A Mouse for Maurice

World Communism, which seemed to be encroaching almost everywhere last week, suffered a minor setback in Paris. The dour plotters in the Kremlin lost no sleep over it, but Maurice Thorez, French Communist leader, undeniably lost face. For a few days, in fact, his pudgy face was literally disfigured.

Two weeks ago Soviet Ambassador Alexander Bogomolov gave a party to celebrate the Red Army's 30th birthday. Present: French Comrades Thorez, Jacques Duclos and lesser stooges, eccentric Raymond Marquie, a repatriation official who was recalled from Russia last December after he had denounced his own government; several flyers from the Normandie-Niemen Escadrille, which fought on the Russian front during the war.

"We Are All Friends." In the grey stone embassy, light from the blazing chandeliers gleamed on serried ranks of vodka bottles. There were endless toasts --for the glorious Red Army and its beloved leader, Comrade Stalin; for generals, colonels, majors, captains and so on. One guest reported later: "After the toast for the captains the party lost dignity." Thorez chummily first-named the ambassador: "We are all friends, aren't we, Alex, and brothers?"

Colonel Marquie had one vodka too many. Chatting with Thorez and Duclos, he said: "Really, the achievements of the French flyers on the Russian front were not exactly terrific." Thorez, who had sat out the war in Russia, agreed. So did Duclos. Despite the noise, the conversation was overheard by several escadrille members. One of them, Lieut. Alex Laurent, who had been wounded and decorated in Russia, came bounding up to the group, and shoved Duclos aside, saying, "You're too little, I won't bother with you." Then Laurent measured burly Maurice Thorez. "Your patriotism," he said, "was too discreet for my taste, anyhow." Thereupon he punched Thorez, who went down.

"Wasn't It Fun?" Instantly the fight became a free-for-all. Mme. Thorez (Jeannette Vermeerseh) screamed. Thorez, dabbing his bloody face with a handkerchief, tried to get up. His friends yelled "Agent provocateur!'' and "Hold him!" at Laurent; they attacked the group of flyers. A frantic Russian shouted "Nyet! Nyet!" A French major who tried to restore calm was tossed out into the gutter. Ambassador Bogomolov, safe in a corner, roared with laughter.

Hero Laurent was finally overpowered, ejected, whisked home in a car. His wife spent the night putting compresses on his contused head. Next day, when the peacemaking major called the embassy to apologize, Bogomolov, unscathed, was still shaking with laughter. "Wasn't it fun, though?" he guffawed. "That dear old vodka."

According to one story going the rounds last week, Maurice Thorez hired a make-up man to conceal the damage to his face--to save himself embarrassment in the National Assembly. Hero Laurent, interviewed in his barracks, commented: "I used to know this damned vodka rather well, but I'm no longer in the habit of drinking it. I must have been bien soul [pretty plastered], and somebody must have said something I didn't like. So I hit him. Then in return they beat me up; I guess they had to suppress me, after all. There is no political meaning. . . ."

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