The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

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