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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 3, whole no. 7, Summer 1944
Page 6
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irresistible urge to flex the now missing tendons. He looked at the space on the stool where the limb should be resting. Once, for about three feet beyond his stump there had been attached that leg, and the blood that now coursed through his vessels pumped through there, and there were numerous muscles which he could control at the slightest whim. And now they were gone. His nerves ended in a vast aching void. Frustration! He sent a now-forgotten impulse down t his stump. Once it would have made that leg in the jar stir slightly, or flex, or--- M. Foucheraux suddenly grew rigid. His brown eyes ere dangerously wide and intent. Bucking in his breath carefully, he sent that impulse again. Sacre diable! He would sear that the large toe on the sealed limb had quivered and twitched slightly. Clutching the arms of the chair tightly, he leaned forward, and strained all his will and nerves in a mighty command. The limb in the bell-tube--an eerie thing half-lighted from the flickering fireplace--slowly, slowly began to flex. M. Foucheraux's mouth dropped open. His eyes stared at the fearsome sight. Blood rushing to his temples, he continued to will himself, half hypnotised, half frozen with fear. What outre manifestation was this? What loathsome, incredible thing was he doing? "My leg, my leg," he panted. His mouth slowly curled into a contorted smile. "It's still mine! It lives!" He stood up, his heart beating wildly. The leg in the bell-tube was flexing itself, and the toes were twitching, just as Foucheraux was willing them to do. He forgot he had but one leg. His balance tottered. Then, with an agony of cramp in his stump, his feverish blood, driven by an overtaxed heart, ruptured the stitchings. The helpless figure fell onto the alcohol-filled bell-tube, the livid blood spurting out in great throbs from the open artery.. The glass cylinder, reflecting starkly the red lights from the hearth, tottered under the impact and crashed to the floor. The torrent of alcohol within burst out across the writing figure. The cadaverous leg, now suddenly bloated from its contact with air, caught the paralysed man in the neck. "Marie! Fortinescu!" he screamed. "God of heaven...someone save me!" The blood and the alcohol flowed together into the fireplace. With a burst of flame, the fiery tongues blossomed out and caught first on the curtains. "Marie! Fortinescu!" Foucheraux screamed and sobbed. He turned and twisted, his throbbing, pumping stump vomiting a spurting wash of blood into the holocaust. A moment, and the entire room was an inferno. Foucheraux buried his face in the crook of his leg. He was shrieking, but he had ceased to shriek words. The Place de la Cresus was full of fire-fighting apparatus, and it was broad noon before the final sparks of the devastated flat had been quenched. People crowded the square and chattered endlessly to each other. "Poor M. Foucheraux! Caught helpless in that horrible trap, and with only one leg!" Dr. Fortinescu leaned across the counter-board in the apothecarie, and started into the blackened remains. "You know, Robin," -- 6 --
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irresistible urge to flex the now missing tendons. He looked at the space on the stool where the limb should be resting. Once, for about three feet beyond his stump there had been attached that leg, and the blood that now coursed through his vessels pumped through there, and there were numerous muscles which he could control at the slightest whim. And now they were gone. His nerves ended in a vast aching void. Frustration! He sent a now-forgotten impulse down t his stump. Once it would have made that leg in the jar stir slightly, or flex, or--- M. Foucheraux suddenly grew rigid. His brown eyes ere dangerously wide and intent. Bucking in his breath carefully, he sent that impulse again. Sacre diable! He would sear that the large toe on the sealed limb had quivered and twitched slightly. Clutching the arms of the chair tightly, he leaned forward, and strained all his will and nerves in a mighty command. The limb in the bell-tube--an eerie thing half-lighted from the flickering fireplace--slowly, slowly began to flex. M. Foucheraux's mouth dropped open. His eyes stared at the fearsome sight. Blood rushing to his temples, he continued to will himself, half hypnotised, half frozen with fear. What outre manifestation was this? What loathsome, incredible thing was he doing? "My leg, my leg," he panted. His mouth slowly curled into a contorted smile. "It's still mine! It lives!" He stood up, his heart beating wildly. The leg in the bell-tube was flexing itself, and the toes were twitching, just as Foucheraux was willing them to do. He forgot he had but one leg. His balance tottered. Then, with an agony of cramp in his stump, his feverish blood, driven by an overtaxed heart, ruptured the stitchings. The helpless figure fell onto the alcohol-filled bell-tube, the livid blood spurting out in great throbs from the open artery.. The glass cylinder, reflecting starkly the red lights from the hearth, tottered under the impact and crashed to the floor. The torrent of alcohol within burst out across the writing figure. The cadaverous leg, now suddenly bloated from its contact with air, caught the paralysed man in the neck. "Marie! Fortinescu!" he screamed. "God of heaven...someone save me!" The blood and the alcohol flowed together into the fireplace. With a burst of flame, the fiery tongues blossomed out and caught first on the curtains. "Marie! Fortinescu!" Foucheraux screamed and sobbed. He turned and twisted, his throbbing, pumping stump vomiting a spurting wash of blood into the holocaust. A moment, and the entire room was an inferno. Foucheraux buried his face in the crook of his leg. He was shrieking, but he had ceased to shriek words. The Place de la Cresus was full of fire-fighting apparatus, and it was broad noon before the final sparks of the devastated flat had been quenched. People crowded the square and chattered endlessly to each other. "Poor M. Foucheraux! Caught helpless in that horrible trap, and with only one leg!" Dr. Fortinescu leaned across the counter-board in the apothecarie, and started into the blackened remains. "You know, Robin," -- 6 --
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