The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories Read Online Free Page B
Author: Émile Erckmann, Alexandre Chatrian
Tags: Historical, Fantasy, Horror, France, War, omnibus
accurately, right down to the finest detail?
Was it by chance? No! And besides what is chance, after all, if not the effect of a cause that we cannot fathom?
Who knows? Nature is much bolder in the construction of its realities than man’s imagination in its fantasies.
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
Was it by chance? No! And besides what is chance, after all, if not the effect of a cause that we cannot fathom?
Who knows? Nature is much bolder in the construction of its realities than man’s imagination in its fantasies.
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
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