"

Again, in spite of the gruffness, I felt that wistful quality in him.
J. K. was hunting for something too.

CHAPTER X

But what a relief to see him go, to forget his loud disturbing Paris and
again drink deep of mine, the city of great writers.

"I'll never really know them," I thought, "until I can not only talk but
think and feel in their language."

So I drudged for hours a day in my room. I inflicted my French on my
chums at meals, on defenseless drivers of 'buses who could not rise and
go away, and on the Blessed Damozel, who said:

"Va donc, cherches-toi une fille. C'est la seule maniere d'apprendre le
Francais."

I was vaguely thrilled by this idea, the more because so far in my life
I had had no experience of the kind. On the streets, in cabs, and in
cafes I began watching women with different eyes, more eagerly selecting
eyes that picked out of the throng the one _her_ of the moment so that
for me she was quite alone. She was alone for a thousand reasons,
different ones in every case. She was of many ages, rich and poor, now
gorgeous and now simply dressed, now a ravishing creature that took your
breath and again just funny and very French with a saucy way of wearing
her clothes. Her fascinations were always new. I watched her twinkling
earrings, her trick of using her lips when she smiled, her hands, her
silk clad ankles, her swelling young bust, the small coquettish hat she
wore, her shoulders, their expressive shrugs, her quick vivacious
movements--and I watched her eyes. Her eyes would meet mine now and
then, often with only a challenging smile but again in an intimate
dazzling way that gave me a deep swift shock of delight and left me
confused and excited.

"In a little while," I thought. I decided to wait till I knew more
French. "She'll be strange enough, God knows," I thought half
apprehensively, "even when I can talk her language." And with a feeling
almost of relief I would plunge back into my work and forget her. For me
she was only an incident in this teeming radiant life.

I must learn French! I strained my ears at lectures, at plays from the
top gallery, I hired a tutor to hurry it on. Years later in New York I
met a Russian revolutionist come to raise money for his cause. "Three
weeks have I been in this country," he said in utter exasperation. "And
not yet do I speak fluently the English!" That was how I felt about
French. What a delight to begin to feel easy, to catch the