Читать книгу The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ® - Emile Erckmann - Страница 6

LEX TALIONIS

In 1854, said Doctor Taifer, I was attached, as assistant-surgeon, to the military hospital at Constantine. This hospital is built in the interior of the Kasbah, on the summit of a pointed rock, some three or four hundred feet high. It overlooks the city, the palace of the governor, and the surrounding plain, as far as the eye can reach.

It is a wild and striking point of view. From my window, opened to the evening breeze, I could see the carrion crows and vultures sweeping about the face of the inaccessible rock, and hiding themselves in its fissures as the last rays of twilight faded away. I could easily have thrown the end of my cigar into the Rummel, which wound by the foot of the gigantic wall.

Not a sound, not a murmur disturbed the calm of my studies, up to the hour when the trumpet and drum awakened the echoes of the fortress, calling the men to their barracks.

Garrison life has never had any charms for me; I could never give myself up to the enjoyment of absinthe, rum, or drams of brandy. At the time of which I am speaking, this was called a want of esprit de corps; my gastric faculties did not permit me to have this kind of esprit.

I limited myself, therefore, to my hospital wards, to writing my prescriptions, to the discharge of my duties: these done, I returned to my lodgings, made a few notes, turned over the leaves of some of my favorite authors, or reduced my observations to writing.

In the evening, at the hour when the sun slowly withdraws his rays from the plain, with my elbow on the sill of my window, I rested myself by dreamily observing the grand spectacle of nature, always the same in its marvelous regularity, and yet eternally new: a far-off caravan unrolling itself from the sides of the hills; an Arab galloping to the extreme limits of the horizon, like a point lost in space; a group of oaks relieved against the purple streaks of the sunset; and then, far, far below me, the whirling of the birds of prey, ploughing the dark blue air with their cleaving wings, or, as it were, hanging stationary. All these things interested, captivated me. I should have spent there entire hours, had not duty forcibly carried me away to the dissecting-table.

Nobody troubled themselves to criticise these tastes of mine, with the exception of a certain lieutenant of the Voltigeurs,1 named Castagnac, whose portrait I must draw for you.

As I stepped from the carriage, on my first arrival at Constantine, I heard a voice behind me exclaim—

“Tiens! I bet this is our assistant-surgeon!”

I turned and found myself in the presence of an infantry officer, tall, thin, bony, with a red nose, a grisly moustache, his képi cocked over his ear, and the peak of it pointed to the sky, his saber dangling between his legs; it was Lieutenant Castagnac.

While I was yet endeavoring to recall this strange physiognomy, the lieutenant had seized my hand and shaken it.

“Welcome, doctor! Enchanted to make your acquaintance. Morbleu! you’re tired, aren’t you? Let us go in at once. I take upon myself to present you to the club.”

The club, at Constantine, is simply the refreshment-room—the restaurant of the officers.

We went in; for how was the sympathetic enthusiasm of such a man to be resisted? And yet I had read Gil Blas.

“Garçon, two glasses! What do you take, doctor? Brandy—rum?”

“No; some curaçoa.”

“Curaçoa! why not parfait-amour? He! he! he! You’ve an odd taste. Garçon, a glass of absinthe for me—a full one—lift up your elbow! That’s it! Your health, doctor!”

“Yours, lieutenant!”

I was in the good graces of this strange personage. I need hardly tell you that this intimacy could not charm me for long; I very soon observed that my friend Castagnac had a habit of being absorbed in the contents of the newspaper when the moment arrived for paying the reckoning. That tells you the sort of man he was.

On the other hand, I made the acquaintance of several officers of the regiment, who laughed heartily with me at this new kind of Amphictyon; one of these, named Raymond Dutertre, a good fellow, and certainly not wanting in merit, informed me that on his joining the regiment the same thing had happened to him.

“Only,” he added, “as I detest spongers, I told Castagnac as much before some of our comrades. He took the matter in ill part, and, faith, we went for a turn outside the walls, where I gave him a neat touch with the point, that did him enormous harm, for—thanks to a few lucky duels—he enjoyed a great reputation in the regiment, and passed for a regular taker-down of swaggerers.”

Things were in this state when, towards the end of June, fevers made their appearance at Constantine, and the hospital receiving not only soldiers, but a large number of the inhabitants, I was compelled to interrupt my labors to attend to it.

Among the number of my patients were Castagnac and Dutertre; Castagnac was not suffering from fever, however, but from a strange affection called delirium tremens, a state of delirium and nervous trembling peculiar to individuals addicted to the drinking of absinthe. It is preceded by restlessness, inability to sleep, sudden shiverings; redness of the face and alcoholic odor of the breath are among its characteristics.

Poor Castagnac threw himself out of his bed, crawled about the floor on his hands and knees, as if catching rats. He gave utterance to terrible cat-cries, mixed with this cabalistic word, pronounced in the tones of a fakir in a state of ecstasy, “Fatima! O Fatima!”—a circumstance which made me presume that the poor fellow might at some time have been the victim of an unfortunate love-passion, for which he had consoled himself by the abuse of spirituous liquors.

Indeed, this idea inspired me with a feeling of commiseration for him; it was something pitiable to see his tall, thin body bounding right and left, then stiffening itself like a log, the face pale, the nose blue, the teeth locked; one could not be present at these crises without shuddering.

On coming to himself at the end of half an hour, Castagnac never failed to demand—

“What have I said, doctor? Have I said anything?”

“No, nothing, lieutenant.”

“Yes, I must have said something. Come, don’t hide anything from me!”

“Bah! How can I remember? Words without meaning! All sick people drivel more or less.”

“Words without meaning!—but what were they?”

“Eh? How do I know? If you wish it, I’ll make a note of them another time.”

He turned pale, and fixed upon me a look that penetrated almost to the depths of my soul; then he closed his flaccid eyelids, compressed his lips, and murmured—

“A glass of absinthe would do me good.”

At length he straightened himself out, his arms extended by his sides, and rested in stoical immobility.

* * * *

Now, one morning, as I was going into the room occupied by Castagnac, I saw my friend Raymond Dutertre coming towards me, from the end of the passage.

“Doctor,” he said, holding out his hand to me, “I’ve come to ask you to do me a service.”

“With pleasure; that is, if I possibly can.”

“I want you to give me a written permission to go out for the day.”

“Oh, you must not think of such a thing! Anything else you like.”

“But it seems to me that I am quite well. I have had no attack for the last four days.”

“Yes, but fevers are raging in the city, and I cannot expose you to the danger of a relapse.”

“Grant me only two hours—time to go and return.”

“Impossible, my dear fellow; don’t insist—it will be useless to do so. I know well the tedium of the hospital. I know how impatient the sick are to breathe the free air out of doors; but they must have patience; there is nothing for it but that!”

“You are positive, then?”

“Positive. In a week’s time, if you go on feeling well, we’ll see about it.”

He retired in a very ill-humor. I cared nothing for that; but as I turned round, what was my surprise to see Castagnac staring after his comrade, with a strange look in his eyes!

“Well,” I said, “how are you this morning?”

“Very well,” he answered sharply. “That’s Raymond going along there, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“Oh, nothing; a written permission to go out, which I have refused to give him.”

“Ah! You refused?”

“Of course.”

Castagnac drew a long breath, and, as it were retreating within himself, appeared to relapse into somnolency.

I was seized with I know not what vague apprehension; the tone of this man had grated on my nerves.

* * * *

That day one of my patients died. I had the body carried to the dissecting-room, and, towards nine o’clock, returning from my lodging, I descended the stairs leading to the amphitheater.

Imagine a small vaulted room, fifteen feet high by twenty feet wide, its two windows opening out on the precipice bordering the high-road from Philippeville. At the back is an inclined table, and on this table the body I proposed to study.

After placing my lamp on a jutting stone let into the wall for the purpose, and opening my case of instruments, I began my work, which continued for nearly two hours without interruptions.

The rappel had long been sounded; the only sounds that reached me in the silence were the measured tread of the sentinel, his times of pausing, when he brought the butt of his musket to the ground; then, from hour to hour, the passing of the guard, the qui vive, the far-off whisper of the watch-word, the flickering of the lantern throwing a ray of light above the parapet—short, mingled sounds, the gradual dying away of which seemed to make the silence greater.

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and I was becoming fatigued, when happening to look towards the open window, I suddenly beheld the strangest spectacle—a row of small grey owls, their feathers ruffled, their green squinting eyes fixed on my lamp, crowding on the edge of the casement and struggling for places. These hideous birds, attracted by the odor of flesh, waited but my departure to swoop down upon their prey.

I cannot describe to you the horror which this apparition caused me. I sprang towards the window. They disappeared into the midst of the darkness, like dead leaves borne away by the breeze.

But at that moment, a strange sound fell upon my ear—a sound almost imperceptible in the void of the abyss. I bent downwards, my hand upon the window-ledge, peering without, and holding my breath to listen the better.

Above the amphitheater was situated the chamber of Lieutenant Castagnac, and below it, between the precipice and the wall of the hospital, ran a ledge about a foot wide, covered with fragments of bottles and crockery, thrown there by the hospital attendants.

Now, at that hour of the night, when the least sound, the lightest breath, becomes perceptible, I distinguished the steps and gropings of a man making his way along this ledge.

“God send that he is not seen by the sentinel!” I said to myself. “Let him hesitate for an instant and he will fall!”

I had hardly made this reflection when a hoarse and stifled voice—the voice of Castagnac—cried abruptly in the midst of the silence—

“Raymond!—where are you going?”

This exclamation thrilled me to the marrow of my bones. It was a sentence of death.

At the same instant some of the rubbish slipped from the ledge; then, along the narrow way, I heard someone clutching and breathing painfully.

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.

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 spahis2 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.

2 Spahis were light cavalry regiments of the French army recruited primarily from the indigenous populations of Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco.