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Authors: Émile Erckmann,Alexandre Chatrian

Tags: #Fantasy, #War, #France, #Horror, #Historical, #Omnibus

The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories (5 page)

BOOK: The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories
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Cold perspiration ran down my face. I leaned out and tried to see—to call for assistance—but my tongue was frozen in my mouth.

Suddenly there was a groan, then—silence. I deceived myself: a burst of dry laughter followed—a window closed abruptly with a noise of broken glass. Then silence, profound, continued, spread its winding-sheet over this fearful drama.

How shall I tell you the rest? Terror made me shrink into the most distant corner of the dissecting-room; my hair stood on end, my eyes were fixed and staring; for full twenty minutes I remained thus, listening to the beatings of my heart, and trying to restrain its pulsations by the pressure of my hands.

At the end of that time I went mechanically and closed the window; then I took up my lamp, mounted the stairs, and passed along the passage to my chamber.

I went to bed, but found it impossible to close an eye. I heard the sighs—the long-drawn sighs—of the victim, then the gut-bursting laughter of his assassin!

“To murder on the highway, pistol in hand, is frightful enough,” I said to myself; “but to murder by a word—without danger!”

The sirocco arose; it struggled on the plain below with lugubrious moanings, whirling even to the summit of the rock the sand and gravel of the desert.

However, the very violence of the agitation I had undergone brought with it an almost unconquerable need of repose. Fear alone held me awake. I pictured to myself tall Castagnac in his shirt, leaning out of his window, his neck stretched forth, following his victim with his looks into the dark depths of the precipice—and it froze my blood.

“It was he!” I said to myself; “it was he!—and what if he suspected I was there!”

Then I seemed to hear the boards of the corridor creak under the tread of a stealthy foot—I raised myself on my elbow, my mouth half open, and listened. The want of rest, however, at length gained the mastery, and, towards three o’clock, I sank into a leaden sleep.

* * * *

It was broad day when I awoke; the wind of the past night had fallen, and the sky was so pure, the calm so profound, that I doubted my recollection and believed that I had had a villainous dream.

Yet, strangely—I felt a sort of fear of verifying my impressions. I went to my work; but it was not until I had visited all my wards and leisurely examined all my patients that I at length proceeded to Dutertre’s chamber.

I knocked at the door; no answer was returned. I opened the door—his bed had not been slept in. I called the attendants and questioned them. I demanded to know where Lieutenant Dutertre was—but no one had seen him since yesterday evening.

Calling up all my courage, I entered Castagnac’s room.

I discovered at a glance that two panes of glass in his window had been broken. I felt myself turn pale; but quickly recovering my self-possession, I remarked—

“That was a stiff puff of wind we had last night; didn’t you think so, lieutenant?”

He was tranquilly seated, his elbows on the table, his long bony visage between his hands, and made believe to be reading a book of infantry- drill. He was impassible, and turned on me his dull look as he answered, pointing towards the broken window—


Parbleu!
two panes of glass blown in, that’s all. Ha, ha, ha!”

“This chamber appears to be more exposed than the rest, lieutenant; or perhaps you had left your window open?”

“Faith, no,” he replied, looking strangely at me, “it was closed.”

“Ah!—and your health,” I asked, going up to him to feel his pulse; “how is that?”

“I’m going on very well.”

“Yes, there’s a decided improvement—a little excitement, but, in a fortnight from this time, lieutenant, you will be well again; only then you must try to moderate—no more green poison, or look out!”

In spite of the tone of
bonhomie
which I compelled myself to adopt, my voice trembled. The arm of the old scoundrel, as it lay in my hand, produced on me the effect of a serpent. I felt a strong desire to run away. And then his fixed restless eye, which never turned from me! It was horrible! But I restrained myself.

Returning suddenly as I was leaving the room—as if to repair an oversight—I said—

“By-the-bye, lieutenant, Dutertre has not been to see you, has he?”

A shudder ran through his grey hair.

“Dutertre?”

“Yes; he has gone out—has been out since yesterday, and no one knows what has become of him. I imagined—”

“No one has been to see me,” he said, with a short dry cough; “no one.”

He took up his book again, and I closed the door, as certain of his crime as I was of the light of clay.

Unfortunately I had no proof.

“If I denounce him,” I said to myself on regaining my room, “he will, of course, deny it; if he denies it, what proof of the fact can I produce? None! My unsupported evidence will not suffice. All the odium of the accusation will recoil upon my own head, and I shall have made a terrible enemy.”

Moreover, crimes of this sort have not been provided for by the law. I resolved, therefore, to wait—to watch Castagnac without appearing to do so, persuaded that, in the end, he would betray himself. In due course, I called on the commandant of the place and simply reported to him the disappearance of Lieutenant Dutertre.

* * * *

On the following day some Arabs, coming to the market of Constantine with their donkeys laden with vegetables, mentioned that they had seen, from the Philippeville Road, a uniform hanging high up on the rocks of the Kasbah, and that birds of prey were flying about the spot by hundreds, filling the air with their cries.

They were the remains of Raymond. With infinite difficulty they were recovered, by means of cords and ladders.

For two or three days the officers of the garrison talked about this strange adventure; a thousand commentaries were made on the probable circumstances of the event; and then something else was talked about—or the games of bezique or piquet absorbed all spare attention.

Men every day exposed to perils have no great depth of sympathy for one another: Jacques dies—Pierre replaces him. The regiment never dies! It is the theory called Humanitarianism in action: “You are, therefore you will be; for, being, you participate in the eternal and infinite being!” Yes, I shall be—but what? That is the question. Today a lieutenant of chasseurs—and tomorrow a clod of earth. The subject is worthy of being looked at closely more than once.

CHAPTER II

My position, in the midst of the general indifference, was hard to bear; silence weighed on me like remorse. The sight of Lieutenant Castagnac filled me with indignation—a kind of insurmountable repugnance; his dull look, his ironical smile, froze my blood. He himself occasionally darted stolen glances at me, as if to read the depths of my soul; these furtive glances, laden with suspicion, did not in the least serve to reassure me.

“He suspects something,” I said to myself; “if he were only sure, I should be lost; for he is a man who would not shrink at anything!”

These reflections imposed on me an intolerable restraint; my labors suffered by it, and I saw that I must emancipate myself from my state of uncertainty at any price. But how?

Providence came to my aid.

I was one day passing out of the hospital gate, about three o’clock in the afternoon, on my way into the city, when the corporal-attendant ran after me, to give me a small piece of paper which he had found in Raymond’s tunic.

“It’s a letter from a
particulière
called Fatima,” the good fellow said; “it seems that this native was smitten with Lieutenant Dutertre. I fancied, major, the paper might interest you.”

The reading of the letter greatly astonished me. It was very short, and did little more than indicate the hour and place of a rendezvous; but what a revelation was in the signature!

“So, then,” I said, “that exclamation of Castagnac’s, in the most violent of his crises—‘Fatima! Fatima!’— was the name of a woman—and that woman exists! That woman loved Dutertre! Who knows? it may have been for the purpose of going to her at this very rendezvous that Raymond wanted me to give him a written permission to leave the hospital! Yes, yes; the letter is dated the 3rd of July; that was the very date! Poor fellow! not being able to quit the hospital in the daytime, he ventured at night along that frightful path—and then—Castagnac heard him!”

Reflecting on these things, I descended to the foot of the rock and soon found myself in front of a low brick-built vault, open to the air, according to the Oriental custom.

In the depths of this vault, a certain Sidi Houmaïum, armed with a long wooden spoon and gravely seated on his haunches, was stirring, in a jar of boiling water, the perfumed powder of Moka.

It will be as well to tell you that I had cured Sidi Houmaïum of a malignant skin-eruption, against which the physicians and surgeons of the country had unavailingly employed all their panaceas and amulets. The good fellow was truly grateful to me.

Round the bodega was placed a bench, covered with small grass mats, and on this bench were squatted five or six Moors, the red fez, with a tassel of blue silk, on their heads, their legs crossed, their eyelids half closed, the chibouk in their lips, enjoying in silence the aroma of Turkish tobacco and of the Arabian berry.

I know not by what sudden inspiration the idea of consulting Sidi Houmaïum flashed upon my mind. It was one of those strange impulses that are not to be defined, the cause of which no one can understand.

With solemn pace I entered the bodega, to the bewilderment of the persons present, and sat down on the bench.

The kaouadji, without in the least appearing to recognize me, brought me a chibouk and a cup of boiling coffee.

I sipped the beverage, and I inhaled the chibouk; time passed slowly, and, towards six o’clock, the sanctified voice of the muezzin called the faithful to prayer. All rose, passed a hand over their beards, and took their way to the mosque.

At length I was alone.

Sidi Houmaïum, casting around him an uneasy glance, approached me and stooped to kiss my hand.

“Seigneur
Talbe
(Doctor), what brings you to my humble dwelling? In what can I serve you?”

“You can make me acquainted with Fatima.”

“Fatima, the Mauresque?”

“Yes, the Mauresque.”

“Seigneur
Talbe
, in the name of your mother, do not see this woman!”

“Why?”

“She is the perdition of faithful and infidels alike; she possesses a charm that kills! Do not see her!”

“Sidi Houmaïum, my resolution is not to be shaken. Fatima possesses a charm; well, I possess one still more powerful. Hers gives death; mine, life, youth, beauty. Tell her that, Sidi Houmaïum; tell her that the wrinkles of age fly at my approach. Tell her that of the apple of Eve—the apple which, from the beginning of the centuries, has condemned us all to die—I have recovered the seeds, and planted them; that from these has sprung a tree, the fruit of which gives the grace of eternal youth! That whoever tastes of it, though she were old, ugly, and shriveled as a witch, would be restored, her wrinkles effaced, her skin made white and soft as a lily, her lips rosy and perfumed as the queen of flowers, her teeth lustrous as those of the young jackal.”

“But, Seigneur
Talbe
,” cried the Mussulman, “Fatima is not old; on the contrary, she is young and beautiful—so beautiful that she might be the pride of a sultan.”

“I know it; she is not old, but she will become so. I want to see her. Remember, Sidi Houmaïum, your oft-repeated promises.”

“Since such is your will, Seigneur
Talbe
. Return tomorrow at the same hour. But remember well what I have told you: Fatima makes a vile use of her beauty.”

“Be under no apprehension; I will not forget.”

And presenting my hand to the coulouglis, I retired as I had come, with head held high and majestic step.

* * * *

You may imagine with what impatience I awaited the hour of my rendezvous with Sidi Houmaïum. I lost all control of myself; a hundred times I crossed and recrossed the courtyard waiting to catch the sound of the muezzin, doffing my hat to everybody I met, and even talking with the sentinel to kill time.

At length the verse from the Koran sounded in the air, passing from minaret to minaret over the lazy city. I flew to Sidi Houmaïum’s bodega, which I found him closing up.

“Well?” I inquired breathlessly.

Fatima awaits you, Seigneur Talbe.”

He fastened the bolt, and then, without further explanation, walked on before me.

The sky was dazzlingly bright. The high white houses—a veritable procession of phantoms—draped at long distances apart by a ray of sunlight, reflected their dreariness on the infrequent passers.

Sidi Houmaïum proceeded onwards without turning his head, the long sleeves of his burnoose almost sweeping the ground; and, as I followed his steps, I could hear him repeating in Arabic litanies like those in use by our pilgrims.

BOOK: The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories
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