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cellar of a Montmartre house, inspecting the reserve of ammunition that had been stowed away there. He polished, counted, and tried out every weapon-as if it was something close and dear to him. He glowed over the pile of guns, knives and hand grenades: here lay the secret instruments, he thought, that would bring final liberation. He had reason to feel the deep pride of possession. Under the most difficult hardships had these weapons been acquired. His company alone, numbering barely two hundred, had accumulated them through attack and theft and black market transactions.

Ever since he had taken command of that section of the Resistance, Pierre had been a tireless worker. His personality grew with dynamic splendor. Aware of the responsibility that lay on his shoulders, his nerves were stretched to the breaking point, yet he never let up, drawing on the reserve of energy whose existence he had himself never suspected. He was a tireless worker and he only rested at the command of a superior.

As he fondled a revolver, Anna came into the basement room. "Comrade Combonne sent me," she said quietly, coming close to him. "He says you've got to get some rest.

Pierre let her talk, and allowed the words to flit by him, as though they made no impression at all.

"Combonne says you must take some rest," Anna repeated. "Orders to go into action may come at any moment." And when Pierre again ignored her words she went on: "Combonne has just picked up a broadcast. The time is very near now," she said. "You have to get some rest. It's only a question of hours, and you must reserve your energy, Pierre."

Pierre dropped the rag with which he was cleaning. "To hell with the energy!" he cried. Then he put his hand to his hair and scratched his scalp lustily.

"You must rest, Pierre," Anna insisted. "It's orders!"