The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories (6 page)

After awhile, turning out of the main street, he entered the Suma alley, in which two persons cannot walk abreast. There, in the black mire of the gutter, under wretched stalls, swarmed a whole population of shoemakers, morocco-leather embroiderers, dealers in Indian spices, aloes, dates, and rare perfumes, some going and coming with apathetic air, others squatting cross-legged, meditating, Heaven knows on what, in the midst of a bluish smoke that escaped from their mouths and nostrils at once.

The sun of Africa penetrated this dingy pig-sty of a place in streaks of gold, shining here upon an old hook-nosed grey-beard, with chibouk and fat hands laden with rings; at another place, on the graceful profile of a handsome woman, sad and dreamy, in the interior of her shop; or, still more, on the display of an armorer, with its tapering
yatagans
and long Bedouin guns inlaid with pearl. The odor of filth mingled itself with the pungent emanations of drugs. Light cut sharply through the shadows of the place, shaping them into luminous fringes, sprinkling them with glittering spangles, but without being able to drive them altogether away.

We proceeded still on our road.

Suddenly, in one of the inextricable windings of the alley, Sidi Houmaïum stopped before a low door and raised the knocker.

“You must go in with me and act as interpreter for me,” I said to him in an under-tone.

“Fatima speaks French,” he replied, without turning his head.

At the same moment, the shining face of a black woman appeared at the grating. Sidi Houmaïum spoke a few words to her in Arabic. The door was opened and suddenly closed behind me. The black woman went away by a side-door which I had not at first noticed, and Sidi Houmaïum remained outside of the house.

Left alone for several minutes, I was beginning to lose patience, when a door on the left opened, and the woman who had let me in made a sign to me to follow her.

After ascending a few steps, I found myself in an open court paved with tiles in mosaic. Several doors opened into this court.

The black woman conducted me into a room on the ground-floor, the open windows hung with silk curtains of Moorish design. All ’round the room violet-hued cushions were arranged. The floor was covered with an amber-colored reed-mat, and the ceiling was painted with fantastic fruits and flowers in interminable arabesques. But what immediately seized on my attention was Fatima herself, reclining on the divan, her eyes veiled by long lids and black lashes, her lip slightly shadowed, her nose straight and thin, her arms laden with heavy bracelets. She had pretty feet and was saucily playing with her small gold-broidered slippers when I paused at the threshold.

For a few seconds the Mauresque observed me with a sidelong glance, and then a sly smile half parted her lips.

“Come in, Seigneur
Talbe
,” she said in a nonchalant tone; “Sidi Houmaïum has prepared me for your visit; I know the motive which brings you. You are very good to interest yourself in poor Fatima, who is growing old, for she is already nearly seventeen—
seventeen!
—age of regrets and wrinkles, and tardy repentances! Ah! Seigneur
Talbe
, sit down and be welcome. You bring me the apple of Eve, that is true, is it not?—the apple that gives youth and beauty! And poor Fatima has need of it!”

I did not know what to answer—I was confused; but suddenly recollecting the motive which had brought me, the flow of my blood seemed to be arrested, turned, and, under the influence of this extreme reaction, I became cold as marble.

“You jest charmingly,” I replied, taking a seat on the divan; “I had heard your wit celebrated as not less than your beauty—I now see how truly.”

“Indeed!” she cried, “by whom?”

“By Dutertre.”

“Dutertre?”

“Yes, Raymond Dutertre, the young officer who recently fell into the gulf of the Rummel—whom you loved, Fatima.”

She opened her eyes wide with surprise.

“Who told you I loved him?” she demanded with a strange look; “it is false! Did he tell you that?”

“No, but I know it; this letter proves it to me—this letter which you wrote to him, and which was the cause of his death; for it was in flying to meet you that he risked his life at night on the rocks of the Kasha.”

I had scarcely finished speaking, when Fatima rose abruptly, a dark fire glittering in her eyes.

“I was sure of it!” she cried. “Yes, when my servant came to tell me of the misfortune, I said to her, ‘Aissa, this is his doing—his!’ Oh, the wretch!”

While I was watching her, completely stupefied by the strangeness of her exclamations, she approached me and said in a low tone—

“Will he die—will he die soon? I should like to see him cut in pieces!”

She had seized me by the arm and looked through and through me. I shall never forget the dull pallor of her face—her large black glaring eyes, her trembling lips.

“Of whom are you speaking, Fatima?” I said. “Explain yourself—I do not understand you.”

“Of whom? Of Castagnac! You are
talbe
of the hospital; well, give him poison! He is a scoundrel! He compelled me to write to the officer to come here—
me
—against my will, though I knew that this young man had long sought to gain admittance here; but I knew that Castagnac meant him harm. When I refused, he threatened to come from the hospital to beat me if I did not write at once. Stay! Here is his letter. I tell you, he is a scoundrel!”

I shrink from repeating all that the Mauresque told me concerning Castagnac. She related to me the history of their liaison; after having seduced her, he had corrupted her; and, for two years, the wretch had traded upon the poor girl’s dishonor; and, not content with that, had beaten her!

* * * *

I left Fatima’s house with a heavy heart. Sidi Houniamni was waiting for me at the door; we redescended the Suma alley.

“Be on your guard,” said the coulouglis, watching me out of the corner of his eye; “be on your guard, Seigneur
Talbe
—you are very pale; the bad angel hovers above your head!”

I shook the good fellow by the hand, and replied—

“Fear nothing!”

My resolution was taken: without losing a minute I mounted to the Kasbah, entered the hospital, and knocked at Castagnac’s door.

“Come in!”

The expression of my face appeared to announce nothing agreeable, for as soon as he perceived me, he rose with a startled look.

“Oh! It’s you,” he cried with a forced smile; “I was not expecting a visit from you.”

My only answer was to show him the letter he had written to Fatima. He turned pale and, after looking at the letter for a few seconds, would have sprung upon me; but I stopped him with a gesture.

“If you move another step,” I said, laying my hand upon the hilt of my sword, “I’ll kill you like a dog! You are a scoundrel, and you have murdered Dutertre! I was in the dissecting-room, and overheard all. Do not deny it! Your conduct towards this woman is odious. A French officer descend to such a degree of infamy! Listen: I might deliver you up to justice; but your dishonor would fall upon all of us. If you are not utterly lost to shame, kill yourself! I will give you till tomorrow. Tomorrow morning at seven o’clock, if I find you living, I will myself deliver you up to the commandant.”

Having said so much, I retired without waiting for his answer and hastened to give orders to the sentinel not to permit Lieutenant Castagnac to quit the hospital on any pretext; I gave special instructions also to the gatekeeper and held him responsible for anything that might occur in consequence of neglect or weakness on his part. I then tranquilly returned to my lodging, as if nothing particular had taken place. I was even gayer than usual, and sat over my dinner till nearly eight o’clock.

From the moment Castagnac’s crime was proved to me I felt pitiless: Raymond cried to me for vengeance.

* * * *

After dinner, I went to the shop of a rosin-seller and bought a torch, such as our spahis
²
carry in their night-sports; then, returning to the hospital, I went down to the dissecting-room, taking care to double-lock the door after me.

The voice of the muezzin announced the tenth hour; the mosques were deserted, the night profoundly dark.

I seated myself in front of the open window, inhaling the mild breath of the breeze, and giving myself up to the reveries that had formerly been so dear to me. How much of suffering and anxiety I had gone through during the past fortnight! In my whole previous existence I had not experienced anything to equal it. I now felt as if I had escaped from the claws of the spirit of darkness and were enjoying my regained liberty.

In this manner time sped; already the guard had twice made its round and relieved the sentinels, when, suddenly, I heard rapid but stealthy steps on the stairs. A short, sharp knock came at the door.

I returned no answer.

An uncertain hand groped for the key.

“It is Castagnac!” I said to myself, my heart beating rapidly.

Two seconds passed, then some one without cried—

“Open the door!”

I was not deceived; it was he.

He listened, then placed his shoulder against the heavy oak door and endeavored to force it open.

Once more all was silent. He listened again. I remained motionless—held my breath. Presently something was thrown down on the stairs; and then I heard the sound of retreating steps.

I had escaped death! But what next was he going to attempt? In fear of a new and more violent endeavor to burst open the door, I hastened to shoot the two heavy iron bolts which made the amphitheater a veritable prison.

This was a useless precaution, however, for, on returning to my seat at the window, I saw the shadow of Castagnac passing along the rampart above. The moon, which had risen on the side of the city, projected the shadow of the hospital on to the opposite precipice. A few stars glittered on the horizon; not a breath moved the still air.

Before venturing upon the dangerous path, the old campaigner halted and looked at my window. He hesitated for a long while.

At the end of a quarter of an hour he took the first step, moving with his back flattened against the wall. He had reached half-way, and no doubt flattered himself that he should gain the ledge which descended to the Kasbah, when I uttered the death-cry—

“Raymond! Where are you going?”

But, whether it was that he was prepared for whatever might happen, or that he had more
sang-froid
than his victim, the scoundrel was unscared, and answered with an outburst of ironical laughter—

“A-ha! You
are
there, are you, doctor? I thought so. Wait till I return; we have a little account to settle together.”

I lit my torch and held it out above the precipice.

“It is too late!” I cried. “Wretch! Behold your grave!”

And the immense ranges of the abyss, with their black slippery rocks, bristling with wild fig-trees, were illuminated to the bottom of the valley.

The view was Titanic: the white light of the flaming pitch, descending from stage to stage of the rocks, casting their broad shadows into space, seemed to plough into unfathomable depths of darkness.

I was strongly affected myself, and fell back a step, as if seized with giddiness. But he—separated from the yawning gulf but by the width of a brick—with what terror must he not have been overwhelmed!

His knees bent under him—his hands clutched at the wall. I held forth the blazing torch again: an enormous bat, disturbed by the light, commenced his dreary round about the gigantic walls, like a black rat with angular wings, floating in the flame; and far, far down, the waves of the Rummel sparkled in immensity.

“Mercy!” cried the murderer in a broken voice—“mercy!”

I had not courage to prolong his torture, and threw my torch’ into the abyss. It fell slowly, its ragged flame waving in the darkness; lighting, turn by turn, the ledges of the mighty rocks as it passed them, and sprinkling the bushes with its dazzling sparks.

While it was yet but a spot in the midst of night, and was still descending, a shadow overtook and passed it like a thunderbolt!

Justice, I knew, had been done.

* * * *

On my way up the stairs from the amphitheater, something bent under my foot: I stooped and picked it up; it was my own sword! With his habitual perfidy, Castagnac had resolved to kill me with my own weapon, so that my death might have appeared to be the result of suicide.

Moreover, as I had foreseen, the door of my room had been forced open, my bed turned over, my papers scattered about; his search, in fact, had been exhaustive.

This circumstance completely dissipated the involuntary feeling of pity with which the wretch’s terrific end had inspired me.

1
The Voltigeurs were French military skirmish units created in 1804 by Emperor Napoleon I.