Arch of Triumph Read Free

During critical times have an eye for comfort. That’s an old soldier’s maxim.”
    “Thanks,” the woman said. “Thanks.”
    Ravic went into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The water gushed into the basin. He undid his tie and stared absent-mindedly at himself in the mirror. Challenging eyes in deep-shadowed sockets; a narrow face, dead tired, only the eyes giving it life; lips too soft for the furrow running from the nose to the mouth—and above the right eye, disappearing into the hair, a long jagged scar—
    The telephone bell cut into his thoughts. “Damn it!” For an instant he had forgotten everything. There were such moments of complete oblivion. And there was still the woman sitting in the other room.
    “I’m coming,” he called.
    “Frightened?” He lifted the receiver. “What? Yes. All right. Yes—naturally—immediately, yes—it will do, yes. Where? All right, I’ll be there at once. Hot strong coffee—yes—”
    He carefully put the receiver down and for a few seconds remained seated on the arm of the sofa. “I’ve got to go,” he said, “right now.”
    The woman rose immediately. She swayed a little and leaned on the chair.
    “No, no—” For a moment Ravic was touched by this obedient readiness. “You can stay here. Go to sleep. I will be gone for an hour or two, I don’t know exactly how long. Do stay here.” He got into his coat. He had a passing thought. And at once forgot it. The woman would not steal. She was not the type. He knew it too well. And there wasn’t much she could steal.
    He was already at the door when the woman asked, “Can’t I go with you?”
    “Impossible. Stay here. Take whatever you need. The bed, if you want. There’s cognac over there. Go to sleep—”
    He turned away. “Leave the light on,” the woman said suddenly and quickly.
    Ravic took his hand from the knob. “Afraid?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    He pointed to the key. “Lock the door behind me. But don’t leave the key in the lock. There’s another key downstairs with which I can get in.”
    She shook her head. “It’s not that. But please leave the light on.”
    “I see!” Ravic looked at her sharply. “I wasn’t going to turn it off anyway. Leave it on. I know that feeling. I’ve gone through such times, too.”
    At the corner of the Rue des Acacias he got a taxi. “Drive to Rue Lauriston. Fast!”
    The driver made a U-turn and drove into the Avenue Carnot and then into the Avenue de la Forge. As he crossed the Avenue de la Grande Armée a small two-seater raced toward them from the right. The two cars would have collided, had not the street been wet and smooth. But when the two-seater’s brake took hold it skidded into the middle of the street just past the radiator of the taxi. The light car whirled like a carrousel. It was a small Renault driven by a man wearing glasses and a black bowler hat. At every turn one saw his white indignant face for a moment. Then the car came to a stop facing the Arc at the end of the street as though facing the huge gates to Hades—a small green insect out of which a pallid fist rose menacingly toward the night sky.
    The cabdriver turned around. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
    “Yes,” Ravic said.
    “But with such a hat. Why does anyone with such a hat have to drive so fast at night?”
    “It was his right of way. He was on the main road. Why are you cursing?”
    “Of course he was right. That’s just why I am cursing.”
    “What would you have done if he had been wrong?”
    “I would have cursed just the same.”
    “You seem to make life easy for yourself.”
    “I wouldn’t have cursed like that,” the driver explained and turned into the Avenue Foch. “Not so surprised, you understand?”
    “No. Drive slower at intersections.”
    “That’s what I was going to do. That damn oil on the street. But what makes you ask me if you don’t want to listen to an answer?”
    “Because I’m tired,” Ravic replied