, but upon the dreamer. I didn't know who he was; but I knew I
should learn by and by. It was he who would come walking along the road
of his own dream, and take the vacant place by me on the seat.
Being in the dream, I didn't belong to the wonderful, war-time Paris
which was rushing and roaring around me. Military motors, and huge
_camions_ and ambulances were tearing up and down, over the gray-satin
surface of asphalt which used to be sacred to private autos and gay
little taxis bound for theatres and operas and balls. For every girl, or
woman, or child, who passed, there were at least ten soldiers: French
soldiers in _bleu horizon_, Serbians in gray, Britishers and a
sprinkling of Americans in khaki. There was an undertone of music--a
tune in the making--in the tramp, tramp, of the soldiers' feet, the
rumble and whirr of the cars-of-war, the voices of women, the laughing
cries of children.
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