Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/105

darted fire. What is it he yearns for? she asked herself. What implacable power is it that draws him out of his shell?

The line of marchers wove on. Onlookers from open windows called down enthusiastic greetings. Blue-coated gendarmes, pedaling on their bicycles, guarded the periphery of the line of march. Their fleshy jowls glistened with perspiration in the warm sun. Now the lines reached the Philippe August, passed the Bagnolet, then held firm, though guards with locked arms and clenched teeth strove with all their power to hold back the pressing throngs. Many in the ranks were youngsters, shirts open at the throat. Enthusiasm shone from their eyes. It was clear that, like Pierre, they were ready to shout forth their mighty slogans and inflame the hearts of the marching thousands.

Young Marcel never ceased his fiery singing, except that once in a while he would break into a cough to ease his dry throat. A tall youth displayed a bottle of lemonade. "Here, here!" called a dozen voices. The bottle passed from hand to hand. Marcel, too, managed to get a sip and raised his voice again with renewed fervor.

Within the ranks the marchers pressed close. Young and old, tall and short, black eyes and blue eyes, heads smooth and heads dishevelled. Their voices roared as one. "Death to Fascism! Down with war!" It was as if the ages shouted with them, the past, present and future, marching in the bright procession of life. The press of the crowds became unbearable. The ranks scattered. A soft whisper, like a cool breeze ran through the crowd: "The wall! The wall!" Pierre was pushed out of line. Suzette, too. Instinctively Anna clutched Marcel's moist hand. Her voice as though out of control, joined in the general chorus.

Weaving along like a river, the line of marchers veered leftwards. No longer did she feel the heat of the day. Not