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

by Émile Erckmann

  “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 th
en 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.