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afterwards?”
    “We didn’t know any. We have only been here three weeks. This one—the waiter got us this one—and he did not want him any more—he said—he thought he would be better off without him—”
    “What was the matter with him?”
    “I don’t know. The doctor said pneumonia—but he didn’t believe him—he said all doctors are crooks—and he was really feeling better yesterday. Then suddenly—”
    “Why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”
    “He did not want to go. He said—he—I would betray him when he was away—he—you don’t know him—there was nothing to be done—”
    “Is he still at the hotel?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you tell the owner of the hotel what had happened?”
    “No. Suddenly when he grew silent—and everything was so silent, and his eyes, I couldn’t bear it and ran away—”
    Ravic thought about the night. For a moment he was embarrassed. But it had happened and it was unimportant: to him and to the woman. Particularly to the woman. This night nothing really had mattered to her and only one thing was important: that she go through it. Life consisted of more than sentimental similes. The night Lavigne had heard that his wife was dead he had spent in a brothel. The whores had saved him; a priest could not have helped him through it. Whoever understood this, understood it.There was no explanation for it. But responsibilities went along with it.
    He took his coat. “Come! I’ll go with you. Was it your husband?”
    “No,” the woman said.
    The patron of the Hôtel Verdun was fat. He hadn’t a single hair on his skull, but to make up for it he had a dyed black mustache and bushy black eyebrows. He was standing in the lobby; behind him a waiter, a chambermaid, and a cashier with a flat bosom. It was evident that he already knew everything. He burst into abuse as soon as he saw the woman enter. His face paled, he waved his fat little hands in the air, and he sputtered with rage, indignation and, as Ravic saw, relief. When he came to “police, aliens, suspicion, and prison,” Ravic interrupted him.
    “Do you come from Provence?” he asked.
    The patron stopped short. “No. What do you mean?” he asked in surprise.
    “Nothing,” Ravic replied. “I only wanted to interrupt you. An utterly senseless question is the best way. You would have gone on talking for another hour.”
    “Who are you, sir? What do you want?”
    “That’s the first intelligent sentence you’ve said up to now.”
    The hotelkeeper calmed down. “Who are you?” he asked more quietly, careful not to insult an influential man under any circumstances.
    “I’m the doctor,” Ravic replied.
    The patron saw that there was no danger here. “There is no need of a doctor now,” he burst out anew. “This is a case for the police!”
    He stared at Ravic and the woman. He expected fear, protest, and entreaties.
    “That’s a good idea. Why aren’t they already here? You’ve known for several hours that the man is dead!”
    The patron did not answer.
    “I’ll tell you why.” Ravic took one step forward. “You don’t want a scandal because of your guests. Many people would move out if they knew about such things. But the police must come, that’s the law. It’s up to you to hush it up. But that wasn’t what bothered you. You were afraid the mess would be left in your lap. You needn’t have been. Besides you were worried about your bill. It will be paid. And now I want to see the corpse. Then I’ll take care of everything else.”
    He walked past the hotelkeeper. “What is the room number?” he asked the woman.
    “Fourteen.”
    “You don’t have to come with me. I can do it alone.”
    “No. I don’t want to stay here.”
    “It would be better for you not to see any more.”
    “No, I will not stay here.”
    “All right. Just as you like.”
    It was a front room with a low ceiling. A few chambermaids, porters, and waiters were crowded around the door. Ravic pushed them aside.