Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/283

reports. There was a pale, almost spiritual light on his face; his strong eagle nose threw a shadow on his left cheek. A clung to his tobacco-colored hair. He motioned to the girl cigarette hung from the corner of his lip; the clouds of smoke to use lighter fingers on the keys.

It was plain that his thoughts were far from the cellar. There was a look of deep concern on his face. He sat motionless, and it was only when the glowing tip of the neglected cigarette finally scorched his lip that he broke out of his intense concentration. He spat out the cigarette butt, and as he did so, he caught sight of Berger. His thoughts assumed a philosophic bent. How great were the sufferings of the individual, the crucifixions of the soul. Each day brings report of hundreds and hundreds fallen in the fight. Names, nothing but names. And every name a world in itself, a world with its own private agony. Tear off a name-a world collapses and dies. That little man, he mused on with his logic-tight mind, his common sense and steadfast character fallen to pieces at a single blow. What a pity! He put a paper weight on the sheaf of reports, rose from his chair and stepped over to Berger.

"Well, my friend," he said. "Are you sobered up a bit now? Good!" He slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. "You're yourself again. I guess I can untie you. Yes, my friend," he continued, "this is war-not a play in a theatre. If we want the strength to win, we must learn how to take a defeat. A battle has been lost, but the war is still raging, old boy."

Berger turned his pain-filled eyes on him, shrugged in the ancient Jewish manner, and smiled a helpless smile. The pleading gaze caused the words to fade from Lamarque's lips. He began to pace hurriedly back and forth over the length of the basement room, and again came to a halt before