The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK ®. Emile Erckmann

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.”