The Macabre Megapack: 25 Lost Tales from the Golden Age

by John Galt

  On leaving off at length, I was horrified at seeing the window blocked up by innumerable owls, small and gray-colored, with their feathers all erect, their green eyes sparkling through the semi-obscurity. They were waiting till I had done.

  I rushed horrified to the window and drove the rapacious birds away, like so many great dead leaves carried off by the night wind. But, at the very moment, I heard a noise—a strange sound, almost imperceptible in the depths of the abyss. I stopped, and putting my head out of the window, held my breath so as to be able to catch the sounds more distinctly.

  Castagnac’s room was immediately over the amphitheatre; and below, between the precipice and the wall of the hospital, was a space, not above a foot in width, covered with broken pottery and bottles, the refuse of the infirmary. In the stillness that reigned around, I could distinctly hear a man groping his way along this dangerous shelf.

  “Heaven grant!” I said to myself, “that the sentinel does not see him. A single false step, and he is a lost man!”

  I had barely had time to make this reflection to myself, when I heard the hoarse voice of Castagnac calling from above:

  “Raymond, where are you going?”

  It was a condemnation to death. At the very instant I heard some of the broken pottery slipping down the incline, followed by the fall of a heavy body. I heard the sighs of a man struggling as if to hold for his life—a groan that went to the very marrow of my bones and bedewed my forehead with a cold, clammy perspiration, and then all was over! Not exactly all, for I heard a diabolical burst of laughter above, and then a window closed with such impetuosity that it was followed by the sound of broken glass. And then the deep silence of night spread its shroud over this frightful drama.

  After I had somewhat recovered from the state of inexpressible horror in which I had been thrown, I went to bed. To sleep, however, was out of the question; all night long I was haunted by those lamentable sighs and by that demoniac laugh.

  The next morning a feeling of horror came over me, which prevented me verifying my impressions till I had visited my patients.

  It was not till that was accomplished that I directed my steps to Dutertre’s room.

  I knocked; there was no answer. I entered; there was no one there. I inquired of the hospital attendants; no one had seen him go out. Summoning all my courage, I went next to Castagnac’s room. A glance at the window satisfied me that two panes were broken.

  “It blew hard, lieutenant, last night,” I remarked.

  Castagnac lifted up his head, till then buried in his bony hands as if in the act of reading. “Parbleu!” he said; “two windows broken, only that!”

  “Your room, lieutenant, appears to be more exposed than others, or, perchance, you left your window open?”

  An almost imperceptible muscular contraction furrowed the cheeks of the old miscreant, and he at the same time fixed so inquiring a look at me, that I felt glad of a pretense to withdraw.

  Just as I was going out, I turned back suddenly, as if I had forgotten to ask a question:

  “By-the-by, lieutenant, has Dutertre been to see you?”

  A shudder passed through his gray hairs.

  “Duterte!”

  “Yes, he is gone out, and no one knows where. I thought, perhaps—”

  “No one has been to see me,” he interrupted, abruptly; “no one whatsoever.”

  I went out, convinced of his guilt, but I had no proofs. I determined to wait and watch, and in the meantime contented myself with reporting the disappearance of Lieutenant Raymond Dutertre to the commandant de place.

  Next day some Arabs, coming with vegetables to the market of Constantine, made known that they had seen from the road to Phillipeville a uniform dangling in the air on the face of the rocks of the Casbah, and that birds of prey were flying around in hundreds.

  These were the remains of Raymond, and it was with the greatest possible trouble that they were recovered by letting down men by means of ropes.

  The catastrophe furnished subject of conversation to the officers of the garrison for tow or three days, and was then forgotten. Men exposed to perils every day do not dwell upon unpleasant topics. Jacques dies, Pierre takes his place. The regiment is alone immortal.

  My position with regard to Castagnac grew, in the meantime, more painful every day. My actions were constrained in his presence—the very sight of him was repulsive.

  He soon detected it, and suspicion was awakened on his side.

  “He doubts that I suspect him,” I said to myself; ‘if he was sure of it I should be a lost man—that villain stops at nothing!”

  Providence came to my aid. One afternoon I was leaving the Casbah for a stroll in the town, when one of the hospital assistants brought me a paper, which, he said, had been found in Raymond’s tunic.

  “It is the letter,” he said, “of a particuliere, Fatima by name. I thought, sir, it might interest you.”

  The perusal of this letter filled me with surprise. It was brief, merely making an appointment, but what revelations in the name!

  “What, then, those exclamations of Castegnac’s in his fits,” I said to myself, “had reference to a woman, and Dutertre had also relations with her. It was to keep this appointment that he had asked my leave to go out! Yes, the note is dated the 3rd of July. The very day. Poor fellow, not being able to get out in the day, he ventured forth by night by that frightful road, and Castagnac was awaiting him!”

  As I was thus reflecting, I had arrived in front of a vaulted building or archway, open as usual to the wind, and where an old patient of mine, Sidi Humayun by name, distributed coffee to a few scanty customers.

  I determined at once to consult this kawafi, so I took my place on the matting by the side of half a dozen natives in their red fezzes with blue silk tassels, and their long chibuks in their lips.

  The kawafi, pretending not to know me, brought me my pipe and cup of coffee in silence.

  Presently the muezzin was heard calling to prayers; the faithful rose up, stroked their beards, and departed slowly for the mosque. I was alone.

  Sidi Humayun, looking around him to see that we were really so, then approached me, and, kissing my hand, “Lord Taleb,” he said, “what brings you to my humble abode? What can I do in your service?”

  “I want you to tell me who Fatima is.”

  “Lord Taleb, in the name of your mother, do not see that woman.”

  “Why so?”

  She is perdition to the faithful and to the infidel. She possesses a charm that kills. Do not see her!”

  “Sidi Humayun, my resolve is made. She possesses a charm; well! I possess a greater. Hers entails death, mine gives life, grace and beauty! Tell her that Sidi; tell her that the wrinkles of age disappear before my charm. I must see her.”

  “Well, then, since such is your will, Lord Taleb, come back tomorrow at the same hour. But remember what I said to you: Fatima makes an evil use of her beauty.”

  You may imagine if I awaited the appointed time with impatience. I thought the muezzin would never summon the faithful to prayer again.

  At last his low, plaintive, monotonous voice made itself heard from the top of the minaret, and was taken up from one to another, till it seemed as if soaring over the indolent city.

  I slowly paced my way to the coffee-house, so as to give time to the guests to retire. Sidi was already shutting up his shop.

  “Well!” I said to him, breathless with anxiety.

  “Fatima awaits you, Taleb.”

  He affixed the bar, and, without further explanation, led the way.

  Leaving the main street, he entered the Suma, a passage so narrow that two could not walk abreast—a mere cloaca, yet crowded with industrious persons of many nations—Moors, Berbers, Jews, Copts and Arabs.

  Suddenly Sidi Humayun stopped at a low doorway and knocked.

  “Follow me,” I said; “you will act as interpreter.”

  “Fatima can speak French,” he replied, without turning his he
ad.

  The door was opened by a Nubian slave, who, letting me in, as quickly shut it against the kawafi.

  She then led the way to an interior court paved with mosaic-work, and upon which several doors opened.

  The slave pointed to one, by which I entered a room with open windows shaded by silken curtains with Moorish designs. An amber-colored mat covered the floor, while cushions of violet-colored Persian shawls lined the divan, at the extremity of which sat Fatima herself, her eyes veiled by long, dark lashes, straight and small nose, pouting lips and beautiful little feet.

  “Come in, Lord Taleb,” she said; “Sidi Humayun has told me of your visit. You are good enough to interest yourself in the fate of poor Fatima, who is getting aged—yes, she will soon be seventeen—seventeen! the age of regrets and wrinkles. Ah! Lord Taleb, sit down, you are welcome!”

  I scarcely knew how to reply, but, recovering myself, I said:

  “You scoff with infinite grace, Fatima. I have heard your wit spoken of no less than your beauty, and I see that I have heard the truth.”

  “Ah!” she exclaimed. “By whom, then?”

  “By Dutertre.”

  “Dutertre?”

  “Yes, Raymond Dutertre, the young officer who fell over the precipice of the Casbah. He whom you loved, Fatima.”

  She opened her great eyes in surprise.

  “Who told you that I loved him?” she inquired, looking at me with a strange expression. “It is false! Did he tell you so?”

  “No. But I know it. This letter proves it to me—this letter, which you wrote, and which was the cause of his death, for it was to get to you that he risked himself at night upon the rocks of the Casbah.”

  Scarcely had I uttered the words than the young Oriental rose up abruptly, her eyes lit up with a gloomy passion.

  “I was sure of it!” she exclaimed. “Yes, when my Nubian brought me word of the accident, I said to her, ‘Alissa, it is he who has done it. The wretch!’”

  “Whom do you mean, Fatima?” I said, astonished at her anger. “I do not understand you.”

  “Of whom? Of Castagnac! You are the Taleb at the hospital. Well, give him poison. He is a wretch. He made me write to the officer to tell him to come here. I refused to do it. Yet this young man has sought my acquaintance for a long time, but I knew that Castagnac owed him a grudge. When I refused, he declared he would come out of the hospital to beat me if I did not, so I wrote. Here is his letter.”

  I went forth from Fatima’s with a heavy heart, but my resolution was soon made.

  Without losing a minute on the way, I ascended to the Casbah, entered the hospital, and knocked at Castegnac’s door.

  “Come in! What, is it you!” he said, forcing a smile. “I did not expect you.”

  For an answer I showed him the letter that he had written to Fatima.

  He turned pale, and, having looked at it for a second, made a movement as if to throw himself upon me.

  “If you make a step toward me,” I said, placing my hand upon the hilt of my sword, “I will kill you like a dog. You are a wretch. You have assassinated Dutertre. I was at the amphitheatre; heard all. Do not deny it! Your conduct toward that woman is infamous; a French officer to lower himself to such a degree of infamy! Listen! I ought to deliver you over to justice, but your dishonor would defile us all. If an atom of heart remains within you, kill yourself! I grant you till tomorrow. Tomorrow by seven, if I find you still living, I will myself take before the commandant de place.”

  Having said this, I withdrew without waiting for his reply, and went at once to give the strictest orders that Lieutenant Castagnac should not be permitted to leave the hospital under any pretext whatsoever.

  Since Castagnac’s guilt had been rendered evident to me I had become pitiless. I felt that I must avenge Raymond.

  Having procured a torch, such as our spahis use in their night carousals, I shut myself up in the amphitheatre, closing its strong doors with double bars. I took up my position at the window, inhaling the fresh breeze of the evening, and thinking over the horrible drama in which I was called to play so prominent a part, till night came on.

  Some hours had passed thus, and all was buried in the deepest silence, when I heard stealthy steps descending the staircase. They were followed by a knock at the door. No answer. A febrile hand then sought for the keyhole.

  “It is Castegnac,” I said to myself.

  “Open!” exclaimed a voice from without. I was not deceived; it was him.

  A stout shoulder made an effort to shake the door from its hinges. I moved not, scarcely breathed. Another and a more vigorous effort was then made, but with the same want of success. Something then fell on the ground, and the footsteps receded.

  I had escaped assassination.

  But what would become of him?

  Once more, as if by instinct, I took up my position at the window. I had not waited long before I saw the shadow of Castagnac advancing along the foot of the wall. The hardened criminal stopped some time to look up at my window, and seeing nothing, moved on slowly with his back to the rampart. He had got over half the distance, when I cast the shout of death at him, “Raymond, where are you going?”

  But whether he was prepared for whatever happened, or that he had more hardihood than his victim, he did not move, but answered me with ironic laughter.

  “Ah, ah! you are there, doctor; I thought so. Stop a moment, I will come back; we have a little matter to arrange together.”

  Then lighting my torch, and raising it over the precipice, “It is too late,” I said; “look, wretch, there is your grave!”

  And the vast steps of the abyss, with their black shining rocks, were illuminated down to the depths of the valley. It was so terrible a vision that I involuntarily drew back myself with horror at the scene.

  What must it have been to him who was only separated from it by the width of a brick? His knees began to tremble, his hands sought to cling to something of the face of the wall.

  “Mercy!” exclaimed the assassin, in a hoarse voice; “have mercy on me!”

  I had no heart to prolong his punishment. I cast the torch forth into space. It went down slowly, balancing its flame to and fro in the darkness, lighting up rock and shrub on its way, and casting sparks on the void around. It had already become but as a luminous point in the abyss, when a shadow passed by it with the rapidity of lightning.

  I then knew that justice had been done.

  As I reascended to my own room, my foot struck against something. I picked it up; it was my sword. Castegnac, with characteristic perfidy, had resolved to kill me with my own sword, so as to leave an opening for belief in suicide. I found, as I had anticipated, my room in utter disorder; the door had been broken open, my books and papers ransacked, he had left nothing untouched. Such an act completely dissipated whatever involuntary pity I might have felt for the fate of such a wretch.

  TORTURE BY HOPE, by Villiers de L’isle-Adams

  (1883)

  Below the vaults of the Official of Saragossa one nightfall long ago, the venerable Pedro Arbuez d’Espila, sixth prior of the Dominicans of Segovia, third Grand Inquisitor of Spain—followed by a fra redemptor (master torturer), and preceded by two familiars of the Holy Office holding lanterns—descended towards a secret dungeon. The lock of a massive door creaked; they entered a stifling in pace, where the little light that came from above revealed an instrument of torture blackened with blood, a chafing-dish, and a pitcher. Fastened to the wall by heavy iron rings, on a mass of filthy straw, secured by fetters, an iron circlet about his neck, sat a man in rags: it was impossible to guess at his age.

  This prisoner was no other than Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, a Jew of Aragon, who, on an accusation of usury and pitiless contempt of the poor, had for more than a year undergone daily torture. In spite of all, his blind obstinacy being as tough as his skin, he had refused to abjure.

  Proud of his descent and his ancestors—for all Jews worthy of the name are jealous of their race
—he was descended, according to the Talmud, from Othoniel, and consequently from Ipsiboe, wife of this last Judge of Israel, a circumstance which sustained his courage under the severest of the incessant tortures.

  It was, then, with tears in his eyes at the thought that so steadfast a soul was excluded from salvation, that the venerable Pedro Arbuez d’Espila, approaching the quivering Rabbi, pronounced the following words:—

  “My son, be of good cheer; your trials here below are about to cease, If, in presence of such obstinacy, I have had to permit, though with sighs, the employment of severe measures, my task of paternal correction has its limits. You are the barren fig-tree, that, found so oft without fruit, incurs the danger of being dried up by the roots...but it is for God alone to decree concerning your soul. Perhaps the Infinite Mercy will shine upon you at the last moment! Let us hope so. There are instances. May it be so! Sleep, then, this evening in peace. Tomorrow you will take part in the auto de fe, that is to say, you will be exposed to the quemadero, the brazier premonitory of the eternal flame. It burns, you are aware, at a certain distance, my son; and death takes, in coming, two hours at least, often three, thanks to the moistened and frozen clothes with which we take care to preserve the forehead and the heart of the holocausts. You will be only forty-three. Consider, then, that, placed in the last rank, you will have the time needful to invoke God, to offer unto Him that baptism of fire which is of the Holy Spirit. Hope, then, in the Light, and sleep!”

  As he ended this discourse, Dom Arbuez—who had motioned the wretched man’s fetters to be removed—embraced him tenderly. Then came the turn of the fra redemptor, who, in a low voice, prayed the Jew to pardon what he had made him endure in the effort to redeem him; then the two familiars clasped him in their arms: their kiss, through their cowls, was unheard. The ceremony at an end, the captive was left alone in the darkness.