DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 2, issue 3, whole no. 7, Summer 1944

Transcribe
Translate

Acolyte, v. 2, issue 3, whole no. 7, Summer 1944

Page 5

M. Foucheraux bowed politely and nodded his head, grinnign broadly. "My leg," he muttered. And louder: "You may call it my, er, companion," he smiled, his narrow brown eyes looking intently at the doctor. A little wildly, the other thought.
The doctor took his coins and hurried out of the dark apartment and down the narrow, flimsy stairs. He barged across to the apothecarie. "Robin," he bellowed, pushing his way through the counter learners. "I will have some alcohol...but not for our client."

M. Foucheraux's apartment consisted of one room, and a sort of alcove where he would eat his solitary meal. The two windows on the west wall were cloudy with dust and the cheap curtains entirely neglected. Most often the shutters were drawn. Aside from a couch along the north wall by the door, and sundry dry-looking bookshelves, pictures, and common furnishings; the primary piece of furniture was an Alsacian taberette placed beside the hearth--an heirloom, incongruously out of place in the shabby surroundings.
Standing upon this piece was the bell-tube, and in it, suspended in all its stark grotesqueness, was M. Foucheraux's leg. It was in almost a standing position, though occasionally it would rotate slowly --say once a week--owing to reasons unknown and uncared about.
It wasn't much of a leg, but it belonged to M. Foucheraux. The toes were cramped, and had not been cleaned before the sad parting. The calf was hard and white, the muscles taught as they had been when the last message from the brain had reached them. The thigh was rather lean and the flesh slightly flabby. M. Foucheraux noted with disappointment that the short black hairs had ceased to grow contrary to the popular belief.
Ah, Monsieur Foucheraux! The hours he sits and contemplates that crude atanomical exhibition! At night he draws the shutters, and after he finishes his few dishes he pulls up his chair and lights the fireplace.
And then what does he do? A rational person would light his pipe and read, follow La Petite Journal, or catch up on that lovably overdone old cynic La Rouchefoucauld, or scan a novel. But he? Ne jamais! Like a hypnotic he sits and contemplates his leg. That ugly old unwholesome limb that probably stank with sweat and dirt before the omnibus did its work.
But the world centers about it, for it is his limb! That sets it apart from all the other limbs in the world.
M. Foucheraux thought precisely that. As time went on, it did become the center of his world. Religiously every night he sat down with his pipe, and contemplated his leg in the bell-tube.
His leg! That inanimate mass of protein and calcium and protoplasm--he used to walk on it. It used to fit right there on the end of his stump.
His sharp, pointed face grew sharper and furrowed. His narrow eyes would focus on the leg as he probed the depths of his memory. Once, when he had been very young, he had been in a fight, and kicked a bully with that very same thing.
And he used to throw it over the branch of the cherry tree on that estate in Alsace and hoist himself up with it.
And now here he could sit, quite removed from it, and look at it abstractedly over his pipe, and realise that it was his leg there. His leg, the leg that used to fit right on his stump and that was concealed there by his trousers. And now the stupid thing was up there in a jar like a rare Mediterranean fish or fossil.
The horribleness of the conception grew upon M. Foucheraux one night as he sat contemplating his leg over a cup of coffee. He had an
-- 5 --

Saving...

M. Foucheraux bowed politely and nodded his head, grinnign broadly. "My leg," he muttered. And louder: "You may call it my, er, companion," he smiled, his narrow brown eyes looking intently at the doctor. A little wildly, the other thought. The doctor took his coins and hurried out of the dark apartment and down the narrow, flimsy stairs. He barged across to the apothecarie. "Robin," he bellowed, pushing his way through the counter learners. "I will have some alcohol...but not for our client." M. Foucheraux's apartment consisted of one room, and a sort of alcove where he would eat his solitary meal. The two windows on the west wall were cloudy with dust and the cheap curtains entirely neglected. Most often the shutters were drawn. Aside from a couch along the north wall by the door, and sundry dry-looking bookshelves, pictures, and common furnishings; the primary piece of furniture was an Alsacian taberette placed beside the hearth--an heirloom, incongruously out of place in the shabby surroundings. Standing upon this piece was the bell-tube, and in it, suspended in all its stark grotesqueness, was M. Foucheraux's leg. It was in almost a standing position, though occasionally it would rotate slowly --say once a week--owing to reasons unknown and uncared about. It wasn't much of a leg, but it belonged to M. Foucheraux. The toes were cramped, and had not been cleaned before the sad parting. The calf was hard and white, the muscles taught as they had been when the last message from the brain had reached them. The thigh was rather lean and the flesh slightly flabby. M. Foucheraux noted with disappointment that the short black hairs had ceased to grow contrary to the popular belief. Ah, Monsieur Foucheraux! The hours he sits and contemplates that crude atanomical exhibition! At night he draws the shutters, and after he finishes his few dishes he pulls up his chair and lights the fireplace. And then what does he do? A rational person would light his pipe and read, follow La Petite Journal, or catch up on that lovably overdone old cynic La Rouchefoucauld, or scan a novel. But he? Ne jamais! Like a hypnotic he sits and contemplates his leg. That ugly old unwholesome limb that probably stank with sweat and dirt before the omnibus did its work. But the world centers about it, for it is his limb! That sets it apart from all the other limbs in the world. M. Foucheraux thought precisely that. As time went on, it did become the center of his world. Religiously every night he sat down with his pipe, and contemplated his leg in the bell-tube. His leg! That inanimate mass of protein and calcium and protoplasm--he used to walk on it. It used to fit right there on the end of his stump. His sharp, pointed face grew sharper and furrowed. His narrow eyes would focus on the leg as he probed the depths of his memory. Once, when he had been very young, he had been in a fight, and kicked a bully with that very same thing. And he used to throw it over the branch of the cherry tree on that estate in Alsace and hoist himself up with it. And now here he could sit, quite removed from it, and look at it abstractedly over his pipe, and realise that it was his leg there. His leg, the leg that used to fit right on his stump and that was concealed there by his trousers. And now the stupid thing was up there in a jar like a rare Mediterranean fish or fossil. The horribleness of the conception grew upon M. Foucheraux one night as he sat contemplating his leg over a cup of coffee. He had an -- 5 --