Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/215

entrusted him with important missions; the president made an intimate of him. He banged away on the typewriter, distributed proclamations, put notices up on the walls. Many nights he would spend on a hard bench in the corridor outside of the offices so that he might be ready at daybreak, without loss of time, to fill inkwells, see that the paper and pencils were at hand, that the large meeting room was clean and tidy in case of an unexpected meeting. He felt as though all the work of the Syndicate lay on his shoulders, as though it were he alone who bore responsibility for everything. He was dealing with trifles, but they expanded in his mind to tremendous size that gave zest and significance to his revolutionary zeal.

Only on Sundays did his real, inner self emerge from beneath the exterior of the busy functionary and look with eagerness around the world he had once known. Once, on such a Sunday, he looked up Mary's address and telephoned her.

"Mary!

"Pierre!" Mary sang out his name in the melodious voice he remembered so well.

Like the hungry man who catches the smell of a fresh baked loaf, his eyes gleamed in anticipation. He savored her merry laughter, her ringing voice, the thought of her fresh, downy cheeks speckled with freckles, her swift, quicksilver movements. It was all he could do to prevent himself from bursting out with a love song.

Mary knew very well what was going through Pierre, and the knowledge flattered her woman's heart immensely. They made an appointment and went to a movie.

This was the first of their meetings; later she accompanied him to picnics, gatherings and demonstrations. Once, when