{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_14301/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_14301","id":"gutenberg_14301","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14301","summary":null,"tags":["Atlantis (Legendary place) -- Fiction","Category: Adventure","Category: French Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Fantasy fiction","French fiction -- 20th century -- Translations into English","Science Fiction","Science fiction"],"text":"\"First, I must warn you,\nbefore beginning this work,\nnot to be surprised to hear\nme calling barbarians by\nGrecian names.\"\n        --PLATO\n        _Critias_\n\n     ATLANTIDA\n\n     _Pierre Benoit_\n\n     Translated by Mary C. Tongue and Mary Ross\n\n     ACE BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036\n\n\n     To Andr\u00e9 Suar\u00e8s\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nHASSI-INIFEL, NOVEMBER 8, 1903.\n\n\nIf the following pages are ever to see the light of day it will be\nbecause they have been stolen from me. The delay that I exact before\nthey shall be disclosed assures me of that.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: This letter, together with the manuscript which\naccompanies it, the latter in a separate sealed envelope, was\nentrusted by Lieutenant Ferri\u00e8res, of the 3rd Spahis, the day of the\ndeparture of that officer for the Tassili of the Tuareg (Central\nSahara), to Sergeant Chatelain. The sergeant was instructed to deliver\nit, on his next leave, to M. Leroux, Honorary Counsel at the Court of\nAppeals at Riom, and Lieutenant Ferri\u00e8res' nearest relative. As this\nmagistrate died suddenly before the expiration of the term of ten\nyears set for the publication of the manuscript here presented,\ndifficulties arose which have delayed its publication up to the\npresent date.]\n\nAs to this disclosure, let no one distrust my aim when I prepare for\nit, when I insist upon it. You may believe me when I maintain that no\npride of authorship binds me to these pages. Already I am too far\nremoved from all such things. Only it is useless that others should\nenter upon the path from which I shall not return.\n\nFour o'clock in the morning. Soon the sun will kindle the hamada with\nits pink fire. All about me the bordj is asleep. Through the half-open\ndoor of his room I hear Andr\u00e9 de Saint-Avit breathing quietly, very\nquietly.\n\nIn two days we shall start, he and I. We shall leave the bordj. We\nshall penetrate far down there to the South. The official orders came\nthis morning.\n\nNow, even if I wished to withdraw, it is too late. Andr\u00e9 and I asked\nfor this mission. The authorization that I sought, together with him,\nhas at this moment become an order. The hierarchic channels cleared,\nthe pressure brought to bear at the Ministry;--and then to be afraid,\nto recoil before this adventure!...\n\nTo be afraid, I said. I know that I am not afraid! One night in the\nGurara, when I found two of my sentinels slaughtered, with the\nshameful cross cut of the Berbers slashed across their stomachs--then\nI was afraid. I know what fear is. Just so now, when I gazed into the\nblack depths, whence suddenly all at once the great red sun will rise,\nI know that it is not with fear that I tremble. I feel surging within\nme the sacred horror of this mystery, and its irresistible attraction.\n\nDelirious dreams, perhaps. The mad imaginings of a brain surcharged,\nand an eye distraught by mirages. The day will come, doubtless, when I\nshall reread these pages with an indulgent smile, as a man of fifty is\naccustomed to smile when he rereads old letters.\n\nDelirious dreams. Mad imaginings. But these dreams, these imaginings,\nare dear to me. \"Captain de Saint-Avit and Lieutenant Ferri\u00e8res,\"\nreads the official dispatch, \"will proceed to Tassili to determine the\nstatigraphic relation of Albien sandstone and carboniferous limestone.\nThey will, in addition, profit by any opportunities of determining the\npossible change of attitude of the Axdjers towards our penetration,\netc.\" If the journey should indeed have to do only with such poor\nthings I think that I should never undertake it.\n\nSo I am longing for what I dread. I shall be dejected if I do not\nfind myself in the presence of what makes me strangely fearful.\n\nIn the depths of the valley of Wadi Mia a jackal is barking. Now and\nagain, when a beam of moonlight breaks in a silver patch through the\nhollows of the heat-swollen clouds, making him think he sees the young\nsun, a turtle dove moans among the palm trees.\n\nI hear a step outside. I lean out of the window. A shade clad in\nluminous black stuff glides over the hard-packed earth of the terrace\nof the fortification. A light shines in the electric blackness. A man\nhas just lighted a cigarette. He crouches, facing southwards. He is\nsmoking.\n\nIt is Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, our Targa guide, the man who in three days\nis to lead us across the unknown plateaus of the mysterious\nImoschaoch, across the hamadas of black stones, the great dried oases,\nthe stretches of silver salt, the tawny hillocks, the flat gold dunes\nthat are crested over, when the \"aliz\u00e9\" blows, with a shimmering haze\nof pale sand.\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh! He is the man. There recurs to my mind Duveyrier's\ntragic phrase, \"At the very moment the Colonel was putting his foot in\nthe stirrup he was felled by a sabre blow.\"[2] Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh!\nThere he is, peacefully smoking his cigarette, a cigarette from the\npackage that I gave him.... May the Lord forgive me for it.\n\n[Footnote 2: H. Duveyrier, \"The Disaster of the Flatters Mission.\"\nBull. Geol. Soc., 1881.]\n\nThe lamp casts a yellow light on the paper. Strange fate, which, I\nnever knew exactly why, decided one day when I was a lad of sixteen\nthat I should prepare myself for Saint Cyr, and gave me there Andr\u00e9 de\nSaint-Avit as classmate. I might have studied law or medicine. Then I\nshould be today a respectable inhabitant of a town with a church and\nrunning water, instead of this cotton-clad phantom, brooding with an\nunspeakable anxiety over this desert which is about to swallow me.\n\nA great insect has flown in through the window. It buzzes, strikes\nagainst the rough cast, rebounds against the globe of the lamp, and\nthen, helpless, its wings singed by the still burning candle, drops on\nthe white paper.\n\nIt is an African May bug, big, black, with spots of livid gray.\n\nI think of others, its brothers in France, the golden-brown May bugs,\nwhich I have seen on stormy summer evenings projecting themselves like\nlittle particles of the soil of my native countryside. It was there\nthat as a child I spent my vacations, and later on, my leaves. On my\nlast leave, through those same meadows, there wandered beside me a\nslight form, wearing a thin scarf, because of the evening air, so cool\nback there. But now this memory stirs me so slightly that I scarcely\nraise my eyes to that dark corner of my room where the light is dimly\nreflected by the glass of an indistinct portrait. I realize of how\nlittle consequence has become what had seemed at one time capable of\nfilling all my life. This plaintive mystery is of no more interest to\nme. If the strolling singers of Rolla came to murmur their famous\nnostalgic airs under the window of this bordj I know that I should not\nlisten to them, and if they became insistent I should send them on\ntheir way.\n\nWhat has been capable of causing this metamorphosis in me? A story, a\nlegend, perhaps, told, at any rate by one on whom rests the direst of\nsuspicions.\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh has finished his cigarette. I hear him returning\nwith slow steps to his mat, in barrack B, to the left of the guard\npost.\n\nOur departure being scheduled for the tenth of November, the\nmanuscript attached to this letter was begun on Sunday, the first, and\nfinished on Thursday, the fifth of November, 1903.\n\nOLIVIER FERRI\u00c8RES, Lt. 3rd Spahis.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nA SOUTHERN ASSIGNMENT\n\n\nSunday, the sixth of June, 1903, broke the monotony of the life that\nwe were leading at the Post of Hassi-Inifel by two events of unequal\nimportance, the arrival of a letter from Mlle. de C----, and the\nlatest numbers of the Official Journal of the French Republic.\n\n\"I have the Lieutenant's permission?\" said Sergeant Chatelain,\nbeginning to glance through the magazines he had just removed from\ntheir wrappings.\n\nI acquiesced with a nod, already completely absorbed in reading Mlle.\nde C----'s letter.\n\n\"When this reaches you,\" was the gist of this charming being's letter,\n\"mama and I will doubtless have left Paris for the country. If, in\nyour distant parts, it might be a consolation to imagine me as bored\nhere as you possibly can be, make the most of it. The Grand Prix is\nover. I played the horse you pointed out to me, and naturally, I lost.\nLast night we dined with the Martials de la Touche. Elias Chatrian was\nthere, always amazingly young. I am sending you his last book, which\nhas made quite a sensation. It seems that the Martials de la Touche\nare depicted there without disguise. I will add to it Bourget's last,\nand Loti's, and France's, and two or three of the latest music hall\nhits. In the political word, they say the law about congregations will\nmeet with strenuous opposition. Nothing much in the theatres. I have\ntaken out a summer subscription for _l'Illustration_. Would you care\nfor it? In the country no one knows what to do. Always the same lot of\nidiots ready for tennis. I shall deserve no credit for writing to you\noften. Spare me your reflections concerning young Combemale. I am less\nthan nothing of a feminist, having too much faith in those who tell me\nthat I am pretty, in yourself in particular. But indeed, I grow wild\nat the idea that if I permitted myself half the familiarities with one\nof our lads that you have surely with your Ouled-Nails.... Enough of\nthat, it is too unpleasant an idea.\"\n\nI had reached this point in the prose of this advanced young woman\nwhen a scandalized exclamation of the Sergeant made me look up.\n\n\"Lieutenant!\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"They are up to something at the Ministry. See for yourself.\"\n\nHe handed me the Official. I read:\n\n\"By a decision of the first of May, 1903, Captain de Saint-Avit\n(Andr\u00e9), unattached, is assigned to the Third Spahis, and appointed\nCommandant of the Post of Hassi-Inifel.\"\n\nChatelain's displeasure became fairly exuberant.\n\n\"Captain de Saint-Avit, Commandant of the Post. A post which has never\nhad a slur upon it. They must take us for a dumping ground.\"\n\nMy surprise was as great as the Sergeant's. But just then I saw the\nevil, weasel-like face of Gourrut, the convict we used as clerk. He\nhad stopped his scrawling and was listening with a sly interest.\n\n\"Sergeant, Captain de Saint-Avit is my ranking classmate,\" I answered\ndryly.\n\nChatelain saluted, and left the room. I followed.\n\n\"There, there,\" I said, clapping him on the back, \"no hard feelings.\nRemember that in an hour we are starting for the oasis. Have the\ncartridges ready. It is of the utmost importance to restock the\nlarder.\"\n\nI went back to the office and motioned Gourrut to go. Left alone, I\nfinished Mlle. de C----'s letter very quickly, and then reread the\ndecision of the Ministry giving the post a new chief.\n\nIt was now five months that I had enjoyed that distinction, and on my\nword, I had accepted the responsibility well enough, and been very\nwell pleased with the independence. I can even affirm, without taking\ntoo much credit for myself, that under my command discipline had been\nbetter maintained than under Captain Dieulivol, Saint-Avit's\npredecessor. A brave man, this Captain Dieulivol, a non-commissioned\nofficer under Dodds and Duchesne, but subject to a terrible propensity\nfor strong liquors, and too much inclined, when he had drunk, to\nconfuse his dialects, and to talk to a Houassa in Sakalave. No one was\never more sparing of the post water supply. One morning when he was\npreparing his absinthe in the presence of the Sergeant, Chatelain,\nnoticing the Captain's glass, saw with amazement that the green liquor\nwas blanched by a far stronger admixture of water than usual. He\nlooked up, aware that something abnormal had just occurred. Rigid, the\ncarafe inverted in his hand, Captain Dieulivol was spilling the water\nwhich was running over on the sugar. He was dead.\n\nFor six months, since the disappearance of this sympathetic old\ntippler, the Powers had not seemed to interest themselves in finding\nhis successor. I had even hoped at times that a decision might be\nreached investing me with the rights that I was in fact exercising....\nAnd today this surprising appointment.\n\nCaptain de Saint-Avit. He was of my class at St. Cyr. I had lost track\nof him. Then my attention had been attracted to him by his rapid\nadvancement, his decoration, the well-deserved recognition of three\nparticularly daring expeditions of exploration to Tebesti and the Air;\nand suddenly, the mysterious drama of his fourth expedition, that\nfamous mission undertaken with Captain Morhange, from which only one\nof the explorers came back. Everything is forgotten quickly in France.\nThat was at least six years ago. I had not heard Saint-Avit mentioned\nsince. I had even supposed that he had left the army. And now, I was\nto have him as my chief.\n\n\"After all, what's the difference,\" I mused, \"he or another! At school\nhe was charming, and we have had only the most pleasant relationships.\nBesides, I haven't enough yearly income to afford the rank of\nCaptain.\"\n\nAnd I left the office, whistling as I went.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe were now, Chatelain and I, our guns resting on the already cooling\nearth, beside the pool that forms the center of the meager oasis,\nhidden behind a kind of hedge of alfa. The setting sun was reddening\nthe stagnant ditches which irrigate the poor garden plots of the\nsedentary blacks.\n\nNot a word during the approach. Not a word during the shoot. Chatelain\nwas obviously sulking.\n\nIn silence we knocked down, one after the other, several of the\nmiserable doves which came on dragging wings, heavy with the heat of\nthe day, to quench their thirst at the thick green water. When a\nhalf-dozen slaughtered little bodies were lined up at our feet I put\nmy hand on the Sergeant's shoulder.\n\n\"Chatelain!\"\n\nHe trembled.\n\n\"Chatelain, I was rude to you a little while ago. Don't be angry. It\nwas the bad time before the siesta. The bad time of midday.\"\n\n\"The Lieutenant is master here,\" he answered in a tone that was meant\nto be gruff, but which was only strained.\n\n\"Chatelain, don't be angry. You have something to say to me. You know\nwhat I mean.\"\n\n\"I don't know really. No, I don't know.\"\n\n\"Chatelain, Chatelain, why not be sensible? Tell me something about\nCaptain de Saint-Avit.\"\n\n\"I know nothing.\" He spoke sharply.\n\n\"Nothing? Then what were you saying a little while ago?\"\n\n\"Captain de Saint-Avit is a brave man.\" He muttered the words with his\nhead still obstinately bent. \"He went alone to Bilma, to the Air,\nquite alone to those places where no one had ever been. He is a brave\nman.\"\n\n\"He is a brave man, undoubtedly,\" I answered with great restraint.\n\"But he murdered his companion, Captain Morhange, did he not?\"\n\nThe old Sergeant trembled.\n\n\"He is a brave man,\" he persisted.\n\n\"Chatelain, you are a child. Are you afraid that I am going to repeat\nwhat you say to your new Captain?\"\n\nI had touched him to the quick. He drew himself up.\n\n\"Sergeant Chatelain is afraid of no one, Lieutenant. He has been at\nAbomey, against the Amazons, in a country where a black arm started\nout from every bush to seize your leg, while another cut it off for\nyou with one blow of a cutlass.\"\n\n\"Then what they say, what you yourself--\"\n\n\"That is talk.\"\n\n\"Talk which is repeated in France, Chatelain, everywhere.\"\n\nHe bent his head still lower without replying.\n\n\"Ass,\" I burst out, \"will you speak?\"\n\n\"Lieutenant, Lieutenant,\" he fairly pled, \"I swear that what I know,\nor nothing--\"\n\n\"What you know you are going to tell me, and right away. If not, I\ngive you my word of honor that, for a month, I shall not speak to you\nexcept on official business.\"\n\nHassi-Inifel: thirty native Arabs and four Europeans--myself, the\nSergeant, a Corporal, and Gourrut. The threat was terrible. It had its\neffect.\n\n\"All right, then, Lieutenant,\" he said with a great sigh. \"But\nafterwards you must not blame me for having told you things about a\nsuperior which should not be told and come only from the talk I\noverheard at mess.\"\n\n\"Tell away.\"\n\n\"It was in 1899. I was then Mess Sergeant at Sfax, with the 4th\nSpahis. I had a good record, and besides, as I did not drink, the\nAdjutant had assigned me to the officers' mess. It was a soft berth.\nThe marketing, the accounts, recording the library books which were\nborrowed (there weren't many), and the key of the wine cupboard,--for\nwith that you can't trust orderlies. The Colonel was young and dined\nat mess. One evening he came in late, looking perturbed, and, as soon\nas he was seated, called for silence:\n\n\"'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I have a communication to make to you, and I\nshall ask for your advice. Here is the question. Tomorrow morning the\n_City of Naples_ lands at Sfax. Aboard her is Captain de Saint-Avit,\nrecently assigned to Feriana, en route to his post.'\n\n\"The Colonel paused. 'Good,' thought I, 'tomorrow's menu is about to\nbe considered.' For you know the custom, Lieutenant, which has existed\never since there have been any officers' clubs in Africa. When an\nofficer is passing by, his comrades go to meet him at the boat and\ninvite him to remain with them for the length of his stay in port. He\npays his score in news from home. On such occasions everything is of\nthe best, even for a simple lieutenant. At Sfax an officer on a visit\nmeant--one extra course, vintage wine and old liqueurs.\n\n\"But this time I imagined from the looks the officers exchanged that\nperhaps the old stock would stay undisturbed in its cupboard.\n\n\"'You have all, I think, heard of Captain de Saint-Avit, gentlemen,\nand the rumors about him. It is not for us to inquire into them, and\nthe promotion he has had, his decoration if you will, permits us to\nhope that they are without foundation. But between not suspecting an\nofficer of being a criminal, and receiving him at our table as a\ncomrade, there is a gulf that we are not obliged to bridge. That is\nthe matter on which I ask your advice.'\n\n\"There was silence. The officers looked at each other, all of them\nsuddenly quite grave, even to the merriest of the second lieutenants.\nIn the corner, where I realized that they had forgotten me, I tried\nnot to make the least sound that might recall my presence.\n\n\"'We thank you, Colonel,' one of the majors finally replied, 'for your\ncourtesy in consulting us. All my comrades, I imagine, know to what\nterrible rumors you refer. If I may venture to say so, in Paris at the\nArmy Geographical Service, where I was before coming here, most of the\nofficers of the highest standing had an opinion on this unfortunate\nmatter which they avoided stating, but which cast no glory upon\nCaptain de Saint-Avit.'\n\n\"'I was at Bammako, at the time of the Morhange-Saint-Avit mission,'\nsaid a Captain. 'The opinion of the officers there, I am sorry to say,\ndiffered very little from what the Major describes. But I must add\nthat they all admitted that they had nothing but suspicions to go on.\nAnd suspicions are certainly not enough considering the atrocity of\nthe affair.'\n\n\"'They are quite enough, gentlemen,' replied the Colonel, 'to account\nfor our hesitation. It is not a question of passing judgment; but no\nman can sit at our table as a matter of right. It is a privilege based\non fraternal esteem. The only question is whether it is your decision\nto accord it to Saint-Avit.'\n\n\"So saying, he looked at the officers, as if he were taking a roll\ncall. One after another they shook their heads.\n\n\"'I see that we agree,' he said. 'But our task is unfortunately not\nyet over. The _City of Naples_ will be in port tomorrow morning. The\nlaunch which meets the passengers leaves at eight o'clock. It will be\nnecessary, gentlemen, for one of you to go aboard. Captain de\nSaint-Avit might be expecting to come to us. We certainly have no\nintention of inflicting upon him the humiliation of refusing him, if\nhe presented himself in expectation of the customary reception. He\nmust be prevented from coming. It will be wisest to make him\nunderstand that it is best for him to stay aboard.'\n\n\"The Colonel looked at the officers again. They could not but agree.\nBut how uncomfortable each one looked!\n\n\"'I cannot hope to find a volunteer among you for this kind of\nmission, so I am compelled to appoint some one. Captain Grandjean,\nCaptain de Saint-Avit is also a Captain. It is fitting that it be an\nofficer of his own rank who carries him our message. Besides, you are\nthe latest comer here. Therefore it is to you that I entrust this\npainful interview. I do not need to suggest that you conduct it as\ndiplomatically as possible.'\n\n\"Captain Grandjean bowed, while a sigh of relief escaped from all the\nothers. As long as the Colonel stayed in the room Grandjean remained\napart, without speaking. It was only after the chief had departed that\nhe let fall the words: \"'There are some things that ought to count a\ngood deal for promotion.'\n\n\"The next day at luncheon everyone was impatient for his return.\n\n\"'Well?' demanded the Colonel, briefly.\n\n\"Captain Grandjean did not reply immediately. He sat down at the table\nwhere his comrades were mixing their drinks, and he, a man notorious\nfor sobriety, drank almost at a gulp, without waiting for the sugar to\nmelt, a full glass of absinthe.\n\n\"'Well, Captain?' repeated the Colonel.\n\n\"'Well, Colonel, it's done. You can be at ease. He will not set foot on\nshore. But, ye gods, what an ordeal!'\n\n\"The officers did not dare speak. Only their looks expressed their\nanxious curiosity.\n\n\"Captain Grandjean poured himself a swallow of water.\n\n\"'You see, I had gotten my speech all ready, in the launch. But as I\nwent up the ladder I knew that I had forgotten it. Saint-Avit was in\nthe smoking-room, with the Captain of the boat. It seemed to me that I\ncould never find the strength to tell him, when I saw him all ready to\ngo ashore. He was in full dress uniform, his sabre lay on the bench\nand he was wearing spurs. No one wears spurs on shipboard. I presented\nmyself and we exchanged several remarks, but I must have seemed\nsomewhat strained for from the first moment I knew that he sensed\nsomething. Under some pretext he left the Captain, and led me aft near\nthe great rudder wheel. There, I dared speak. Colonel, what did I say?\nHow I must have stammered! He did not look at me. Leaning his elbows\non the railing he let his eyes wander far off, smiling slightly. Then,\nof a sudden, when I was well tangled up in explanations, he looked at\nme coolly and said:\n\n\"'I must thank you, my dear fellow, for having given yourself so much\ntrouble. But it is quite unnecessary. I am out of sorts and have no\nintention of going ashore. At least, I have the pleasure of having\nmade your acquaintance. Since I cannot profit by your hospitality, you\nmust do me the favor of accepting mine as long as the launch stays by\nthe vessel.'\n\n\"Then we went back to the smoking-room. He himself mixed the\ncocktails. He talked to me. We discovered that we had mutual\nacquaintances. Never shall I forget that face, that ironic and distant\nlook, that sad and melodious voice. Ah! Colonel, gentlemen, I don't\nknow what they may say at the Geographic Office, or in the posts of\nthe Soudan.... There can be nothing in it but a horrible suspicion.\nSuch a man, capable of such a crime,--believe me, it is not possible.\n\n\"That is all, Lieutenant,\" finished Chatelain, after a silence. \"I\nhave never seen a sadder meal than that one. The officers hurried\nthrough lunch without a word being spoken, in an atmosphere of\ndepression against which no one tried to struggle. And in this\ncomplete silence, you could see them always furtively watching the\n_City of Naples_, where she was dancing merrily in the breeze, a\nleague from shore.\n\n\"She was still there in the evening when they assembled for dinner,\nand it was not until a blast of the whistle, followed by curls of\nsmoke escaping from the red and black smokestack had announced the\ndeparture of the vessel for Gabes, that conversation was resumed; and\neven then, less gaily than usual.\n\n\"After that, Lieutenant, at the Officers' Club at Sfax, they avoided\nlike the plague any subject which risked leading the conversation back\nto Captain de Saint-Avit.\"\n\nChatelain had spoken almost in a whisper, and the little people of the\ndesert had not heard this singular history. It was an hour since we\nhad fired our last cartridge. Around the pool the turtle doves, once\nmore reassured, were bathing their feathers. Mysterious great birds\nwere flying under the darkening palm trees. A less warm wind rocked\nthe trembling black palm branches. We had laid aside our helmets so\nthat our temples could welcome the touch of the feeble breeze.\n\n\"Chatelain,\" I said, \"it is time to go back to the bordj.\"\n\nSlowly we picked up the dead doves. I felt the Sergeant looking at me\nreproachfully, as if regretting that he had spoken. Yet during all the\ntime that our return trip lasted, I could not find the strength to\nbreak our desolate silence with a single word.\n\nThe night had almost fallen when we arrived. The flag which\nsurmounted the post was still visible, drooping on its standard, but\nalready its colors were indistinguishable. To the west the sun had\ndisappeared behind the dunes gashed against the black violet of the\nsky.\n\nWhen we had crossed the gate of the fortifications, Chatelain left me.\n\n\"I am going to the stables,\" he said.\n\nI returned alone to that part of the fort where the billets for the\nEuropeans and the stores of ammunition were located. An inexpressible\nsadness weighed upon me.\n\nI thought of my comrades in French garrisons. At this hour they must\nbe returning home to find awaiting them, spread out upon the bed,\ntheir dress uniform, their braided tunic, their sparkling epaulettes.\n\n\"Tomorrow,\" I said to myself, \"I shall request a change of station.\"\n\nThe stairway of hard-packed earth was already black. But a few gleams\nof light still seemed palely prowling in the office when I entered.\n\nA man was sitting at my desk, bending over the files of orders. His\nback was toward me. He did not hear me enter.\n\n\"Really, Gourrut, my lad, I beg you not to disturb yourself. Make\nyourself completely at home.\"\n\nThe man had risen, and I saw him to be quite tall, slender and very\npale.\n\n\"Lieutenant Ferri\u00e8res, is it not?\"\n\nHe advanced, holding out his hand.\n\n\"Captain de Saint-Avit. Delighted, my dear fellow.\"\n\nAt the same time Chatelain appeared on the threshold.\n\n\"Sergeant,\" said the newcomer, \"I cannot congratulate you on the\nlittle I have seen. There is not a camel saddle which is not in want\nof buckles, and they are rusty enough to suggest that it rains at\nHassi-Inifel three hundred days in the year. Furthermore, where were\nyou this afternoon? Among the four Frenchmen who compose the post, I\nfound only on my arrival one convict, opposite a quart of eau-de-vie.\nWe will change all that, I hope. At ease.\"\n\n\"Captain,\" I said, and my voice was colorless, while Chatelain\nremained frozen at attention, \"I must tell you that the Sergeant was\nwith me, that it is I who am responsible for his absence from the\npost, that he is an irreproachable non-commissioned officer from every\npoint of view, and that if we had been warned of your arrival--\"\n\n\"Evidently,\" he said, with a coldly ironical smile. \"Also, Lieutenant,\nI have no intention of holding him responsible for the negligences\nwhich attach to your office. He is not obliged to know that the\nofficer who abandons a post like Hassi-Inifel, if it is only for two\nhours, risks not finding much left on his return. The Chaamba\nbrigands, my dear sir, love firearms, and for the sake of the sixty\nmuskets in your racks, I am sure they would not scruple to make an\nofficer, whose otherwise excellent record is well known to me, account\nfor his absence to a court-martial. Come with me, if you please. We\nwill finish the little inspection I began too rapidly a little while\nago.\"\n\nHe was already on the stairs. I followed in his footsteps. Chatelain\nclosed the order of march. I heard him murmuring, in a tone which you\ncan imagine:\n\n\"Well, we are in for it now!\"\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nCAPTAIN DE SAINT-AVIT\n\n\nA few days sufficed to convince us that Chatelain's fears as to our\nofficial relations with the new chief were vain. Often I have thought\nthat by the severity he showed at our first encounter Saint-Avit\nwished to create a formal barrier, to show us that he knew how to keep\nhis head high in spite of the weight of his heavy past. Certain it is\nthat the day after his arrival, he showed himself in a very different\nlight, even complimenting the Sergeant on the upkeep of the post and\nthe instruction of the men. To me he was charming.\n\n\"We are of the same class, aren't we?\" he said to me. \"I don't have\nto ask you to dispense with formalities, it is your right.\"\n\nVain marks of confidence, alas! False witnesses to a freedom of\nspirit, one in face of the other. What more accessible in appearance\nthan the immense Sahara, open to all those who are willing to be\nengulfed by it? Yet what is more secret? After six months of\ncompanionship, of communion of life such as only a Post in the South\noffers, I ask myself if the most extraordinary of my adventures is not\nto be leaving to-morrow, toward unsounded solitudes, with a man whose\nreal thoughts are as unknown to me as these same solitudes, for which\nhe has succeeded in making me long.\n\nThe first surprise which was given me by this singular companion was\noccasioned by the baggage that followed him.\n\nOn his inopportune arrival, alone, from Wargla, he had trusted to the\nMehari he rode only what can be carried without harm by such a\ndelicate beast,--his arms, sabre and revolver, a heavy carbine, and a\nvery reduced pack. The rest did not arrive till fifteen days later,\nwith the convoy which supplied the post.\n\nThree cases of respectable dimensions were carried one after another\nto the Captain's room, and the grimaces of the porters said enough as\nto their weight.\n\nI discreetly left Saint-Avit to his unpacking and began opening the\nmail which the convoy had sent me.\n\nHe returned to the office a little later and glanced at the several\nreviews which I had just recieved.\n\n\"So,\" he said. \"You take these.\"\n\nHe skimmed through, as he spoke, the last number of the _Zeitschrift\nder Gesellschaft fur Erdkunde in Berlin_.\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered. \"These gentlemen are kind enough to interest\nthemselves in my works on the geology of the Wadi Mia and the high\nIgharghar.\"\n\n\"That may be useful to me,\" he murmured, continuing to turn over the\nleaves.\n\n\"It's at your service.\"\n\n\"Thanks. I am afraid I have nothing to offer you in exchange, except\nPliny, perhaps. And still--you know what he said of Igharghar,\naccording to King Juba. However, come help me put my traps in place\nand you will see if anything appeals to you.\"\n\nI accepted without further urging.\n\nWe commenced by unearthing various meteorological and astronomical\ninstruments--the thermometers of Baudin, Salleron, Fastre, an aneroid,\na Fortin barometer, chronometers, a sextant, an astronomical spyglass,\na compass glass.... In short, what Duveyrier calls the material that\nis simplest and easiest to transport on a camel.\n\nAs Saint-Avit handed them to me I arranged them on the only table in\nthe room.\n\n\"Now,\" he announced to me, \"there is nothing more but books. I will\npass them to you. Pile them up in a corner until I can have a\nbook-shelf made.\"\n\nFor two hours altogether I helped him to heap up a real library. And\nwhat a library! Such as never before a post in the South had seen. All\nthe texts consecrated, under whatever titles, by antiquity to the\nregions of the Sahara were reunited between the four rough-cast walls\nof that little room of the bordj. Herodotus and Pliny, naturally, and\nlikewise Strabo and Ptolemy, Pomponius Mela, and Ammien Marcellin. But\nbesides these names which reassured my ignorance a little, I perceived\nthose of Corippus, of Paul Orose, of Eratosthenes, of Photius, of\nDiodorus of Sicily, of Solon, of Dion Cassius, of Isidor of Seville,\nof Martin de Tyre, of Ethicus, of Athen\u00e9e, the _Scriptores Historiae\nAugustae_, the _Itinerarium Antonini Augusti_, the _Geographi Latini\nMinores_ of Riese, the _Geographi Graeci Minores_ of Karl Muller....\nSince I have had the occasion to familiarize myself with Agatarchides\nof Cos and Artemidorus of Ephesus, but I admit that in this instance\nthe presence of their dissertations in the saddle bags of a captain of\ncavalry caused me some amazement.\n\nI mention further the _Descrittione dell' Africa_ by Leon l'African,\nthe _Arabian Histories_ of Ibn-Khaldoun, of Al-Iaquob, of El-Bekri, of\nIbn-Batoutah, of Mahommed El-Tounsi.... In the midst of this Babel, I\nremember the names of only two volumes of contemporary French\nscholars. There were also the laborious theses of Berlioux[3] and of\nSchirmer.[4]\n\n[Footnote 3: Doctrina Ptolemaei ab injuria recentiorum vindicata, sive\nNilus Superior et Niger verus, hodiernus Eghiren, ab anitiquis\nexplorati. Paris, 8vo, 1874, with two maps. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\n[Footnote 4: De nomine et genere popularum qui berberi vulgo dicuntur.\nParis, 8vo, 1892. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\nWhile I proceeded to make piles of as similar dimensions as possible I\nkept saying to myself:\n\n\"To think that I have been believing all this time that in his mission\nwith Morhange, Saint-Avit was particularly concerned in scientific\nobservations. Either my memory deceives me strangely or he is riding a\nhorse of another color. What is sure is that there is nothing for me\nin the midst of all this chaos.\"\n\nHe must have read on my face the signs of too apparently expressed\nsurprise, for he said in a tone in which I divined a tinge of\ndefiance:\n\n\"The choice of these books surprises you a bit?\"\n\n\"I can't say it surprises me,\" I replied, \"since I don't know the\nnature of the work for which you have collected them. In any case I\ndare say, without fear of being contradicted, that never before has\nofficer of the Arabian Office possessed a library in which the\nhumanities were so, well represented.\"\n\nHe smiled evasively, and that day we pursued the subject no further.\n\nAmong Saint-Avit's books I had noticed a voluminous notebook secured\nby a strong lock. Several times I surprised him in the act of making\nnotations in it. When for any reason he was called out of the room he\nplaced his album carefully in a small cabinet of white wood, provided\nby the munificence of the Administration. When he was not writing and\nthe office did not require his presence, he had the mehari which he\nhad brought with him saddled, and a few minutes later, from the\nterrace of the fortifications, I could see the double silhouette\ndisappearing with great strides behind a hummock of red earth on the\nhorizon.\n\nEach time these trips lasted longer. From each he returned in a kind\nof exaltation which made me watch him with daily increasing\ndisquietude during meal hours, the only time we passed quite alone\ntogether.\n\n\"Well,\" I said to myself one day when his remarks had been more\nlacking in sequence than usual, \"it's no fun being aboard a submarine\nwhen the captain takes opium. What drug can this fellow be taking,\nanyway?\"\n\nNext day I looked hurriedly through my comrade's drawers. This\ninspection, which I believed to be my duty, reassured me momentarily.\n\"All very good,\" I thought, \"provided he does not carry with him his\ncapsules and his Pravaz syringe.\"\n\nI was still in that stage where I could suppose that Andr\u00e9's\nimagination needed artificial stimulants.\n\nMeticulous observation undeceived me. There was nothing suspicious in\nthis respect. Moreover, he rarely drank and almost never smoked.\n\nAnd nevertheless, there was no means of denying the increase of his\ndisquieting feverishness. He returned from his expeditions each time\nwith his eyes more brilliant. He was paler, more animated, more\nirritable.\n\nOne evening he left the post about six o'clock, at the end of the\ngreatest heat of the day. We waited for him all night. My anxiety was\nall the stronger because quite recently caravans had brought tidings\nof bands of robbers in the neighborhood of the post.\n\nAt dawn he had not returned. He did not come before midday. His camel\ncollapsed under him, rather than knelt.\n\nHe realized that he must excuse himself, but he waited till we were\nalone at lunch.\n\n\"I am so sorry to have caused you any anxiety. But the dunes were so\nbeautiful under the moon! I let myself be carried farther and\nfarther....\"\n\n\"I have no reproaches to make, dear fellow, you are free, and the\nchief here. Only allow me to recall to you certain warnings concerning\nthe Chaamba brigands, and the misfortunes that might arise from a\nCommandant of a post absenting himself too long.\"\n\nHe smiled.\n\n\"I don't dislike such evidence of a good memory,\" he said simply.\n\nHe was in excellent, too excellent spirits.\n\n\"Don't blame me. I set out for a short ride as usual. Then, the moon\nrose. And then, I recognized the country. It is just where, twenty\nyears ago next November, Flatters followed the way to his destiny in\nan exaltation which the certainty of not returning made keener and\nmore intense.\"\n\n\"Strange state of mind for a chief of an expedition,\" I murmured.\n\n\"Say nothing against Flatters. No man ever loved the desert as he\ndid ... even to dying of it.\"\n\n\"Palat and Douls, among many others, have loved it as much,\" I\nanswered. \"But they were alone when they exposed themselves to it.\nResponsible only for their own lives, they were free. Flatters, on the\nother hand, was responsible for sixty lives. And you cannot deny that\nhe allowed his whole party to be massacred.\"\n\nThe words were hardly out of my lips before I regretted them, I\nthought of Chatelain's story, of the officers' club at Sfax, where\nthey avoided like the plague any kind of conversation which might lead\ntheir thoughts toward a certain Morhange-Saint-Avit mission.\n\nHappily I observed that my companion was not listening. His brilliant\neyes were far away.\n\n\"What was your first garrison?\" he asked suddenly.\n\n\"Auxonne.\"\n\nHe gave an unnatural laugh.\n\n\"Auxonne. Province of the Cote d'Or. District of Dijon. Six thousand\ninhabitants. P.L.M. Railway. Drill school and review. The Colonel's\nwife receives Thursdays, and the Major's on Saturdays. Leaves every\nSunday,--the first of the month to Paris, the three others to Dijon.\nThat explains your Judgment of Flatters.\n\n\"For my part, my dear fellow, my first garrison was at Boghar. I\narrived there one morning in October, a second lieutenant, aged\ntwenty, of the First African Batallion, the white chevron on my black\nsleeve.... Sun stripe, as the _bagnards_ say in speaking of their\ngrades. Boghar! Two days before, from the bridge of the steamer, I had\nbegun to see the shores of Africa. I pity all those who, when they see\nthose pale cliffs for the first time, do not feel a great leap at\ntheir hearts, at the thought that this land prolongs itself thousands\nand thousands of leagues.... I was little more than a child, I had\nplenty of money. I was ahead of schedule. I could have stopped three\nor four days at Algiers to amuse myself. Instead I took the train that\nsame evening for Berroughia.\n\n\"There, scarcely a hundred kilometers from Algiers, the railway\nstopped. Going in a straight line you won't find another until you get\nto the Cape. The diligence travels at night on account of the heat.\nWhen we came to the hills I got out and walked beside the carriage,\nstraining for the sensation, in this new atmosphere, of the kiss of\nthe outlying desert.\n\n\"About midnight, at the Camp of the Zouaves, a humble post on the road\nembankment, overlooking a dry valley whence rose the feverish perfume\nof oleander, we changed horses. They had there a troop of convicts and\nimpressed laborers, under escort of riflemen and convoys to the\nquarries in the South. In part, rogues in uniform, from the jails of\nAlgiers and Douara,--without arms, of course; the others\ncivilians--such civilians! this year's recruits, the young bullies of\nthe Chapelle and the Goutte-d'Or.\n\n\"They left before we did. Then the diligence caught up with them. From\na distance I saw in a pool of moonlight on the yellow road the black\nirregular mass of the convoy. Then I heard a weary dirge; the wretches\nwere singing. One, in a sad and gutteral voice, gave the couplet,\nwhich trailed dismally through the depths of the blue ravines:\n\n\"'_Maintenant qu'elle est grande,\n  Elle fait le trottoir,\n  Avec ceux de la bande\n        A Richard-Lenoir_.'\n\n\"And the others took up in chorus the horrible refrain:\n\n\"'_A la Bastille, a la Bastille,\n  On aime bien, on aime bien\n        Nini Peau d'Chien;\n  Elle est si belle et si gentille\n          A la Bastille_'\n\n\"I saw them all in contrast to myself when the diligence passed them.\nThey were terrible. Under the hideous searchlight their eyes shone\nwith a sombre fire in their pale and shaven faces. The burning dust\nstrangled their raucous voices in their throats. A frightful sadness\ntook possession of me.\n\n\"When the diligence had left this fearful nightmare behind, I regained\nmy self-control.\n\n\"'Further, much further South,' I exclaimed to myself, 'to the places\nuntouched by this miserable bilgewater of civilization.'\n\n\"When I am weary, when I have a moment of anguish and longing to turn\nback on the road that I have chosen, I think of the prisoners of\nBerroughia, and then I am glad to continue on my way.\n\n\"But what a reward, when I am in one of those places where the poor\nanimals never think of fleeing because they have never seen man, where\nthe desert stretches out around me so widely that the old world could\ncrumble, and never a single ripple on the dune, a single cloud in the\nwhite sky come to warn me.\n\n\"'It is true,' I murmured. 'I, too, once, in the middle of the desert,\nat Tidi-Kelt, I felt that way.'\"\n\nUp to that time I had let him enjoy his exaltations without\ninterruption. I understood too late the error that I had made in\npronouncing that unfortunate sentence.\n\nHis mocking nervous laughter began anew.\n\n\"Ah! Indeed, at Tidi-Kelt? I beg you, old man, in your own interest,\nif you don't want to make an ass of yourself, avoid that species of\nreminiscence. Honestly, you make me think of Fromentin, or that poor\nMaupassant, who talked of the desert because he had been to Djelfa,\ntwo days' journey from the street of Bab-Azound and the Government\nbuildings, four days from the Avenue de l'Opera;--and who, because he\nsaw a poor devil of a camel dying near Bou-Saada, believed himself in\nthe heart of the desert, on the old route of the caravans....\nTidi-Kelt, the desert!\"\n\n\"It seems to me, however, that In-Salah--\" I said, a little vexed.\n\n\"In-Salah? Tidi-Kelt! But, my poor friend, the last time that I passed\nthat way there were as many old newspapers and empty sardine boxes as\nif it had been Sunday in the Wood of Vincennes.\"\n\nSuch a determined, such an evident desire to annoy me made me forget\nmy reserve.\n\n\"Evidently,\" I replied resentfully, \"I have never been to--\"\n\nI stopped myself, but it was already too late.\n\nHe looked at me, squarely in the face.\n\n\"To where?\" he said with good humor.\n\nI did not answer.\n\n\"To where?\" he repeated.\n\nAnd, as I remained strangled in my muteness:\n\n\"To Wadi Tarhit, do you mean?\"\n\nIt was on the east bank of Wadi Tarhit, a hundred and twenty\nkilometers from Timissao, at 25.5 degrees north latitude, according to\nthe official report, that Captain Morhange was buried.\n\n\"Andr\u00e9,\" I cried stupidly, \"I swear to you--\"\n\n\"What do you swear to me?\"\n\n\"That I never meant--\"\n\n\"To speak of Wadi Tarhit? Why? Why should you not speak to me of Wadi\nTarhit?\"\n\nIn answer to my supplicating silence, he merely shrugged his\nshoulders.\n\n\"Idiot,\" was all he said.\n\nAnd he left me before I could think of even one word to say.\n\nSo much humility on my part had, however, not disarmed him. I had the\nproof of it the next day, and the way he showed his humor was even\nmarked by an exhibition of wretchedly poor taste.\n\nI was just out of bed when he came into my room.\n\n\"Can you tell me what is the meaning of this?\" he demanded.\n\nHe had in his hand one of the official registers. In his nervous\ncrises he always began sorting them over, in the hope of finding some\npretext for making himself militarily insupportable.\n\nThis time chance had favored him.\n\nHe opened the register. I blushed violently at seeing the poor proof\nof a photograph that I knew well.\n\n\"What is that?\" he repeated disdainfully.\n\nToo often I had surprised him in the act of regarding, none too\nkindly, the portrait of Mlle. de C. which hung in my room not to be\nconvinced at that moment that he was trying to pick a quarrel with me.\n\nI controlled myself, however, and placed the poor little print in the\ndrawer.\n\nBut my calmness did not pacify him.\n\n\"Henceforth,\" he said, \"take care, I beg you, not to mix mementoes of\nyour gallantry with the official papers.\"\n\nHe added, with a smile that spoke insult:\n\n\"It isn't necessary to furnish objects of excitation to Gourrut.\"\n\n\"Andr\u00e9,\" I said, and I was white, \"I demand--\"\n\nHe stood up to the full height of his stature.\n\n\"Well what is it? A gallantry, nothing more. I have authorized you to\nspeak of Wadi Halfa, haven't I? Then I have the right, I should\nthink--\"\n\n\"Andr\u00e9!\"\n\nNow he was looking maliciously at the wall, at the little portrait the\nreplica of which I had just subjected to this painful scene.\n\n\"There, there, I say, you aren't angry, are you? But between ourselves\nyou will admit, will you not, that she is a little thin?\"\n\nAnd before I could find time to answer him, he had removed himself,\nhumming the shameful refrain of the previous night:\n\n\"_A la Bastille, a la Bastille,\n On aime bien, on aime bien,\n       Nini, Peau de Chien_.\"\n\nFor three days neither of us spoke to the other. My exasperation was\ntoo deep for words. Was I, then, to be held responsible for his\navatars! Was it my fault if, between two phrases, one seemed always\nsome allusion--\n\n\"The situation is intolerable,\" I said to myself. \"It cannot last\nlonger.\"\n\nIt was to cease very soon.\n\nOne week after the scene of the photograph the courier arrived. I had\nscarcely glanced at the index of the _Zeitschrift_, the German review\nof which I have already spoken, when I started with uncontrollable\namazement. I had just read: _\"Reise und Entdeckungen zwei\nfronzosischer offiziere, Rittmeisters Morhange und Oberleutnants de\nSaint-Avit, in westlichen Sahara.\"_\n\nAt the same time I heard my comrade's voice.\n\n\"Anything interesting in this number?\"\n\n\"No,\" I answered carelessly.\n\n\"Let's see.\"\n\nI obeyed; what else was there to do?\n\nIt seemed to me that he grew paler as he ran over the index. However,\nhis tone was altogether natural when he said:\n\n\"You will let me borrow it, of course?\"\n\nAnd he went out, casting me one defiant glance.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe day passed slowly. I did not see him again until evening. He was\ngay, very gay, and his gaiety hurt me.\n\nWhen we had finished dinner, we went out and leaned on the balustrade\nof the terrace. From there out swept the desert, which the darkness\nwas already encroaching upon from the east.\n\nAndr\u00e9 broke the silence.\n\n\"By the way, I have returned your review to you. You were right, it is\nnot interesting.\"\n\nHis expression was one of supreme amusement.\n\n\"What is it, what is the matter with you, anyway?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" I answered, my throat aching.\n\n\"Nothing? Shall I tell you what is the matter with you?\"\n\nI looked at him with an expression of supplication.\n\n\"Idiot,\" he found it necessary to repeat once more.\n\nNight fell quickly. Only the southern slope of Wadi Mia was still\nyellow. Among the boulders a little jackal was running about, yapping\nsharply.\n\n\"The _dib_ is making a fuss about nothing, bad business,\" said\nSaint-Avit.\n\nHe continued pitilessly:\n\n\"Then you aren't willing to say anything?\"\n\nI made a great effort, to produce the following pitiful phrase:\n\n\"What an exhausting day. What a night, heavy, heavy--You don't feel\nlike yourself, you don't know any more--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the voice of Saint-Avit, as from a distance, \"A heavy,\nheavy night: as heavy, do you know, as when I killed Captain\nMorhange.\"\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE MORHANGE-SAINT-AVIT MISSION\n\n\n\"So I killed Captain Morhange,\" Andr\u00e9 de Saint-Avit said to me the\nnext day, at the same time, in the same place, with a calm that took\nno account of the night, the frightful night I had just been through.\n\"Why do I tell you this? I don't know in the least. Because of the\ndesert, perhaps. Are you a man capable of enduring the weight of that\nconfidence, and further, if necessary, of assuming the consequences it\nmay bring? I don't know that, either. The future will decide. For the\npresent there is only one thing certain, the fact, I tell you again,\nthat I killed Captain Morhange.\n\n\"I killed him. And, since you want me to specify the reason, you\nunderstand that I am not going to torture my brain to turn it into a\nromance for you, or commence by recounting in the naturalistic manner\nof what stuff my first trousers were made, or, as the neo-Catholics\nwould have it, how often I went as a child to confession, and how much\nI liked doing it. I have no taste for useless exhibitions. You will\nfind that this recital begins strictly at the time when I met\nMorhange.\n\n\"And first of all, I tell you, however much it has cost my peace of\nmind and my reputation, I do not regret having known him. In a word,\napart from all question of false friendship, I am convicted of a black\ningratitude in having killed him. It is to him, it is to his knowledge\nof rock inscriptions, that I owe the only thing that has raised my\nlife in interest above the miserable little lives dragged out by my\ncompanions at Auxonne, and elsewhere.\n\n\"This being understood, here are the facts:\"\n\n[NOTE: From this point on begins an extended narrative;\nindeed it may be most of the remaining book.\nI was changing the quoting, until I reached the end\nof the chapter and found that it continued on from there.]\n\nIt was in the Arabian Office at Wargla, when I was a lieutenant, that\nI first heard the name, Morhange. And I must add that it was for me\nthe occasion of an attack of bad humor. We were having difficult\ntimes. The hostility of the Sultan of Morocco was latent. At Touat,\nwhere the assassination of Flatters and of Frescaly had already been\nconcocted, connivance was being given to the plots of our enemies.\nTouat was the center of conspiracies, of razzias, of defections, and\nat the same time, the depot of supply for the insatiable nomads. The\nGovernors of Algeria, Tirman, Cambon, Laferriere, demanded its\noccupation. The Ministers of War tacitly agreed.... But there was\nParliament, which did nothing at all, because of England, because of\nGermany, and above all because of a certain _Declaration of the Rights\nof Man and of the Citizen_, which prescribed that insurrection is the\nmost sacred of duties, even when the insurgents are savages who cut\nyour head off. In short, the military authority could only, at its own\ndiscretion, increase the southern garrisons, and establish new posts;\nthis one, Berresof, Hassi-el-Mia, Fort MacMahon, Fort Lallemand, Fort\nMiribel.... But as Castries puts it, you don't hold the nomads with\nbordjs, you hold them by the belt. The middle was the oasis of Touat.\nTheir honors, the lawyers of Paris, had to be convinced of the\nnecessity of taking possession of the oasis of Touat. The best way\nwould be to present them with a faithful picture of the plots that\nwere being woven there against us.\n\nThe principal authors were, and still are, the Senoussis, whose able\nchief has been forced by our arms to transfer the seat of his\nconfederation several thousand leagues from there, to Schimmedrou, in\nthe Tibesti. They had, I say _they_ through modesty, the idea of\nascertaining the traces left by these agitators on their favorite\nplaces of concourse; Rh\u00e2t, Temassinin, the plain of Adejamor, and\nIn-Salah. It was, you see, at least after leaving Temassinin,\npractically the same itinerary as that followed in 1864 by General\nRohlfs.\n\nI had already attracted some attention by two excursions, one to\nAgad\u00e8s, and the other to Bilma, and was considered by the staff\nofficers to be one of the best informed on the Senoussis question. I\nwas therefore selected to assume this new task.\n\nI then suggested that it would be of interest to kill two birds with\none stone, and to get, in passing, an idea of the northern Ahaggar, so\nas to make sure whether the Tuaregs of Ahitarhen had continued to have\nas cordial relations with the Senoussis as they had had when they\ncombined to massacre the Flatters' mission. I was immediately accorded\nthe permission. The change in my first plan was as follows: After\nreaching Ighelaschem, six hundred kilometers south of Temassinin,\ninstead of taking the direct road to Touat via Rh\u00e2t, I would,\npenetrating between the high land of Mouydir and Ahaggar, strike off\nto the southwest as far as Shikh-Salah. Here I would turn again\nnorthwards, towards In-Salah, by the road to the Soudan and Agad\u00e8s. In\nall hardly eight kilometers additional in a trip of about seven\nhundred leagues, with the certainty of making as complete an\nexamination as possible of the roads which our enemies, the Senoussis\nof Tibesti and the Tuareg of the Ahaggar, must follow to arrive at\nTouat. On the way, for every explorer has his pet fancy, I was not at\nall displeased to think that I would have a chance to examine the\ngeological formation of the plateau of Egere, about which Duveyrier\nand the others are so disappointingly indefinite.\n\nEverything was ready for my departure from Wargla. Everything, which\nis to say, very little. Three mehara: mine, my companion Bou-Djema's\n(a faithful Chaamba, whom I had had with me in my wanderings through\nthe Air, less of a guide in the country I was familiar with than a\nmachine for saddling and unsaddling camels), then a third to carry\nprovisions and skins of drinking water, very little, since I had taken\npains to locate the stops with reference to the wells.\n\nSome people go equipped for this kind of expedition with a hundred\nregulars, and even cannon. I am for the tradition of Douls and Ren\u00e9\nCallie, I go alone.\n\nI was at that perfect moment when only one thin thread still held me\nto the civilized world when an official cable arrived at Wargla.\n\n\"Lieutenant de Saint-Avit,\" it said briefly, \"will delay his departure\nuntil the arrival of Captain Morhange, who will accompany him on his\nexpedition of exploration.\"\n\nI was more than disappointed. I alone had had the idea of this\nexpedition. I had had all the difficulty that you can imagine to make\nthe authorities agree to it. And now when I was rejoicing at the idea\nof the long hours I would spend alone with myself in the heart of the\ndesert, they sent me a stranger, and, to make matters worse, a\nsuperior.\n\nThe condolences of my comrades aggravated my bad humor.\n\nThe Yearly Report, consulted on the spot, had given them the following\ninformation:\n\n\"Morhange (Jean-Marie-Fran\u00e7ois), class of 1881. Breveted. Captain,\nunassigned. (Topographical Service of the Army.)\"\n\n\"There is the explanation for you,\" said one. \"They are sending one of\ntheir creatures to pull the chestnuts out of the fire, after you have\nhad all the trouble of making it. Breveted! That's a great way. The\ntheories of Ardant du Picq or else nothing about here.\"\n\n\"I don't altogether agree with you,\" said the Major. \"They knew in\nParliament, for some one is always indiscreet, the real aim of\nSaint-Avit's mission: to force their hand for the occupation of Touat.\nAnd this Morhange must be a man serving the interests of the Army\nCommission. All these people, secretaries, members of Parliament,\ngovernors, keep a close watch on each other. Some one will write an\namusing paradoxical history some day, of the French Colonial\nExpansion, which is made without the knowledge of the powers in\noffice, when it is not actually in spite of them.\"\n\n\"Whatever the reason, the result will be the same,\" I said bitterly;\n\"we will be two Frenchmen to spy on each other night and day, along\nthe roads to the south. An amiable prospect when one has none too much\ntime to foil all the tricks of the natives. When does he arrive?\"\n\n\"Day after tomorrow, probably. I have news of a convoy coming from\nGhardaia. It is likely that he will avail himself of it. The\nindications are that he doesn't know very much about traveling alone.\"\n\nCaptain Morhange did arrive in fact two days later by means of the\nconvoy from Ghardaia. I was the first person for whom he asked.\n\nWhen he came to my room, whither I had withdrawn in dignity as soon as\nthe convoy was sighted, I was disagreeably surprised to foresee that I\nwould have great difficulty in preserving my prejudice against him.\n\nHe was tall, his face full and ruddy, with laughing blue eyes, a small\nblack moustache, and hair that was already white.\n\n\"I have a thousand apologies to make to you, my dear fellow,\" he said\nimmediately, with a frankness that I have never seen in any other man.\n\"You must be furious with my importunity in upsetting your plans and\ndelaying your departure.\"\n\n\"By no means, Captain,\" I replied coolly.\n\n\"You really have only yourself to blame. It is on account of your\nknowledge of the southern, routes, so highly esteemed at Paris, that I\nwished to have you to initiate me when the Ministries of Instruction\nand of Commerce, and the Geographical Society combined to charge me\nwith the mission which brings me here. These three honorable\ninstitutions have in fact entrusted me with the attempt to\nre-establish the ancient track of the caravans, which, from the ninth\ncentury, trafficked between Tunis and the Soudan, by Toweur, Wargla,\nEs-Souk and the bend of the Bourroum; and to study the possibility of\nrestoring this route to its ancient splendor. At the same time, at the\nGeographic Bureau, I heard of the journey that you are undertaking.\nFrom Wargla to Shikh-Salah our two itineraries are the same. Only I\nmust admit to you that it is the first voyage of this kind that I have\never undertaken. I would not be afraid to hold forth for an hour on\nArabian literature in the amphitheatre of the School of Oriental\nLanguages, but I know well enough that in the desert I should have to\nask for directions whether to turn right or left. This is the only\nchance which could give me such an opportunity, and at the same time\nput me under obligation for this introduction to so charming a\ncompanion. You must not blame me if I seized it, if I used all my\ninfluence to retard your departure from Wargla until the instant when\nI could join you. I have only one more word to add to what I have\nsaid. I am entrusted with a mission which by its origin is rendered\nessentially civilian. You are sent out by the Ministry of War. Up to\nthe moment when, arrived at Shikh-Salah we turn our backs on each\nother to attain, you Touat, and I the Niger, all your recommendations,\nall your orders, will be followed by a subaltern, and, I hope, by a\nfriend as well.\"\n\nAll the time he was talking so openly I felt delightedly my worst\nrecent fears melting away. Nevertheless, I still experienced a mean\ndesire to show him some marks of reserve, for having thus disposed of\nmy company at a distance, without consulting me.\n\n\"I am very grateful to you, Captain, for your extremely flattering\nwords. When do you wish to leave Wargla?\"\n\nHe made a gesture of complete detachment.\n\n\"Whenever you like. Tomorrow, this evening. I have already delayed\nyou. Your preparations must have already been made for some time.\"\n\nMy little maneuver had turned against myself. I had not been counting\non leaving before the next week.\n\n\"Tomorrow, Captain, but your luggage?\"\n\nHe smiled delightfully.\n\n\"I thought it best to bring as little as possible. A light pack, some\npapers. My brave camel had no difficulty in bringing it along. For the\nrest I depend on your advice, and the resources of Owargla.\"\n\nI was well caught. I had nothing further to say. And moreover, such\nfreedom of spirit and manner had already captivated me.\n\n\"It seems,\" said my comrades, when the time for aperitives had brought\nus all together again, \"that this Captain of yours is a remarkably\ncharming fellow.\"\n\n\"Remarkably.\"\n\n\"You surely can't have any trouble with him. It is only up to you to\nsee that later on he doesn't get all the glory.\"\n\n\"We aren't working with the same end in view,\" I answered evasively.\n\nI was thoughtful, only thoughtful I give you my word. From that moment\nI harbored no further grudge against Morhange. Yet my silence\npersuaded him that I was unforgiving. And everyone, do you hear me,\neveryone said later on, when suspicions became rife:\n\n\"He is surely guilty. We saw them go off together. We can affirm it.\"\n\nI am guilty.... But for a low motive of jealousy.... How sickening....\n\nAfter that, there was nothing to do but to flee, flee, as far as the\nplaces where there are no more men who think and reason.\n\nMorhange, appeared, his arm resting on the Major's, who was beaming\nover this new acquaintanceship.\n\nHe presented him enthusiastically:\n\n\"Captain Morhange, gentlemen. An officer of the old school, and a man\nafter our own hearts, I give you my word. He wants to leave tomorrow,\nbut we must give him such a reception that he will forget that idea\nbefore two days are up. Come, Captain, you have at least eight days to\ngive us.\"\n\n\"I am at the disposition of Lieutenant de Saint-Avit,\" replied\nMorhange, with a quiet smile.\n\nThe conversation became general. The sound of glasses and laughter\nrang out. I heard my comrades in ecstasies over the stories that the\nnewcomer poured out with never-failing humor. And I, never, never have\nI felt so sad.\n\nThe time came to pass into the dining-room.\n\n\"At my right, Captain,\" cried the Major, more and more beaming. \"And I\nhope you will keep on giving us these new lines on Paris. We are not\nup with the times here, you know.\"\n\n\"Yours to command, Major,\" said Morhange.\n\n\"Be seated, gentlemen.\"\n\nThe officers obeyed, with a joyous clatter of moving chairs. I had not\ntaken my eyes off Morhange, who was still standing.\n\n\"Major, gentlemen, you will allow me,\" he said.\n\nAnd before sitting down at that table, where every moment he was the\nlife of the party, in a low voice, with his eyes closed, Captain\nMorhange recited the Benedicite.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nTOWARDS LATITUDE 25\n\n\n\"You see,\" said Captain Morhange to me fifteen days later, \"you are\nmuch better informed about the ancient routes through the Sahara than\nyou have been willing to let me suppose, since you know of the\nexistence of the two Tadekkas. But the one of which you have just\nspoken is the Tadekka of Ibn-Batoutah, located by this historian\nseventy days from Touat, and placed by Schirmer, very plausibly, in\nthe unexplored territory of the Aouelimmiden. This is the Tadekka by\nwhich the Sonrha\u00ef caravans passed every year, travelling by Egypt.\n\n\"My Tadekka is different, the capital of the veiled people, placed by\nIbn-Khaldoun twenty days south of Wargla, which he calls Tadmekka. It\nis towards this Tadmekka that I am headed. I must establish Tadmekka\nin the ruins of Es-Souk. The commercial trade route, which in the\nninth century bound the Tunisian Djerid to the bend the Niger makes at\nBourroum, passed by Es-Souk. It is to study the possibility of\nreestablishing this ancient thoroughfare that the Ministries gave me\nthis mission, which has given me the pleasure of your companionship.\"\n\n\"You are probably in for a disappointment,\" I said. \"Everything\nindicates that the commerce there is very slight.\"\n\n\"Well, I shall see,\" he answered composedly.\n\nThis was while we were following the unicolored banks of a salt lake.\nThe great saline stretch shone pale-blue, under the rising sun. The\nlegs of our five mehara cast on it their moving shadows of a darker\nblue. For a moment the only inhabitant of these solitudes, a bird, a\nkind of indeterminate heron, rose and hung in the air, as if\nsuspended from a thread, only to sink back to rest as soon as we had\npassed.\n\nI led the way, selecting the route, Morhange followed. Enveloped in a\nbernous, his head covered with the straight _chechia_ of the Spahis, a\ngreat chaplet of alternate red and white beads, ending in a cross,\naround his neck, he realized perfectly the ideal of Father Lavigerie's\nWhite Fathers.\n\nAfter a two-days' halt at Temassinin we had just left the road\nfollowed by Flatters, and taken an oblique course to the south. I have\nthe honor of having antedated Fourcau in demonstrating the importance\nof Temassinin as a geometrical point for the passage of caravans, and\nof selecting the place where Captain Pein has just now constructed a\nfort. The junction for the roads that lead to Touat from Fezzan and\nTibesti, Temassinin is the future seat of a marvellous Intelligence\nDepartment. What I had collected there in two days about the\ndisposition of our Senoussis enemies was of importance. I noticed that\nMorhange let me proceed with my inquiries with complete indifference.\n\nThese two days he had passed in conversation with the old Negro\nguardian of the turbet, which preserves, under its plaster dome, the\nremains of the venerated Sidi-Moussa. The confidences they exchanged,\nI am sorry to say that I have forgotten. But from the Negro's amazed\nadmiration, I realized the ignorance in which I stood to the mysteries\nof the desert, and how familiar they were to my companion.\n\nAnd if you want to get any idea of the extraordinary originality which\nMorhange introduced into such surroundings, you who, after all, have a\ncertain familiarity with the tropics, listen to this. It was exactly\ntwo hundred kilometers from here, in the vicinity of the Great Dune,\nin that horrible stretch of six days without water. We had just enough\nfor two days before reaching the next well, and you know these wells;\nas Flatters wrote to his wife, \"you have to work for hours before you\ncan clean them out and succeed in watering beasts and men.\" By chance\nwe met a caravan there, which was going east towards Rhadam\u00e8s, and had\ncome too far north. The camels' humps, shrunken and shaking, bespoke\nthe sufferings of the troop. Behind came a little gray ass, a pitiful\nburrow, interfering at every step, and lightened of its pack because\nthe merchants knew that it was going to die. Instinctively, with its\nlast strength, it followed, knowing that when it could stagger no\nlonger, the end would come and the flutter of the bald vultures'\nwings. I love animals, which I have solid reasons for preferring to\nmen. But never should I have thought of doing what Morhange did then.\nI tell you that our water skins were almost dry, and that our own\ncamels, without which one is lost in the empty desert, had not been\nwatered for many hours. Morhange made his kneel, uncocked a skin, and\nmade the little ass drink. I certainly felt gratification at seeing\nthe poor bare flanks of the miserable beast pant with satisfaction. But\nthe responsibility was mine. Also I had seen Bou-Djema's aghast\nexpression, and the disapproval of the thirsty members of the caravan.\nI remarked on it. How it was received! \"What have I given,\" replied\nMorhange, \"was my own. We will reach El-Biodh to-morrow evening, about\nsix o'clock. Between here and there I know that I shall not be\nthirsty.\" And that in a tone, in which for the first time he allowed\nthe authority of a Captain to speak. \"That is easy to say,\" I thought,\nill-humoredly. \"He knows that when he wants them, my water-skin, and\nBou-Djema's, are at his service.\" But I did not yet know Morhange very\nwell, and it is true that until the evening of the next day when we\nreached El-Biodh, refusing our offers with smiling determination, he\ndrank nothing.\n\nShades of St. Francis of Assisi! Umbrian hills, so pure under the\nrising sun! It was in the light of a like sunrise, by the border of a\npale stream leaping in full cascades from a crescent-shaped niche of\nthe gray rocks of Egere, that Morhange stopped. The unlooked for\nwaters rolled upon the sand, and we saw, in the light which mirrored\nthem, little black fish. Fish in the middle of the Sahara! All three\nof us were mute before this paradox of Nature. One of them had strayed\ninto a little channel of sand. He had to stay there, struggling in\nvain, his little white belly exposed to the air.... Morhange picked\nhim up, looked at him for a moment, and put him back into the little\nstream. Shades of St. Francis. Umbrian hills.... But I have sworn not\nto break the thread of the story by these untimely digressions.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"You see,\" Captain Morhange said to me a week later, \"that I was right\nin advising you to go farther south before making for Shikh-Salah.\nSomething told me that this highland of Egere was not interesting from\nyour point of view. While here you have only to stoop to pick up\npebbles which will allow you to establish the volcanic origin of this\nregion much more certainly than Bou-Derba, des Cloizeaux, and Doctor\nMarr\u00e9s have done.\"\n\nThis was while we were following the western pass of the Tidifest\nMountains, about the 25th degree of northern latitude.\n\n\"I should indeed be ungrateful not to thank you,\" I said.\n\nI shall always remember that instant. We had left our camels and were\ncollecting fragments of the most characteristic rocks. Morhange\nemployed himself with a discernment which spoke worlds for his\nknowledge of geology, a science he had often professed complete\nignorance of.\n\nThen I asked him the following question:\n\n\"May I prove my gratitude by making you a confession?\"\n\nHe raised his head and looked at me.\n\n\"Well then, I don't see the practical value of this trip you have\nundertaken.\"\n\nHe smiled.\n\n\"Why not? To explore the old caravan route, to demonstrate that a\nconnection has existed from the most ancient times between the\nMediterranean world, and the country of the Blacks, that seems nothing\nin your eyes? The hope of settling once for all the secular disputes\nwhich have divided so many keen minds; d'Anville, Heeren, Berlioux,\nQuatremere on the one hand,--on the other Gosselin, Walckenaer,\nTissit, Vivien, de saint-Martin; you think that that is devoid of\ninterest? A plague upon you for being hard to please.\"\n\n\"I spoke of practical value,\" I said. \"You won't deny that this\ncontroversy is only the affair of cabinet geographers and office\nexplorers.\"\n\nMorhange kept on smiling.\n\n\"Dear friend, don't wither me. Deign to recall that your mission was\nconfided to you by the Ministry of War, while I hold mine on behalf of\nthe Ministry of Public Instruction. A different origin justifies our\ndifferent aims. It certainly explains, I readily concede that to you,\nwhy what I am in search of has no practical value.\"\n\n\"You are also authorized by the Ministry of Commerce,\" I replied,\nplaying my next card. \"By this chief you are instructed to study the\npossibility of restoring the old trade route of the ninth century. But\non this point don't attempt to mislead me; with your knowledge of the\nhistory and geography of the Sahara, your mind must have been made up\nbefore you left Paris. The road from Djerid to the Niger is dead,\nstone dead. You knew that no important traffic would pass by this\nroute before you undertook to study the possibility of restoring it.\"\n\nMorhange looked me full in the face.\n\n\"And if that should be so,\" he said with the most charming attitude,\n\"if I had before leaving the conviction you say, what do you conclude\nfrom that?\"\n\n\"I should prefer to have you tell me.\"\n\n\"Simply, my dear boy, that I had less skill than you in finding the\npretext for my voyage, that I furnished less good reasons for the true\nmotives that brought me here.\"\n\n\"A pretext? I don't see....\"\n\n\"Be sincere in your turn, if you please. I am sure that you have the\ngreatest desire to inform the Arabian Office about the practices of\nthe Senoussis. But admit that the information that you will obtain is\nnot the sole and innermost aim of your excursion. You are a geologist,\nmy friend. You have found a chance to gratify your taste in this trip.\nNo one would think of blaming you because you have known how to\nreconcile what is useful to your country and agreeable to yourself.\nBut, for the love of God, don't deny it; I need no other proof than\nyour presence here on this side of the Tidifest, a very curious place\nfrom a mineralogical point of view, but some hundred and fifty\nkilometers south of your official route.\"\n\nIt was not possible to have countered me with a better grace. I\nparried by attacking.\n\n\"Am I to conclude from all this that I do not know the real aims of\nyour trip, and that they have nothing to do with the official\nmotives?\"\n\nI had gone a bit too far. I felt it from the seriousness with which\nMorhange's reply was delivered.\n\n\"No, my dear friend, you must not conclude just that. I should have no\ntaste for a lie which was based on fraud towards the estimable\nconstitutional bodies which have judged me worthy of their confidence\nand their support. The ends that they have assigned to me I shall do\nmy best to attain. But I have no reason for hiding from you that there\nis another, quite personal, which is far nearer to my heart. Let us\nsay, if you will, to use a terminology that is otherwise deplorable,\nthat this is the end while the others are the means.\"\n\n\"Would there be any indiscretion?....\"\n\n\"None,\" replied my companion. \"Shikh-Salah is only a few days distant.\nHe whose first steps you have guided with such solicitude in the\ndesert should have nothing hidden from you.\"\n\nWe had halted in the valley of a little dry well where a few sickly\nplants were growing. A spring near by was circled by a crown of gray\nverdure. The camels had been unsaddled for the night, and were seeking\nvainly, at every stride, to nibble the spiny tufts of _had_. The black\nand polished sides of the Tidifest Mountains rose, almost vertically,\nabove our heads. Already the blue smoke of the fire on which Bou-Djema\nwas cooking dinner rose through the motionless air.\n\nNot a sound, not a breath. The smoke mounted straight, straight and\nslowly up the pale steps of the firmament.\n\n\"Have you ever heard of the _Atlas of Christianity_?\" asked Morhange.\n\n\"I think so. Isn't it a geographical work published by the\nBenedictines under the direction of a certain Dom Granger?\"\n\n\"Your memory is correct,\" said Morhange. \"Even so let me explain a\nlittle more fully some of the things you have not had as much reason\nas I to interest yourself in. The _Atlas of Christianity_ proposes to\nestablish the boundaries of that great tide of Christianity through\nall the ages, and for all parts of the globe. An undertaking worthy of\nthe Benedictine learning, worthy of such a prodigy of erudition as\nDom Granger himself.\"\n\n\"And it is these boundaries that you have come to determine here, no\ndoubt,\" I murmured.\n\n\"Just so,\" replied my companion.\n\nHe was silent, and I respected his silence, prepared by now to be\nastonished at nothing.\n\n\"It is not possible to give confidences by halves, without being\nridiculous,\" he continued after several minutes of meditation,\nspeaking gravely, in a voice which held no suggestion of that flashing\nhumor which had a month before enchanted the young officers at Wargla.\n\"I have begun on mine. I will tell you everything. Trust my\ndiscretion, however, and do not insist upon certain events of my\nprivate life. If, four years ago, at the close of these events, I\nresolve to enter a monastery, it does not concern you to know my\nreasons. I can marvel at it myself, that the passage in my life of a\nbeing absolutely devoid of interest should have sufficed to change the\ncurrent of that life. I can marvel that a creature whose sole merit\nwas her beauty should have been permitted by the Creator to swing my\ndestiny to such an unforeseen direction. The monastery at whose doors\nI knocked had the most valid reasons for doubting the stability of my\nvocation. What the world loses in such fashion it often calls back as\nreadily. In short, I cannot blame the Father Abbot for having\nforbidden me to apply for my army discharge. By his instructions, I\nasked for, and obtained, permission to be placed on the inactive list\nfor three years. At the end of those three years of consecration it\nwould be seen whether the world was definitely dead to your servant.\n\n\"The first day of my arrival at the cloister I was assigned to Dom\nGranger, and placed by him at work on the _Atlas of Christianity_. A\nbrief examination decided him as to what kind of service I was best\nfitted to render. This is how I came to enter the studio devoted to\nthe cartography of Northern Africa. I did not know one word of Arabic,\nbut it happened that in garrison at Lyon I had taken at the _Facult\u00e9\ndes Lettres,_ a course with Berlioux,--a very erudite geographer no\ndoubt, but obsessed by one idea, the influence the Greek and Roman\ncivilizations had exercised on Africa. This detail of my life was\nenough for Dom Granger. He provided me straightway with Berber\nvocabularies by Venture, by Delaporte, by Brosselard; with the\n_Grammatical Sketch of the Temahaq_ by Stanley Fleeman, and the _Essai\nde Grammaire de la langue Temachek_ by Major Hanoteau. At the end of\nthree months I was able to decipher any inscriptions in Tifinar. You\nknow that Tifinar is the national writing of the Tuareg, the\nexpression of this Temachek language which seems to us the most\ncurious protest of the Targui race against its Mohammedan enemies.\n\n\"Dom Granger, in fact, believed that the Tuareg are Christians, dating\nfrom a period which it was necessary to ascertain, but which coincided\nno doubt with the splendor of the church of Hippon. Even better than\nI, you know that the cross is with them the symbol of fate in\ndecoration. Duveyrier has claimed that it figures in their alphabet,\non their arms, among the designs of their clothes. The only tattooing\nthat they wear on the forehead, on the back of the hand, is a cross\nwith four equal branches; the pummels of their saddles, the handles of\ntheir sabres, of their poignards, are cross-shaped. And is it\nnecessary to remind you that, although Islam forbids bells as a sign\nof Christianity, the harness of Tuareg camels are trimmed with bells?\n\n\"Neither Dom Granger nor I attach an exaggerated importance to such\nproofs, which resemble too much those which make such a display in the\n_Genius of Christianity._ But it is indeed impossible to refuse all\ncredence to certain theological arguments. Amanai, the God of the\nTuareg, unquestionably the Adonai of the Bible, is unique. They have a\nhell, 'Timsi-tan-elekhaft,' the last fire, where reigns Iblis, our\nLucifer. Their Paradise, where they are rewarded for good deeds, is\ninhabited by 'andjelousen,' our angels. And do not urge the\nresemblance of this theology to the Koran, for I will meet you with\nhistoric arguments and remind you that the Tuareg have struggled all\nthrough the ages at the cost of partial extermination, to maintain\ntheir faith against the encroachments of Mohammedan fanaticism.\n\n\"Many times I have studied with Dom Granger that formidable epoch when\nthe aborigines opposed the conquering Arabs. With him I have seen how\nthe army of Sidi-Okba, one of the companions of the Prophet, invaded\nthis desert to reduce the Tuareg tribes and impose on them Mussulman\nrules. These tribes were then rich and prosperous. They were the\nIhbggaren, the Imededren, the Ouadelen, the Kel-Gueress, the Kel-Air.\nBut internal quarrels sapped their strength. Still, it was not until\nafter a long and cruel war that the Arabians succeeded in getting\npossession of the capital of the Berbers, which had proved such a\nredoubtable stronghold. They destroyed it after they had massacred the\ninhabitants. On the ruins Okba constructed a new city. This city is\nEs-Souk. The one that Sidi-Okba destroyed was the Berber Tadmekka.\nWhat Dom Granger asked of me was precisely that I should try to exhume\nfrom the ruins of the Mussulman Es-Souk the ruins of Tadmekka, which\nwas Berber, and perhaps Christian.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" I murmured.\n\n\"So far, so good,\" said Morhange. \"But what you must grasp now is the\npractical sense of these religious men, my masters. You remember that,\neven after three years of monastic life, they preserved their doubts\nas to the stability of my vocation. They found at the same time means\nof testing it once for all, and of adapting official facilities to\ntheir particular purposes. One morning I was called before the Father\nAbbot, and this is what he said to me, in the presence of Dom Granger,\nwho expressed silent approval.\n\n\"'Your term of inactive service expires in fifteen days. You will\nreturn to Paris, and apply at the Ministry to be reinstated. With what\nyou have learned here, and the relationships we have been able to\nmaintain at Headquarters, you will have no difficulty in being\nattached to the Geographical Staff of the army. When you reach the rue\nde Grenelle you will receive our instructions.'\n\n\"I was astonished at their confidence in my knowledge. When I was\nreestablished as Captain again in the Geographical Service I\nunderstood. At the monastery, the daily association with Dom Granger\nand his pupils had kept me constantly convinced of the inferiority of\nmy knowledge. When I came in contact with my military brethren I\nrealized the superiority of the instruction I had received. I did not\nhave to concern myself with the details of my mission. The Ministries\ninvited me to undertake it. My initiative asserted itself on only one\noccasion. When I learned that you were going to leave Wargla on the\npresent expedition, having reason to distrust my practical\nqualifications as an explorer, I did my best to retard your departure,\nso that I might join you. I hope that you have forgiven me by now.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe light in the west was fading, where the sun had already sunk into\na matchless luxury of violet draperies. We were alone in this\nimmensity, at the feet of the rigid black rocks. Nothing but\nourselves. Nothing, nothing but ourselves.\n\nI held out my hand to Morhange, and he pressed it. Then he said:\n\n\"If they still seem infinitely long to me, the several thousand\nkilometers which separate me from the instant when, my task\naccomplished, I shall at last find oblivion in the cloister for the\nthings for which I was not made, let me tell you this;--the several\nhundred kilometers which still separate us from Shikh-Salah seem to me\ninfinitely short to traverse in your company.\"\n\nOn the pale water of the little pool, motionless and fixed like a\nsilver nail, a star had just been born.\n\n\"Shikh-Salah,\" I murmured, my heart full of an indefinable sadness.\n\"Patience, we are not there yet.\"\n\nIn truth, we never were to be there.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nTHE INSCRIPTION\n\n\nWith a blow of the tip of his cane Morhange knocked a fragment of rock\nfrom the black flank of the mountain.\n\n\"What is it?\" he asked, holding it out to me.\n\n\"A basaltic peridot,\" I said.\n\n\"It can't be very interesting, you barely glanced at it.\"\n\n\"It is very interesting, on the contrary. But, for the moment, I admit\nthat I am otherwise preoccupied.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Look this way a bit,\" I said, showing towards the west, on the\nhorizon, a black spot across the white plain.\n\nIt was six o'clock in the morning. The sun had risen. But it could not\nbe found in the surprisingly polished air. And not a breath of air,\nnot a breath. Suddenly one of the camels called. An enormous antelope\nhad just come in sight, and had stopped in its flight, terrified,\nracing the wall of rock. It stayed there at a little distance from us,\ndazed, trembling on its slender legs.\n\nBou-Djema had rejoined us.\n\n\"When the legs of the mohor tremble it is because the firmament is\nshaken,\" he muttered.\n\n\"A storm?\"\n\n\"Yes, a storm.\"\n\n\"And you find that alarming?\"\n\nI did not answer immediately. I was exchanging several brief words\nwith Bou-Djema, who was occupied in soothing the camels which were\ngiving signs of being restive.\n\nMorhange repeated his question. I shrugged my shoulders.\n\n\"Alarming? I don't know. I have never seen a storm on the Hoggar. But\nI distrust it. And the signs are that this is going to be a big one.\nSee there already.\"\n\nA slight dust had risen before the cliff. In the still air a few\ngrains of sand had begun to whirl round and round, with a speed which\nincreased to dizziness, giving us in advance the spectacle in\nminiature of what would soon be breaking upon us.\n\nWith harsh cries a flock of wild geese appeared, flying low. They came\nout of the west.\n\n\"They are fleeing towards the Sebkha d'Amanghor,\" said Bou-Djema.\n\nThere could be no greater mistake, I thought.\n\nMorhange looked at me curiously.\n\n\"What must we do?\" he asked.\n\n\"Mount our camels immediately, before they are completely\ndemoralized, and hurry to find shelter in some high places. Take\naccount of our situation. It is easy to follow the bed of a stream.\nBut within a quarter of an hour perhaps the storm will have burst.\nWithin a half hour a perfect torrent will be rushing here. On this\nsoil, which is almost impermeable, rain will roll like a pail of water\nthrown on a bituminous pavement. No depth, all height. Look at this.\"\n\nAnd I showed him, a dozen meters high, long hollow gouges, marks of\nformer erosions on the rocky wall.\n\n\"In an hour the waters will reach that height. Those are the marks of\nthe last inundation. Let us get started. There is not an instant to\nlose.\"\n\n\"All right,\" Morhange replied tranquilly.\n\nWe had the greatest difficulty to make the camels kneel. When we had\nthrown ourselves into the saddle they started off at a pace which\ntheir terror rendered more and more disorderly.\n\nOf a sudden the wind began, a formidable wind, and, almost at the same\ntime the light was eclipsed in the ravine. Above our heads the sky had\nbecome, in the flash of an eye, darker than the walls of the canyon\nwhich we were descending at a breathless pace.\n\n\"A path, a stairway in the wall,\" I screamed against the wind to my\ncompanions. \"If we don't find one in a minute we are lost.\"\n\nThey did not hear me, but, turning in my saddle, I saw that they had\nlost no distance, Morhange following me, and Bou-Djema in the rear\ndriving the two baggage camels masterfully before him.\n\nA blinding streak of lightning rent the obscurity. A peal of thunder,\nre-echoed to infinity by the rocky wall, rang out, and immediately\ngreat tepid drops began to fall. In an instant, our burnouses, which\nhad been blown out behind by the speed with which we were traveling,\nwere stuck tight to our streaming bodies.\n\n\"Saved!\" I exclaimed suddenly.\n\nAbruptly on our right a crevice opened in the midst of the wall. It\nwas the almost perpendicular bed of a stream, an affluent of the one\nwe had had the unfortunate idea of following that morning. Already a\nveritable torrent was gushing over it with a fine uproar.\n\nI have never better appreciated the incomparable sure-footedness of\ncamels in the most precipitate places. Bracing themselves, stretching\nout their great legs, balancing themselves among the rocks that were\nbeginning to be swept loose, our camels accomplished at that moment\nwhat the mules of the Pyrannees might have failed in.\n\nAfter several moments of superhuman effort we found ourselves at last\nout of danger, on a kind of basaltic terrace, elevated some fifty\nmeters above the channel of the stream we had just left. Luck was with\nus; a little grotto opened out behind. Bou-Djema succeeded in\nsheltering the camels there. From its threshold we had leisure to\ncontemplate in silence the prodigious spectacle spread out before us.\n\nYou have, I believe, been at the Camp of Chalons for artillery drills.\nYou have seen when the shell bursts how the chalky soil of the Marne\neffervesces like the inkwells at school, when we used to throw a piece\nof calcium carbonate into them. Well, it was almost like that, but in\nthe midst of the desert, in the midst of obscurity. The white waters\nrushed into the depths of the black hole, and rose and rose towards\nthe pedestal on which we stood. And there was the uninterrupted noise\nof thunder, and still louder, the sound of whole walls of rock,\nundermined by the flood, collapsing in a heap and dissolving in a few\nseconds of time in the midst of the rising water.\n\nAll the time that this deluge lasted, one hour, perhaps two, Morhange\nand I stayed bending over this fantastic foaming vat; anxious to see,\nto see everything, to see in spite of everything; rejoicing with a\nkind of ineffable horror when we felt the shelf of basalt on which we\nhad taken refuge swaying beneath us from the battering impact of the\nwater. I believe that never for an instant did we think, so beautiful\nit was, of wishing for the end of that gigantic nightmare.\n\nFinally a ray of the sun shone through. Only then did we look at each\nother.\n\nMorhange held out his hand.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he said simply.\n\nAnd he added with a smile:\n\n\"To be drowned in the very middle of the Sahara would have been\npretentious and ridiculous. You have saved us, thanks to your power of\ndecision, from this very paradoxical end.\"\n\nAh, that he had been thrown by a misstep of his camel and rolled to\nhis death in the midst of the flood! Then what followed would never\nhave happened. That is the thought that comes to me in hours of\nweakness. But I have told you that I pull myself out of it quickly.\nNo, no, I do not regret it, I cannot regret it, that what happened did\nhappen.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMorhange left me to go into the little grotto, where Bou-Djema's\ncamels were now resting comfortably. I stayed alone, watching the\ntorrent which was continuously rising with the impetuous inrush of its\nunbridled tributaries. It had stopped raining. The sun shone from a\nsky that had renewed its blueness. I could feel the clothes that had a\nmoment before been drenching, drying upon me incredibly fast.\n\nA hand was placed on my shoulder. Morhange was again beside me.\n\n\"Come here,\" he said.\n\nSomewhat surprised, I followed him. We went into the grotto.\n\nThe opening, which was big enough to admit the camels, made it fairly\nlight. Morhange led me up to the smooth face of rock opposite. \"Look,\"\nhe said, with unconcealed joy.\n\n\"What of it?\"\n\n\"Don't you see?\"\n\n\"I see that there are several Tuareg inscriptions,\" I answered, with\nsome disappointment. \"But I thought I had told you that I read Tifinar\nwriting very badly. Are these writings more interesting than the\nothers we have come upon before?\"\n\n\"Look at this one,\" said Morhange. There was such an accent of triumph\nin his tone that this time I concentrated my attention.\n\nI looked again.\n\nThe characters of the inscription were arranged in the form of a\ncross. It plays such an important part in this adventure that I cannot\nforego retracing it for you.\n\n               |\n               |\n               +\no  o  o  o  -- W + -- -\n               |\n               |\n               |\n\n[Transcriber's Note: This is but a crude ASCII representation of the\ninscription. The center 'W' is rotated 90 degrees counter-clockwise in\nthe book.]\n\nIt was designed with great regularity, and the characters were cut\ndeep into the rock. Although I knew so little of rock inscriptions at\nthat time I had no difficulty in recognizing the antiquity of this\none.\n\nMorhange became more and more radiant as he regarded it.\n\nI looked at him questioningly.\n\n\"Well, what have you to say now?\" he asked.\n\n\"What do you want me to say? I tell you that I can barely read\nTifinar.\"\n\n\"Shall I help you?\" he suggested.\n\nThis course in Berber writing, after the emotions through which we had\njust passed, seemed to me a little inopportune. But Morhange was so\nvisibly delighted that I could not dash his joy.\n\n\"Very well then,\" began my companion, as much at his, ease as if he had\nbeen before a blackboard, \"what will strike you first about this\ninscription is its repetition in the form of a cross. That is to say\nthat it contains the same word twice, top to bottom, and right to left.\nThe word which it composes has seven letters so the fourth letter, W\n[Transcriber's Note: Rotated 90 deg. counter-clockwise], comes naturally\nin the middle. This arrangement which is unique in Tifinar writing, is\nalready remarkable enough. But there is better still. Now we will read\nit.\"\n\nGetting it wrong three times out of seven I finally succeeded, with\nMorhange's help, in spelling the word.\n\n\"Have you got it?\" asked Morhange when I had finished my task.\n\n\"Less than ever,\" I answered, a little put out;\n\"a,n,t,i,n,h,a,--Antinha, I don't know that word, or anything like it,\nin all the Saharan dialects I am familiar with.\"\n\nMorhange rubbed his hands together. His satisfaction was without\nbounds.\n\n\"You have said it. That is why the discovery is unique.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"There is really nothing, either in Berber or in Arabian, analogous to\nthis word.\"\n\n\"Then?\"\n\n\"Then, my dear friend, we are in the presence of a foreign word,\ntranslated into Tifinar.\"\n\n\"And this word belongs, according to your theory, to what language?\"\n\n\"You must realize that the letter _e_ does not exist in the Tifinar\nalphabet. It has here been replaced by the phonetic sign which is\nnearest to it,--h. Restore _e_ to the place which belongs to it in the\nword, and you have--\"\n\n\"Antinea.\"\n\n\"'Antinea,' precisely. We find ourselves before a Greek vocable\nreproduced in Tifinar. And I think that now you will agree with me\nthat my find has a certain interest.\"\n\nThat day we had no more conferences upon texts. A loud cry, anguished,\nterrifying, rang out.\n\nWe rushed out to find a strange spectacle awaiting us.\n\nAlthough the sky had cleared again, the torrent of yellow water was\nstill foaming and no one could predict when it would fall. In\nmid-stream, struggling desperately in the current, was an\nextraordinary mass, gray and soft and swaying.\n\nBut what at the first glance overwhelmed us with astonishment was to\nsee Bou-Djema, usually so calm, at this moment apparently beside\nhimself with frenzy, bounding through the gullies and over the rocks\nof the ledge, in full pursuit of the shipwreck.\n\nOf a sudden I seized Morhange by the arm. The grayish thing was alive.\nA pitiful long neck emerged from it with the heartrending cry of a\nbeast in despair.\n\n\"The fool,\" I cried, \"he has let one of our beasts get loose, and the\nstream is carrying it away!\"\n\n\"You are mistaken,\" said Morhange. \"Our camels are all in the cave.\nThe one Bou-Djema is running after is not ours. And the cry of anguish\nwe just heard, that was not Bou-Djema either. Bou-Djema is a brave\nChaamb who has at this moment only one idea, to appropriate the\nintestate capital represented by this camel in the stream.\"\n\n\"Who gave that cry, then?\"\n\n\"Let us try, if you like, to explore up this stream that our guide is\ndescending at such a rate.\"\n\nAnd without waiting for my answer he had already set out through the\nrecently washed gullies of the rocky bank.\n\nAt that moment it can be truly said that Morhange went to meet his\ndestiny.\n\nI followed him. We had the greatest difficulty in proceeding two or\nthree hundred meters. Finally we saw at our feet a little rushing\nbrook where the water was falling a trifle.\n\n\"See there?\" said Morhange.\n\nA blackish bundle was balancing on the waves of the creek.\n\nWhen we had come up even with it we saw that it was a man in the long\ndark blue robes of the Tuareg.\n\n\"Give me your hand,\" said Morhange, \"and brace yourself against a\nrock, hard.\"\n\nHe was very, very strong. In an instant, as if it were child's play,\nhe had brought the body ashore.\n\n\"He is still alive,\" he pronounced with satisfaction. \"Now it is a\nquestion of getting him to the grotto. This is no place to resuscitate\na drowned man.\"\n\nHe raised the body in his powerful arms.\n\n\"It is astonishing how little he weighs for a man of his height.\"\n\nBy the time we had retraced the way to the grotto the man's cotton\nclothes were almost dry. But the dye had run plentifully, and it was\nan indigo man that Morhange was trying to recall to life.\n\nWhen I had made him swallow a quart of rum he opened his eyes, looked\nat the two of us with surprise, then, closing them again, murmured\nalmost unintelligibly a phrase, the sense of which we did not get\nuntil some days later:\n\n\"Can it be that I have reached the end of my mission?\"\n\n\"What mission is he talking about?\" I said.\n\n\"Let him recover himself completely,\" responded Morhange. \"You had\nbetter open some preserved food. With fellows of this build you don't\nhave to observe the precautions prescribed for drowned Europeans.\"\n\nIt was indeed a species of giant, whose life we had just saved. His\nface, although very thin, was regular, almost beautiful. He had a\nclear skin and little beard. His hair, already white, showed him to be\na man of sixty years.\n\nWhen I placed a tin of corned-beef before him a light of voracious joy\ncame into his eyes. The tin contained an allowance for four persons.\nIt was empty in a flash.\n\n\"Behold,\" said Morhange, \"a robust appetite. Now we can put our\nquestions without scruple.\"\n\nAlready the Targa had placed over his forehead and face the blue veil\nprescribed by the ritual. He must have been completely famished not to\nhave performed this indispensable formality sooner. There was nothing\nvisible now but the eyes, watching us with a light that grew steadily\nmore sombre.\n\n\"French officers,\" he murmured at last.\n\nAnd he took Morhange's hand, and having placed it against his breast,\ncarried it to his lips.\n\nSuddenly an expression of anxiety passed over his face.\n\n\"And my mehari?\" he asked.\n\nI explained that our guide was then employed in trying to save his\nbeast. He in turn told us how it had stumbled, and fallen into the\ncurrent, and he himself, in trying to save it, had been knocked over.\nHis forehead had struck a rock. He had cried out. After that he\nremembered nothing more.\n\n\"What is your name?\" I asked.\n\n\"Eg-Anteouen.\"\n\n\"What tribe do you belong to?\"\n\n\"The tribe of Kel-Tahat.\"\n\n\"The Kel-Tahats are the serfs of the tribe of Kel-Rhel\u00e2, the great\nnobles of Hoggar?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, casting a side glance in my direction. It seemed\nthat such precise questions on the affairs of Ahygar were not to his\nliking.\n\n\"The Kel-Tahats, if I am not mistaken, are established on the\nsouthwest flank of Atakor.[5] What were you doing, so far from your\nhome territory when we saved your life?\"\n\n[Footnote 5: Another name, in the Temahaq language, for Ahaggar. (Note\nby M. Leroux.)]\n\n\"I was going, by way of Tit, to In-Salah,\" he said.\n\n\"What were you going to do at In-Salah?\"\n\nHe was about to reply. But suddenly we saw him tremble. His eyes were\nfixed on a point of the cavern. We looked to see what it was. He had\njust seen the rock inscription which had so delighted Morhange an hour\nbefore.\n\n\"Do you know that?\" Morhange asked him with keen curiosity.\n\nThe Targa did not speak a word but his eyes had a strange light.\n\n\"Do you know that?\" insisted Morhange.\n\nAnd he added:\n\n\"Antinea?\"\n\n\"Antinea,\" repeated the man.\n\nAnd he was silent.\n\n\"Why don't you answer the Captain?\" I called out, with a strange\nfeeling of rage sweeping over me.\n\nThe Targui looked at me. I thought that he was going to speak. But his\neyes became suddenly hard. Under the lustrous veil I saw his features\nstiffening.\n\nMorhange and I turned around.\n\nOn the threshold of the cavern, breathless, discomfited, harassed by\nan hour of vain pursuit, Bou-Djema had returned to us.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nTHE DISASTER OF THE LETTUCE\n\n\nAs Eg-Anteouen and Bou-Djema came face to face, I fancied that both\nthe Targa and the Chaamba gave a sudden start which each immediately\nrepressed. It was nothing more than a fleeting impression.\nNevertheless, it was enough to make me resolve that as soon as I was\nalone with our guide, I would question him closely concerning our new\ncompanion.\n\nThe beginning of the day had been wearisome enough. We decided,\ntherefore, to spend the rest of it there, and even to pass the night\nin the cave, waiting till the flood had completely subsided.\n\nIn the morning, when I was marking our day's march upon the map,\nMorhange came toward me. I noticed that his manner was somewhat\nrestrained.\n\n\"In three days, we shall be at Shikh-Salah,\" I said to him. \"Perhaps\nby the evening of the second day, badly as the camels go.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we shall separate before then,\" he muttered.\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"You see, I have changed my itinerary a little. I have given up the\nidea of going straight to Timissao. First I should like to make a\nlittle excursion into the interior of the Ahaggar range.\"\n\nI frowned:\n\n\"What is this new idea?\"\n\nAs I spoke I looked about for Eg-Anteouen, whom I had seen in\nconversation with Morhange the previous evening and several minutes\nbefore. He was quietly mending one of his sandals with a waxed thread\nsupplied by Bou-Djema. He did not raise his head.\n\n\"It is simply,\" explained Morhange, less and less at his ease, \"that\nthis man tells me there are similar inscriptions in several caverns in\nwestern Ahaggar. These caves are near the road that he has to take\nreturning home. He must pass by Tit. Now, from Tit, by way of Silet,\nis hardly two hundred kilometers. It is a quasi-classic route[6] as\nshort again as the one that I shall have to take alone, after I leave\nyou, from Shikh-Salah to Timissao. That is in part, you see, the\nreason which has made me decide to....\"\n\n[Footnote 6: The route and the stages from Tit to Timissao were\nactually plotted out, as early as 1888, by Captain Bissuel. _Les\nTuarge de l'Ouest,_ itineraries 1 and 10. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\n\"In part? In very small part,\" I replied. \"But is your mind absolutely\nmade up?\"\n\n\"It is,\" he answered me.\n\n\"When do you expect to leave me?\"\n\n\"To-day. The road which Eg-Anteouen proposes to take into Ahaggar\ncrosses this one about four leagues from here. I have a favor to ask\nof you in this connection.\"\n\n\"Please tell me.\"\n\n\"It is to let me take one of the two baggage camels, since my Targa\nhas lost his.\"\n\n\"The camel which carries your baggage belongs to you as much as does\nyour own mehari,\" I answered coldly.\n\nWe stood there several minutes without speaking. Morhange maintained\nan uneasy silence; I was examining my map. All over it in greater or\nless degree, but particularly towards the south, the unexplored\nportions of Ahaggar stood out as far too numerous white patches in the\ntan area of supposed mountains.\n\nI finally said:\n\n\"You give me your word that when you have seen these famous grottos,\nyou will make straight for Timissao by Tit and Silet?\"\n\nHe looked at me uncomprehendingly.\n\n\"Why do you ask that?\"\n\n\"Because, if you promise me that,--provided, of course, that my\ncompany is not unwelcome to you--I will go with you. Either way, I\nshall have two hundred kilometers to go. I shall strike for\nShikh-Salah from the south, instead of from the west--that is the only\ndifference.\"\n\nMorhange looked at me with emotion.\n\n\"Why do you do this?\" he murmured.\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" I said (it was the first time that I had addressed\nMorhange in this familiar way), \"my dear fellow, I have a sense which\nbecomes marvellously acute in the desert, the sense of danger. I gave\nyou a slight proof of it yesterday morning, at the coming of the\nstorm. With all your knowledge of rock inscriptions, you seem to me to\nhave no very exact idea of what kind of place Ahaggar is, nor what may\nbe in store for you there. On that account, I should be just as well\npleased not to let you run sure risks alone.\"\n\n\"I have a guide,\" he said with his adorable naivet\u00e9.\n\nEg-Anteouen, in the same squatting position, kept on patching his old\nslipper.\n\nI took a step toward him.\n\n\"You heard what I said to the Captain?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" the Targa answered calmly.\n\n\"I am going with him. We leave you at Tit, to which place you must\nbring us. Where is the place you proposed to show the Captain?\"\n\n\"I did not propose to show it to him; it was his own idea,\" said the\nTarga coldly. \"The grottos with the inscriptions are three-days' march\nsouthward in the mountains. At first, the road is rather rough. But\nfarther on, it turns, and you gain Timissao very easily. There are\ngood wells where the Tuareg Taitoqs, who are friendly to the French,\ncome to water their camels.\"\n\n\"And you know the road well?\"\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders. His eyes had a scornful smile.\n\n\"I have taken it twenty times,\" he said.\n\n\"In that case, let's get started.\"\n\nWe rode for two hours. I did not exchange a word with Morhange. I had\na clear intuition of the folly we were committing in risking ourselves\nso unconcernedly in that least known and most dangerous part of the\nSahara. Every blow which had been struck in the last twenty years to\nundermine the French advance had come from this redoubtable Ahaggar.\nBut what of it? It was of my own will that I had joined in this mad\nscheme. No need of going over it again. What was the use of spoiling\nmy action by a continual exhibition of disapproval? And, furthermore,\nI may as well admit that I rather liked the turn that our trip was\nbeginning to take. I had, at that instant, the sensation of journeying\ntoward something incredible, toward some tremendous adventure. You do\nnot live with impunity for months and years as the guest of the\ndesert. Sooner or later, it has its way with you, annihilates the good\nofficer, the timid executive, overthrows his solicitude for his\nresponsibilities. What is there behind those mysterious rocks, those\ndim solitudes, which have held at bay the most illustrious pursuers of\nmystery? You follow, I tell you, you follow.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Are you sure at least that this inscription is interesting enough to\njustify us in our undertaking?\" I asked Morhange.\n\nMy companion started with pleasure. Ever since we began our journey I\nhad realized his fear that I was coming along half-heartedly. As soon\nas I offered him a chance to convince me, his scruples vanished, and\nhis triumph seemed assured to him.\n\n\"Never,\" he answered, in a voice that he tried to control, but through\nwhich the enthusiasm rang out, \"never has a Greek inscription been\nfound so far south. The farthest points where they have been reported\nare in the south of Algeria and Cyrene. But in Ahaggar! Think of it!\nIt is true that this one is translated into Tifinar. But this\npeculiarity does not diminish the interest of the coincidence: it\nincreases it.\"\n\n\"What do you take to be the meaning of this word?\"\n\n\"_Antinea_ can only be a proper name,\" said Morhange. \"To whom does it\nrefer? I admit I don't know, and if at this very moment I am marching\ntoward the south, dragging you along with me, it is because I count on\nlearning more about it. Its etymology? It hasn't one definitely, but\nthere are thirty possibilities. Bear in mind that the Tifinar alphabet\nis far from tallying with the Greek alphabet, which increases the\nnumber of hypotheses. Shall I suggest several?\"\n\n\"I was just about to ask you to.\"\n\n\"To begin with, there is [Greek: agti] and [Greek: neos], _the woman\nwho is placed opposite a vessel_, an explanation which would have been\npleasing to Gaffarel and to my venerated master Berlioux. That would\napply well enough to the figure-heads of ships. There is a technical\nterm that I cannot recall at this moment, not if you beat me a hundred\ntimes over.[7]\n\n[Footnote 7: It is perhaps worth noting here that _Figures de Proues_\nis the exact title of a very remarkable collection of poems by Mme.\nDelarus-Mardrus. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\n\"Then there is [Greek: agtin\u00eaa], that you must relate to [Greek: agti]\nand [Greek: naos], _she who holds herself before the_ [Greek: naos],\nthe [Greek: naos] of the temple, _she who is opposite the sanctuary,_\ntherefore priestess. An interpretation which would enchant Girard and\nRenan.\n\n\"Next we have [Greek: agtine], from [Greek: agti] and [Greek: neos],\nnew, which can mean two things: either _she who is the contrary of\nyoung_, which is to say old; or _she who is the enemy of novelty_ or\n_the enemy of youth_.\n\n\"There is still another sense of [Greek: gati], _in exchange for,_\nwhich is capable of complicating all the others I have mentioned;\nlikewise there are four meanings for the verb [Greek: ne\u00f4], which\nmeans in turn _to go, to flow, to thread_ or _weave, to heap_. There\nis more still.... And notice, please, that I have not at my\ndisposition on the otherwise commodious hump of this mehari, either\nthe great dictionary of Estienne or the lexicons of Passow, of Pape,\nor of Liddel-Scott. This is only to show you, my dear friend, that\nepigraphy is but a relative science, always dependent on the discovery\nof a new text which contradicts the previous findings, when it is not\nmerely at the mercy of the humors of the epigraphists and their pet\nconceptions of the universe.\n\n\"That was rather my view of it,\" I said, \"But I must admit my\nastonishment to find that, with such a sceptical opinion of the goal,\nyou still do not hesitate to take risks which may be quite\nconsiderable.\"\n\nMorhange smiled wanly.\n\n\"I do not interpret, my friend; I collect. From what I will take back\nto him, Dom Granger has the ability to draw conclusions which are\nbeyond my slight knowledge. I was amusing myself a little. Pardon me.\"\n\nJust then the girth of one of the baggage camels, evidently not well\nfastened, came loose. Part of the load slipped and fell to the ground.\n\nEg-Anteouen descended instantly from his beast and helped Bou-Djema\nrepair the damage.\n\nWhen they had finished, I made my mehari walk beside Bou-Djema's.\n\n\"It will be better to resaddle the camels at the next stop. They will\nhave to climb the mountain.\"\n\nThe guide looked at me with amazement. Up to that time I had thought\nit unnecessary to acquaint him with our new projects. But I supposed\nEg-Anteouen would have told him.\n\n\"Lieutenant, the road across the white plain to Shikh-Salah is not\nmountainous,\" said the Chaamba.\n\n\"We are not keeping to the road across the white plain. We are going\nsouth, by Ahaggar.\"\n\n\"By Ahaggar,\" he murmured. \"But....\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\n\"I do not know the road.\"\n\n\"Eg-Anteouen is going to guide us.\"\n\n\"Eg-Anteouen!\"\n\nI watched Bou-Djema as he made this suppressed ejaculation. His eyes\nwere fixed on the Targa with a mixture of stupor and fright.\n\nEg-Anteouen's camel was a dozen yards ahead of us, side by side with\nMorhange's. The two men were talking. I realized that Morhange must be\nconversing with Eg-Anteouen about the famous inscriptions. But we were\nnot so far behind that they could not have overheard our words.\n\nAgain I looked at my guide. I saw that he was pale.\n\n\"What is it, Bou-Djema?\" I asked in a low voice.\n\n\"Not here, Lieutenant, not here,\" he muttered.\n\nHis teeth chattered. He added in a whisper:\n\n\"Not here. This evening, when we stop, when he turns to the East to\npray, when the sun goes down. Then, call me to you. I will tell\nyou.... But not here. He is talking, but he is listening. Go ahead.\nJoin the Captain.\"\n\n\"What next?\" I murmured, pressing my camel's neck with my foot so as\nto make him overtake Morhange.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was about five o'clock when Eg-Anteouen who was leading the way,\ncame to a stop.\n\n\"Here it is,\" he said, getting down from his camel.\n\nIt was a beautiful and sinister place. To our left a fantastic wall of\ngranite outlined its gray ribs against the sky. This wall was pierced,\nfrom top to bottom, by a winding corridor about a thousand feet high\nand scarcely wide enough in places to allow three camels to walk\nabreast.\n\n\"Here it is,\" repeated the Targa.\n\nTo the west, straight behind us, the track that we were leaving\nunrolled like a pale ribbon. The white plain, the road to Shikh-Salah,\nthe established halts, the well-known wells.... And, on the other\nside, this black wall against the mauve sky, this dark passage.\n\nI looked at Morhange.\n\n\"We had better stop here,\" he said simply. \"Eg-Anteouen advises us to\ntake as much water here as we can carry.\"\n\nWith one accord we decided to spend the night there, before\nundertaking the mountain.\n\nThere was a spring, in a dark basin, from which fell a little cascade;\nthere were a few shrubs, a few plants.\n\nAlready the camels were browsing at the length of their tethers.\n\nBou-Djema arranged our camp dinner service of tin cups and plates on a\ngreat flat stone. An opened tin of meat lay beside a plate of lettuce\nwhich he had just gathered from the moist earth around the spring. I\ncould tell from the distracted manner in which he placed these objects\nupon the rock how deep was his anxiety.\n\nAs he was bending toward me to hand me a plate, he pointed to the\ngloomy black corridor which we were about to enter.\n\n\"_Blad-el-Khouf!\"_ he murmured.\n\n\"What did he say?\" asked Morhange, who had seen the gesture.\n\n\"_Blad-el-Khouf. This is the country of fear._ That is what the Arabs\ncall Ahaggar.\"\n\nBou-Djema went a little distance off and sat down, leaving us to our\ndinner. Squatting on his heels, he began to eat a few lettuce leaves\nthat he had kept for his own meal.\n\nEg-Anteouen was still motionless.\n\nSuddenly the Targa rose. The sun in the west was no larger than a red\nbrand. We saw Eg-Anteouen approach the fountain, spread his blue\nburnous on the ground and kneel upon it.\n\n\"I did not suppose that the Tuareg were so observant of Mussulman\ntradition,\" said Morhange.\n\n\"Nor I,\" I replied thoughtfully.\n\nBut I had something to do at that moment besides making such\nspeculations.\n\n\"Bou-Djema,\" I called.\n\nAt the same time, I looked at Eg-Anteouen. Absorbed in his prayer,\nbowed toward the west, apparently he was paying no attention to me. As\nhe prostrated himself, I called again.\n\n\"Bou-Djema, come with me to my mehari; I want to get something out of\nthe saddle bags.\"\n\nStill kneeling, Eg-Anteouen was mumbling his prayer slowly,\ncomposedly.\n\nBut Bou-Djema had not budged.\n\nHis only response was a deep moan.\n\nMorhange and I leaped to our feet and ran to the guide. Eg-Anteouen\nreached him as soon as we did.\n\nWith his eyes closed and his limbs already cold, the Chaamba breathed\na death rattle in Morhange's arms. I had seized one of his hands.\nEg-Anteouen took the other. Each, in his own way, was trying to\ndivine, to understand....\n\nSuddenly Eg-Anteouen leapt to his feet. He had just seen the poor\nembossed bowl which the Arab had held an instant before between his\nknees, and which now lay overturned upon the ground.\n\nHe picked it up, looked quickly at one after another of the leaves of\nlettuce remaining in it, and then gave a hoarse exclamation.\n\n\"So,\" said Morhange, \"it's his turn now; he is going to go mad.\"\n\nWatching Eg-Anteouen closely, I saw him hasten without a word to the\nrock where our dinner was set, a second later, he was again beside us,\nholding out the bowl of lettuce which he had not yet touched.\n\nThen he took a thick, long, pale green leaf from Bou-Djema's bowl and\nheld it beside another leaf he had just taken from our bowl.\n\n\"_Afahlehle,\"_ was all he said.\n\nI shuddered, and so did Morhange. It was the _afahlehla,_ the\n_falestez_, of the Arabs of the Sahara, the terrible plant which had\nkilled a part of the Flatters mission more quickly and surely than\nTuareg arms.\n\nEg-Anteouen stood up. His tall silhouette was outlined blackly against\nthe sky which suddenly had turned pale lilac. He was watching us.\n\nWe bent again over the unfortunate guide.\n\n\"_Afahlehle,\"_ the Targa repeated, and shook his head.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBou-Djema died in the middle of the night without having regained\nconsciousness.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE COUNTRY OF FEAR\n\n\n\"It is curious,\" said Morhange, \"to see how our expedition, uneventful\nsince we left Ouargla, is now becoming exciting.\"\n\nHe said this after kneeling for a moment in prayer before the\npainfully dug grave in which we had lain the guide.\n\nI do not believe in God. But if anything can influence whatever powers\nthere may be, whether of good or of evil, of light or of darkness, it\nis the prayer of such a man.\n\nFor two days we picked our way through a gigantic chaos of black rock\nin what might have been the country of the moon, so barren was it. No\nsound but that of stones rolling under the feet of the camels and\nstriking like gunshots at the foot of the precipices.\n\nA strange march indeed. For the first few hours, I tried to pick out,\nby compass, the route we were following. But my calculations were soon\nupset; doubtless a mistake due to the swaying motion of the camel. I\nput the compass back in one of my saddle-bags. From that time on,\nEg-Anteouen was our master. We could only trust ourselves to him.\n\nHe went first; Morhange followed him, and I brought up the rear. We\npassed at every step most curious specimens of volcanic rock. But I\ndid not examine them. I was no longer interested in such things.\nAnother kind of curiosity had taken possession of me. I had come to\nshare Morhange's madness. If my companion had said to me: \"We are\ndoing a very rash thing. Let us go back to the known trails,\" I should\nhave replied, \"You are free to do as you please. But I am going on.\"\n\nToward evening of the second day, we found ourselves at the foot of a\nblack mountain whose jagged ramparts towered in profile seven thousand\nfeet above our heads. It was an enormous shadowy fortress, like the\noutline of a feudal stronghold silhouetted with incredible sharpness\nagainst the orange sky.\n\nThere was a well, with several trees, the first we had seen since\ncutting into Ahaggar.\n\nA group of men were standing about it. Their camels, tethered close\nby, were cropping a mouthful here and there.\n\nAt seeing us, the men drew together, alert, on the defensive.\n\nEg-Anteouen turned to us and said:\n\n\"Eggali Tuareg.\"\n\nWe went toward them.\n\nThey were handsome men, those Eggali, the largest Tuareg whom I ever\nhave seen. With unexpected swiftness they drew aside from the well,\nleaving it to us. Eg-Anteouen spoke a few words to them. They looked\nat Morhange and me with a curiosity bordering on fear, but at any\nrate, with respect.\n\nI drew several little presents from my saddlebags and was astonished\nat the reserve of the chief, who refused them. He seemed afraid even\nof my glance.\n\nWhen they had gone, I expressed my astonishment at this shyness for\nwhich my previous experiences with the tribes of the Sahara had not\nprepared me.\n\n\"They spoke with respect, even with fear,\" I said to Eg-Anteouen. \"And\nyet the tribe of the Eggali is noble. And that of the Kel-Tahats, to\nwhich you tell me you belong, is a slave tribe.\"\n\nA smile lighted the dark eyes of Eg-Anteouen.\n\n\"It is true,\" he said.\n\n\"Well then?\"\n\n\"I told them that we three, the Captain, you and I, were bound for the\nMountain of the Evil Spirits.\"\n\nWith a gesture, he indicated the black mountain.\n\n\"They are afraid. All the Tuareg of Ahaggar are afraid of the Mountain\nof the Evil Spirits. You saw how they were up and off at the very\nmention of its name.\"\n\n\"It is to the Mountain of the Evil Spirits that you are taking us?\"\nqueried Morhange.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the Targa, \"that is where the inscriptions are that I\ntold you about.\"\n\n\"You did not mention that detail to us.\"\n\n\"Why should I? The Tuareg are afraid of the _ilhinen,_ spirits with\nhorns and tails, covered with hair, who make the cattle sicken and die\nand cast spells over men. But I know well that the Christians are not\nafraid and even laugh at the fears of the Tuareg.\"\n\n\"And you?\" I asked. \"You are a Targa and you are not afraid of the\n_ilhinen_?\"\n\nEg-Anteouen showed a little red leather bag hung about his neck on a\nchain of white seeds.\n\n\"I have my amulet,\" he replied gravely, \"blessed by the venerable\nSidi-Moussa himself. And then I am with you. You saved my life. You\nhave desired to see the inscriptions. The will of Allah be done!\"\n\nAs he finished speaking, he squatted on his heels, drew out his long\nreed pipe and began to smoke gravely.\n\n\"All this is beginning to seem very strange,\" said Morhange, coming\nover to me.\n\n\"You can say that without exaggeration,\" I replied. \"You remember as\nwell as I the passage in which Barth tells of his expedition to the\nIdinen, the Mountain of the Evil Spirits of the Azdjer Tuareg. The\nregion had so evil a reputation that no Targa would go with him. But\nhe got back.\"\n\n\"Yes, he got back,\" replied my comrade, \"but only after he had been\nlost. Without water or food, he came so near dying of hunger and\nthirst that he had to open a vein and drink his own blood. The\nprospect is not particularly attractive.\"\n\nI shrugged my shoulders. After all, it was not my fault that we were\nthere.\n\nMorhange understood my gesture and thought it necessary to make\nexcuses.\n\n\"I should be curious,\" he went on with rather forced gaiety, \"to meet\nthese spirits and substantiate the facts of Pomponius Mela who knew\nthem and locates them, in fact, in the mountain of the Tuareg. He\ncalls them _Egipans, Blemyens, Gamphasantes, Satyrs.... 'The\nGamphasantes_, he says, 'are naked. The _Blemyens_ have no head: their\nfaces are placed on their chests; the _Satyrs_ have nothing like men\nexcept faces. The _Egipans_ are made as is commonly described.' ...\n_Satyrs, Egipans_ ... isn't it very strange to find Greek names given\nto the barbarian spirits of this region? Believe me, we are on a\ncurious trail; I am sure that Antinea will be our key to remarkable\ndiscoveries.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" I said, laying a finger on my lips.\n\nStrange sounds rose from about us as the evening advanced with great\nstrides. A kind of crackling, followed by long rending shrieks, echoed\nand reechoed to infinity in the neighboring ravines. It seemed to me\nthat the whole black mountain suddenly had begun to moan.\n\nWe looked at Eg-Anteouen. He was smoking on, without twitching a\nmuscle.\n\n\"The _ilhinen_ are waking up,\" he said simply.\n\nMorhange listened without saying a word. Doubtless he understood as I\ndid: the overheated rocks, the crackling of the stone, a whole series\nof physical phenomena, the example of the singing statue of Memnon....\nBut, for all that, this unexpected concert reacted no less painfully\non our overstrained nerves.\n\nThe last words of poor Bou-Djema came to my mind.\n\n\"The country of fear,\" I murmured in a low voice.\n\nAnd Morhange repeated:\n\n\"The country of fear.\"\n\nThe strange concert ceased as the first stars appeared in the sky.\nWith deep emotion we watched the tiny bluish flames appear, one after\nanother. At that portentous moment they seemed to span the distance\nbetween us, isolated, condemned, lost, and our brothers of higher\nlatitudes, who at that hour were rushing about their poor pleasures\nwith delirious frenzy in cities where the whiteness of electric lamps\ncame on in a burst.\n\n_Ch\u00eat-Ahadh essa het\u00eesenet\nM\u00e2teredjr\u00ea d'Erredjaot,\nM\u00e2tesekek d-Essek\u00e2ot,\nM\u00e2telahrlahr d'Ellerh\u00e2ot,\nEtt\u00e2s djenen, bar\u00e2d t\u00eet-ennit ab\u00e2tet._\n\nEg-Anteouen's voice raised itself in slow guttural tones. It resounded\nwith sad, grave majesty in the silence now complete.\n\nI touched the Targa's arm. With a movement of his head, he pointed to\na constellation glittering in the firmament.\n\n\"The Pleiades,\" I murmured to Morhange, showing him the seven pale\nstars, while Eg-Anteouen took up his mournful song in the same\nmonotone:\n\n\"The Daughters of the Night are seven:\n  M\u00e2teredjr\u00ea and Erredje\u00e2ot,\n  M\u00e2tesekek and Essek\u00e2ot,\n  M\u00e2telahrlahr and Ellerh\u00e2ot,\n  The seventh is a boy, one of whose eyes has flown away.\"\n\nA sudden sickness came over me. I seized the Targa's arm as he was\nstarting to intone his refrain for the third time.\n\n\"When will we reach this cave with the inscriptions?\" I asked\nbrusquely.\n\nHe looked at me and replied with his usual calm:\n\n\"We are there.\"\n\n\"We are there? Then why don't you show it to us?\"\n\n\"You did not ask me,\" he replied, not without a touch of insolence.\n\nMorhange had jumped to his feet.\n\n\"The cave is here?\"\n\n\"It is here,\" Eg-Anteouen replied slowly, rising to his feet.\n\n\"Take us to it.\"\n\n\"Morhange,\" I said, suddenly anxious, \"night is falling. We will see\nnothing. And perhaps it is still some way off.\"\n\n\"It is hardly five hundred paces,\" Eg-Anteouen replied. \"The cave is\nfull of dead underbrush. We will set it on fire and the Captain will\nsee as in full daylight.\"\n\n\"Come,\" my comrade repeated.\n\n\"And the camels?\" I hazarded.\n\n\"They are tethered,\" said Eg-Anteouen, \"and we shall not be gone\nlong.\"\n\nHe had started toward the black mountain. Morhange, trembling with\nexcitement, followed. I followed, too, the victim of profound\nuneasiness. My pulses throbbed. \"I am not afraid,\" I kept repeating to\nmyself. \"I swear that this is not fear.\"\n\nAnd really it was not fear. Yet, what a strange dizziness! There was a\nmist over my eyes. My ears buzzed. Again I heard Eg-Anteouen's voice,\nbut multiplied, immense, and at the same time, very low.\n\n\"The Daughters of the Night are seven....\"\n\nIt seemed to me that the voice of the mountain, re-echoing, repeated\nthat sinister last line to infinity:\n\n\"And the seventh is a boy, one of whose eyes has flown\naway.\"\n\n\"Here it is,\" said the Targa.\n\nA black hole in the wall opened up. Bending over, Eg-Anteouen entered.\nWe followed him. The darkness closed around us.\n\nA yellow flame. Eg-Anteouen had struck his flint. He set fire to a\npile of brush near the surface. At first we could see nothing. The\nsmoke blinded us.\n\nEg-Anteouen stayed at one side of the opening of the cave. He was\nseated and, more inscrutible than ever, had begun again to blow great\npuffs of gray smoke from his pipe.\n\nThe burning brush cast a flickering light. I caught a glimpse of\nMorhange. He seemed very pale. With both hands braced against the\nwall, he was working to decipher a mass of signs which I could\nscarcely distinguish.\n\nNevertheless, I thought I could see his hands trembling.\n\n\"The devil,\" I thought, finding it more and more difficult to\nco-ordinate my thoughts, \"he seems to be as unstrung as I.\"\n\nI heard him call out to Eg-Anteouen in what seemed to me a loud voice:\n\n\"Stand to one side. Let the air in. What a smoke!\"\n\nHe kept on working at the signs.\n\nSuddenly I heard him again, but with difficulty. It seemed as if even\nsounds were confused in the smoke.\n\n\"Antinea ... At last ... Antinea. But not cut in the rock ... the\nmarks traced in ochre ... not ten years old, perhaps not five....\nOh!....\"\n\nHe pressed his hands to his head. Again he cried out:\n\n\"It is a mystery. A tragic mystery.\"\n\nI laughed teasingly.\n\n\"Come on, come on. Don't get excited over it.\"\n\nHe took me by the arm and shook me. I saw his eyes big with terror and\nastonishment.\n\n\"Are you mad?\" he yelled in my face.\n\n\"Not so loud,\" I replied with the same little laugh.\n\nHe looked at me again, and sank down, overcome, on a rock opposite me.\nEg-Anteouen was still smoking placidly at the mouth of the cave. We\ncould see the red circle of his pipe glowing in the darkness.\n\n\"Madman! Madman!\" repeated Morhange. His voice seemed to stick in his\nthroat.\n\nSuddenly he bent over the brush which was giving its last darts of\nflame, high and clear. He picked out a branch which had not yet\ncaught. I saw him examine it carefully, then throw it back in the fire\nwith a loud laugh.\n\n\"Ha! Ha! That's good, all right!\"\n\nHe staggered toward Eg-Anteouen, pointing to the fire.\n\n\"It's hemp. Hasheesh, hasheesh. Oh, that's a good one, all right.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's a good one,\" I repeated, bursting into laughter.\n\nEg-Anteouen quietly smiled approval. The dying fire lit his\ninscrutable face and flickered in his terrible dark eyes.\n\nA moment passed. Suddenly Morhange seized the Targa's arm.\n\n\"I want to smoke, too,\" he said. \"Give me a pipe.\" The specter gave\nhim one.\n\n\"What! A European pipe?\"\n\n\"A European pipe,\" I repeated, feeling gayer and gayer.\n\n\"With an initial, 'M.' As if made on purpose. M.... Captain Morhange.\"\n\n\"Masson,\" corrected Eg-Anteouen quietly.\n\n\"Captain Masson,\" I repeated in concert with Morhange.\n\nWe laughed again.\n\n\"Ha! Ha! Ha! Captain Masson.... Colonel Flatters.... The well of\nGarama. They killed him to take his pipe ... that pipe. It was\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh who killed Captain Masson.\"\n\n\"It was Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,\" repeated the Targa with imperturbable\ncalm.\n\n\"Captain Masson and Colonel Flatters had left the convoy to look for\nthe well,\" said Morhange, laughing.\n\n\"It was then that the Tuareg attacked them,\" I finished, laughing as\nhard as I could.\n\n\"A Targa of Ahagga seized the bridle of Captain Masson's horse,\" said\nMorhange.\n\n\"Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh had hold of Colonel Flatters' bridle,\" put in\nEg-Anteouen.\n\n\"The Colonel puts his foot in the stirrup and receives a cut from\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh's saber,\" I said.\n\n\"Captain Masson draws his revolver and fires on Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,\nshooting off three fingers of his left hand,\" said Morhange.\n\n\"But,\" finished Eg-Anteouen imperturbably, \"but Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,\nwith one blow of his saber, splits Captain Masson's skull.\"..\n\nHe gave a silent, satisfied laugh as he spoke. The dying flame lit up\nhis face. We saw the gleaming black stem of his pipe. He held it in\nhis left hand. One finger, no, two fingers only on that hand. Hello! I\nhad not noticed that before.\n\nMorhange also noticed it, for he finished with a loud laugh.\n\n\"Then, after splitting his skull, you robbed him. You took his pipe\nfrom him. Bravo, Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh!\"\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh does not reply, but I can see how satisfied with\nhimself he is. He keeps on smoking. I can hardly see his features now.\nThe firelight pales, dies. I have never laughed so much as this\nevening. I am sure Morhange never has, either. Perhaps he will forget\nthe cloister. And all because Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh stole Captain\nMasson's pipe....\n\nAgain that accursed song. \"The seventh is a boy, one of whose eyes has\nflown away.\" One cannot imagine more senseless words. It is very\nstrange, really: there seem to be four of us in this cave now. Four, I\nsay, five, six, seven, eight.... Make yourselves at home, my friends.\nWhat! there are no more of you?... I am going to find out at last how\nthe spirits of this region are made, the _Gamphasantes_, the\n_Blemyens_.... Morhange says that the _Blemyens_ have their faces on\nthe middle of their chests. Surely this one who is seizing me in his\narms is not a _Blemyen_! Now he is carrying me outside. And Morhange\n... I do not want them to forget Morhange....\n\nThey did not forget him; I see him perched on a camel in front of that\none to which I am fastened. They did well to fasten me, for otherwise\nI surely would tumble off. These spirits certainly are not bad\nfellows. But what a long way it is! I want to stretch out. To sleep. A\nwhile ago we surely were following a long passage, then we were in the\nopen air. Now we are again in an endless stifling corridor. Here are\nthe stars again.... Is this ridiculous course going to keep on?...\n\nHello, lights! Stars, perhaps. No, lights, I say. A stairway, on my\nword; of rocks, to be sure, but still, a stairway. How can the\ncamels...? But it is no longer a camel; this is a man carrying me. A\nman dressed in white, not a _Gamphasante_ nor a _Blemyen_. Morhange\nmust be giving himself airs with his historical reasoning, all false,\nI repeat, all false. Good Morhange. Provided that his _Gamphasante_\ndoes not let him fall on this unending stairway. Something glitters on\nthe ceiling. Yes, it is a lamp, a copper lamp, as at Tunis, at\nBarbouchy's. Good, here again you cannot see anything. But I am making\na fool of myself; I am lying down; now I can go to sleep. What a silly\nday!... Gentlemen, I assure you that it is unnecessary to bind me: I\ndo not want to go down on the boulevards.\n\nDarkness again. Steps of someone going away. Silence.\n\nBut only for a moment. Someone is talking beside me. What are they\nsaying?... No, it is impossible. That metallic ring, that voice. Do\nyou know what it is calling, that voice, do you know what it is\ncalling in the tones of someone used to the phrase? Well, it is\ncalling:\n\n\"Play your cards, gentlemen, play your cards. There are ten thousand\n_louis_ in the bank. Play your cards, gentlemen.\"\n\nIn the name of God, am I or am I not at Ahaggar?\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nAWAKENING AT AHAGGAR\n\n\nIt was broad daylight when I opened my eyes. I thought at once of\nMorhange. I could not see him, but I heard him, close by, giving\nlittle grunts of surprise.\n\nI called to him. He ran to me.\n\n\"Then they didn't tie you up?\" I asked.\n\n\"I beg your pardon. They did. But they did it badly; I managed to get\nfree.\"\n\n\"You might have untied me, too,\" I remarked crossly.\n\n\"What good would it have done? I should only have waked you up. And I\nthought that your first word would be to call me. There, that's done.\"\n\nI reeled as I tried to stand on my feet.\n\nMorhange smiled.\n\n\"We might have spent the whole night smoking and drinking and not been\nin a worse state,\" he said. \"Anyhow, that Eg-Anteouen with his\nhasheesh is a fine rascal.\"\n\n\"Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,\" I corrected.\n\nI rubbed my hand over my forehead.\n\n\"Where are we?\"\n\n\"My dear boy,\" Morhange replied, \"since I awakened from the\nextraordinary nightmare which is mixed up with the smoky cave and the\nlamp-lit stairway of the Arabian Nights, I have been going from\nsurprise to surprise, from confusion to confusion. Just look around\nyou.\"\n\nI rubbed my eyes and stared. Then I seized my friend's hand.\n\n\"Morhange,\" I begged, \"tell me if we are still dreaming.\"\n\nWe were in a round room, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, and of about\nthe same height, lighted by a great window opening on a sky of intense\nblue.\n\nSwallows flew back and forth, outside, giving quick, joyous cries.\n\nThe floor, the incurving walls and the ceiling were of a kind of\nveined marble like porphyry, panelled with a strange metal, paler than\ngold, darker than silver, clouded just then by the early morning mist\nthat came in through the window in great puffs.\n\nI staggered toward this window, drawn by the freshness of the breeze\nand the sunlight which was chasing away my dreams, and I leaned my\nelbows on the balustrade.\n\nI could not restrain a cry of delight.\n\nI was standing on a kind of balcony, cut into the flank of a mountain,\noverhanging an abyss. Above me, blue sky; below appeared a veritable\nearthly paradise hemmed in on all sides by mountains that formed a\ncontinuous and impassable wall about it. A garden lay spread out down\nthere. The palm trees gently swayed their great fronds. At their feet\nwas a tangle of the smaller trees which grow in an oasis under their\nprotection: almonds, lemons, oranges, and many others which I could\nnot distinguish from that height. A broad blue stream, fed by a\nwaterfall, emptied into a charming lake, the waters of which had the\nmarvellous transparency which comes in high altitudes. Great birds\nflew in circles over this green hollow; I could see in the lake the\nred flash of a flamingo.\n\nThe peaks of the mountains which towered on all sides were completely\ncovered with snow.\n\nThe blue stream, the green palms, the golden fruit, and above it all,\nthe miraculous snow, all this bathed in that limpid air, gave such an\nimpression of beauty, of purity, that my poor human strength could no\nlonger stand the sight of it. I laid my forehead on the balustrade,\nwhich, too, was covered with that heavenly snow, and began to cry like\na baby.\n\nMorhange was behaving like another child. But he had awakened before I\nhad, and doubtless had had time to grasp, one by one, all these\ndetails whose fantastic _ensemble_ staggered me.\n\nHe laid his hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me back into the\nroom.\n\n\"You haven't seen anything yet,\" he said. \"Look! Look!\"\n\n\"Morhange!\"\n\n\"Well, old man, what do you want me to do about it? Look!\"\n\nI had just realized that the strange room was furnished--God forgive\nme--in the European fashion. There were indeed, here and there, round\nleather Tuareg cushions, brightly colored blankets from Gafsa, rugs\nfrom Kairouan, and Caramani hangings which, at that moment, I should\nhave dreaded to draw aside. But a half-open panel in the wall showed a\nbookcase crowded with books. A whole row of photographs of\nmasterpieces of ancient art were hung on the walls. Finally there was\na table almost hidden under its heap of papers, pamphlets, books. I\nthought I should collapse at seeing a recent number of the\n_Archaeological Review_.\n\nI looked at Morhange. He was looking at me, and suddenly a mad laugh\nseized us and doubled us up for a good minute.\n\n\"I do not know,\" Morhange finally managed to say, \"whether or not we\nshall regret some day our little excursion into Ahaggar. But admit, in\nthe meantime, that it promises to be rich in unexpected adventures.\nThat unforgettable guide who puts us to sleep just to distract us\nfrom the unpleasantness of caravan life and who lets me experience, in\nthe best of good faith, the far-famed delights of hasheesh: that\nfantastic night ride, and, to cap the climax, this cave of a Nureddin\nwho must have received the education of the Athenian Bersot at the\nFrench _Ecole Normale_--all this is enough, on my word, to upset the\nwits of the best balanced.\"\n\n\"What do I think, my poor friend? Why, just what you yourself think. I\ndon't understand it at all, not at all. What you politely call my\nlearning is not worth a cent. And why shouldn't I be all mixed up?\nThis living in caves amazes me. Pliny speaks of the natives living in\ncaves, seven days' march southwest of the country of the Amantes, and\ntwelve days to the westward of the great Syrte. Herodotus says also\nthat the Garamentes used to go out in their chariots to hunt the\ncave-dwelling Ethopians. But here we are in Ahaggar, in the midst of\nthe Targa country, and the best authorities tell us that the Tuareg\nnever have been willing to live in caves. Duveyrier is precise on that\npoint. And what is this, I ask you, but a cave turned into a workroom,\nwith pictures of the Venus de Medici and the Apollo Sauroctone on the\nwalls? I tell you that it is enough to drive you mad.\"\n\nAnd Morhange threw himself on a couch and began to roar with laughter\nagain.\n\n\"See,\" I said, \"this is Latin.\"\n\nI had picked up several scattered papers from the work-table in the\nmiddle of the room. Morhange took them from my hands and devoured them\ngreedily. His face expressed unbounded stupefaction.\n\n\"Stranger and stranger, my boy. Someone here is composing, with much\ncitation of texts, a dissertation on the Gorgon Islands: _de Gorgonum\ninsulis_. Medusa, according to him, was a Libyan savage who lived near\nLake Triton, our present Chott Melhrir, and it is there that Perseus\n... Ah!\"\n\nMorhange's words choked in his throat. A sharp, shrill voice pierced\nthe immense room.\n\n\"Gentlemen, I beg you, let my papers alone.\"\n\nI turned toward the newcomer.\n\nOne of the Caramani curtains was drawn aside, and the most unexpected\nof persons came in. Resigned as we were to unexpected events, the\nimprobability of this sight exceeded anything our imaginations could\nhave devised.\n\nOn the threshold stood a little bald-headed man with a pointed sallow\nface half hidden by an enormous pair of green spectacles and a pepper\nand salt beard. No shirt was visible, but an impressive broad red\ncravat. He wore white trousers. Red leather slippers furnished the\nonly Oriental suggestion of his costume.\n\nHe wore, not without pride, the rosette of an officer of the\nDepartment of Education.\n\nHe collected the papers which Morhange had dropped in his amazement,\ncounted them, arranged them; then, casting a peevish glance at us, he\nstruck a copper gong.\n\nThe porti\u00e9re was raised again. A huge white Targa entered. I seemed to\nrecognize him as one of the genii of the cave.[8]\n\n[Footnote 8: The Negro serfs among the Tuareg are generally called\n\"white Tuareg.\" While the nobles are clad in blue cotton robes, the\nserfs wear white robes, hence their name of \"white Tuareg.\" See, in\nthis connection, Duveyrier: _les Tuareg du Nord_, page 292. (Note by\nM. Leroux.)]\n\n\"Ferradji,\" angrily demanded the little officer of the Department of\nEducation, \"why were these gentlemen brought into the library?\"\n\nThe Targa bowed respectfully.\n\n\"Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh came back sooner than we expected,\" he replied,\n\"and last night the embalmers had not yet finished. They brought them\nhere in the meantime,\" and he pointed to us.\n\n\"Very well, you may go,\" snapped the little man.\n\nFerradji backed toward the door. On the threshold, he stopped and\nspoke again:\n\n\"I was to remind you, sir, that dinner is served.\"\n\n\"All right. Go along.\"\n\nAnd the little man seated himself at the desk and began to finger the\npapers feverishly.\n\nI do not know why, but a mad feeling of exasperation seized me. I\nwalked toward him.\n\n\"Sir,\" I said, \"my friend and I do not know where we are nor who you\nare. We can see only that you are French, since you are wearing one of\nthe highest honorary decorations of our country. You may have made the\nsame observation on your part,\" I added, indicating the slender red\nribbon which I wore on my vest.\n\nHe looked at me in contemptuous surprise.\n\n\"Well, sir?\"\n\n\"Well, sir, the Negro who just went out pronounced the name of\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, the name of a brigand, a bandit, one of the\nassassins of Colonel Flatters. Are you acquainted with that detail,\nsir?\"\n\nThe little man surveyed me coldly and shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"Certainly. But what difference do you suppose that makes to me?\"\n\n\"What!\" I cried, beside myself with rage. \"Who are you, anyway?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the little old man with comical dignity, turning to\nMorhange, \"I call you to witness the strange manners of your\ncompanion. I am here in my own house and I do not allow....\"\n\n\"You must excuse my comrade, sir,\" said Morhange, stepping forward.\n\"He is not a man of letters, as you are. These young lieutenants are\nhot-headed, you know. And besides, you can understand why both of us\nare not as calm as might be desired.\"\n\nI was furious and on the point of disavowing these strangely humble\nwords of Morhange. But a glance showed me that there was as much irony\nas surprise in his expression.\n\n\"I know indeed that most officers are brutes,\" grumbled the little old\nman. \"But that is no reason....\"\n\n\"I am only an officer myself,\" Morhange went on, in an even humbler\ntone, \"and if ever I have been sensible to the intellectual\ninferiority of that class, I assure you that it was now in glancing--I\nbeg your pardon for having taken the liberty to do so--in glancing\nover the learned pages which you devote to the passionate story of\nMedusa, according to Procles of Carthage, cited by Pausanias.\"\n\nA laughable surprise spread over the features of the little old man.\nHe hastily wiped his spectacles.\n\n\"What!\" he finally cried.\n\n\"It is indeed unfortunate, in this matter,\" Morhange continued\nimperturbably, \"that we are not in possession of the curious\ndissertation devoted to this burning question by Statius Sebosus, a\nwork which we know only through Pliny and which....\"\n\n\"You know Statius Sebosus?\"\n\n\"And which, my master, the geographer Berlioux....\"\n\n\"You knew Berlioux--you were his pupil?\" stammered the little man with\nthe decoration.\n\n\"I have had that honor,\" replied Morhange, very coldly.\n\n\"But, but, sir, then you have heard mentioned, you are familiar with\nthe question, the problem of Atlantis?\"\n\n\"Indeed I am not unacquainted with the works of Lagneau, Ploix, Arbois\nde Jubainville,\" said Morhange frigidly.\n\n\"My God!\" The little man was going through extraordinary contortions.\n\"Sir--Captain, how happy I am, how many excuses....\"\n\nJust then, the porti\u00e9re was raised. Ferradji appeared again.\n\n\"Sir, they want me to tell you that unless you come, they will begin\nwithout you.\"\n\n\"I am coming, I am coming. Say, Ferradji, that we will be there in a\nmoment. Why, sir, if I had foreseen ... It is extraordinary ... to\nfind an officer who knows Procles of Carthage and Arbois de\nJubainville. Again ... But I must introduce myself. I am Etienne Le\nMesge, Fellow of the University.\"\n\n\"Captain Morhange,\" said my companion.\n\nI stepped forward in my turn.\n\n\"Lieutenant de Saint-Avit. It is a fact, sir, that I am very likely to\nconfuse Arbois of Carthage with Procles de Jubainville. Later, I shall\nhave to see about filling up those gaps. But just now, I should like\nto know where we are, if we are free, and if not, what occult power\nholds us. You have the appearance, sir, of being sufficiently at home\nin this house to be able to enlighten us upon this point, which I must\nconfess, I weakly consider of the first importance.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge looked at me. A rather malevolent smile twitched the\ncorners of his mouth. He opened his lips....\n\nA gong sounded impatiently.\n\n\"In good time, gentlemen, I will tell you. I will explain\neverything.... But now you see that we must hurry. It is time for\nlunch and our fellow diners will get tired of waiting.\"\n\n\"Our fellow diners?\"\n\n\"There are two of them,\" M. Le Mesge explained. \"We three constitute\nthe European personnel of the house, that is, the fixed personnel,\" he\nseemed to feel obliged to add, with his disquieting smile. \"Two\nstrange fellows, gentlemen, with whom, doubtless, you will care to\nhave as little to do as possible. One is a churchman, narrow-minded,\nthough a Protestant. The other is a man of the world gone astray, an\nold fool.\"\n\n\"Pardon,\" I said, \"but it must have been he whom I heard last night.\nHe was gambling: with you and the minister, doubtless?\"\n\nM. Le Mesge made a gesture of offended dignity.\n\n\"The idea! With me, sir? It is with the Tuareg that he plays. He\nteaches them every game imaginable. There, that is he who is striking\nthe gong to hurry us up. It is half past nine, and the _Salle de\nTrente et Quarante_ opens at ten o'clock. Let us hurry. I suppose that\nanyway you will not be averse to a little refreshment.\"\n\n\"Indeed we shall not refuse,\" Morhange replied.\n\nWe followed M. Le Mesge along a long winding corridor with frequent\nsteps. The passage was dark. But at intervals rose-colored night\nlights and incense burners were placed in niches cut into the solid\nrock. The passionate Oriental scents perfumed the darkness and\ncontrasted strangely with the cold air of the snowy peaks.\n\nFrom time to time, a white Targa, mute and expressionless as a\nphantom, would pass us and we would hear the clatter of his slippers\ndie away behind us.\n\nM. Le Mesge stopped before a heavy door covered with the same pale\nmetal which I had noticed on the walls of the library. He opened it\nand stood aside to let us pass.\n\nAlthough the dining room which we entered had little in common with\nEuropean dining rooms, I have known many which might have envied its\ncomfort. Like the library, it was lighted by a great window. But I\nnoticed that it had an outside exposure, while that of the library\noverlooked the garden in the center of the crown of mountains.\n\nNo center table and none of those barbaric pieces of furniture that we\ncall chairs. But a great number of buffet tables of gilded wood, like\nthose of Venice, heavy hangings of dull and subdued colors, and\ncushions, Tuareg or Tunisian. In the center was a huge mat on which a\nfeast was placed in finely woven baskets among silver pitchers and\ncopper basins filled with perfumed water. The sight of it filled me\nwith childish satisfaction.\n\nM. Le Mesge stepped forward and introduced us to the two persons who\nalready had taken their places on the mat.\n\n\"Mr. Spardek,\" he said; and by that simple phrase I understood how far\nour host placed himself above vain human titles.\n\nThe Reverend Mr. Spardek, of Manchester, bowed reservedly and asked\nour permission to keep on his tall, wide-brimmed hat. He was a dry,\ncold man, tall and thin. He ate in pious sadness, enormously.\n\n\"Monsieur Bielowsky,\" said M. Le Mesge, introducing us to the second\nguest.\n\n\"Count Casimir Bielowsky, Hetman of Jitomir,\" the latter corrected\nwith perfect good humor as he stood up to shake hands.\n\nI felt at once a certain liking for the Hetman of Jitomir who was a\nperfect example of an old beau. His chocolate-colored hair was parted\nin the center (later I found out that the Hetman dyed it with a\nconcoction of _khol_). He had magnificent whiskers, also\nchocolate-colored, in the style of the Emperor Francis Joseph. His\nnose was undeniably a little red, but so fine, so aristocratic. His\nhands were marvelous. It took some thought to place the date of the\nstyle of the count's costume, bottle green with yellow facings,\nornamented with a huge seal of silver and enamel. The recollection of\na portrait of the Duke de Morny made me decide on 1860 or 1862; and\nthe further chapters of this story will show that I was not far wrong.\n\nThe count made me sit down beside him. One of his first questions was\nto demand if I ever cut fives.[9]\n\n[Footnote 9: _Tirer \u00e0 cinq_, a card game played only for very high\nstakes.]\n\n\"That depends on how I feel,\" I replied.\n\n\"Well said. I have not done so since 1866. I swore off. A row. The\ndevil of a party. One day at Walewski's. I cut fives. Naturally I\nwasn't worrying any. The other had a four. 'Idiot!' cried the little\nBaron de Chaux Gisseux who was laying staggering sums on my table. I\nhurled a bottle of champagne at his head. He ducked. It was Marshal\nBaillant who got the bottle. A scene! The matter was fixed up because\nwe were both Free Masons. The Emperor made me promise not to cut fives\nagain. I have kept my promise not to cut fives again. I have kept my\npromise. But there are moments when it is hard....\"\n\nHe added in a voice steeped in melancholy:\n\n\"Try a little of this Ahaggar 1880. Excellent vintage. It is I,\nLieutenant, who instructed these people in the uses of the juice of\nthe vine. The vine of the palm trees is very good when it is properly\nfermented, but it gets insipid in the long run.\"\n\nIt was powerful, that Ahaggar 1880. We sipped it from large silver\ngoblets. It was fresh as Rhine wine, dry as the wine of the Hermitage.\nAnd then, suddenly, it brought back recollections of the burning wines\nof Portugal; it seemed sweet, fruity, an admirable wine, I tell you.\n\nThat wine crowned the most perfect of luncheons. There were few meats,\nto be sure; but those few were remarkably seasoned. Profusion of\ncakes, pancakes served with honey, fragrant fritters, cheese-cakes of\nsour milk and dates. And everywhere, in great enamel platters or\nwicker jars, fruit, masses of fruit, figs, dates, pistachios, jujubes,\npomegranates, apricots, huge bunches of grapes, larger than those\nwhich bent the shoulders of the Hebrews in the land of Canaan, heavy\nwatermelons cut in two, showing their moist, red pulp and their rows\nof black seeds.\n\nI had scarcely finished one of these beautiful iced fruits, when M. Le\nMesge rose.\n\n\"Gentlemen, if you are ready,\" he said to Morhange and me.\n\n\"Get away from that old dotard as soon as you can,\" whispered the\nHetman of Jitomir to me. \"The party of _Trente et Quarante_ will begin\nsoon. You shall see. You shall see. We go it even harder than at Cora\nPearl's.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" repeated M. Le Mesge in his dry tone.\n\nWe followed him. When the three of us were back again in the library,\nhe said, addressing me:\n\n\"You, sir, asked a little while ago what occult power holds you here.\nYour manner was threatening, and I should have refused to comply had\nit not been for your friend, whose knowledge enables him to appreciate\nbetter than you the value of the revelations I am about to make to\nyou.\"\n\nHe touched a spring in the side of the wall. A cupboard appeared,\nstuffed with books. He took one.\n\n\"You are both of you,\" continued M. Le Mesge, \"in the power of a\nwoman. This woman, the sultaness, the queen, the absolute sovereign of\nAhaggar, is called Antinea. Don't start, M. Morhange, you will soon\nunderstand.\"\n\nHe opened the book and read this sentence:\n\n\"'I must warn you before I take up the subject matter: do not be\nsurprised to hear me call the barbarians by Greek names.'\"\n\n\"What is that book?\" stammered Morhange, whose pallor terrified me.\n\n\"This book,\" M. Le Mesge replied very slowly, weighing his words, with\nan extraordinary expression of triumph, \"is the greatest, the most\nbeautiful, the most secret, of the dialogues of Plato; it is the\nCritias of Atlantis.\"\n\n\"The Critias? But it is unfinished,\" murmured Morhange.\n\n\"It is unfinished in France, in Europe, everywhere else,\" said M. Le\nMesge, \"but it is finished here. Look for yourself at this copy.\"\n\n\"But what connection,\" repeated Morhange, while his eyes traveled\navidly over the pages, \"what connection can there be between this\ndialogue, complete,--yes, it seems to me complete--what connection\nwith this woman, Antinea? Why should it be in her possession?\"\n\n\"Because,\" replied the little man imperturbably, \"this book is her\npatent of nobility, her _Almanach de Gotha_, in a sense, do you\nunderstand? Because it established her prodigious genealogy: because\nshe is....\"\n\n\"Because she is?\" repeated Morhange.\n\n\"Because she is the grand daughter of Neptune, the last descendant of\nthe Atlantides.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nATLANTIS\n\n\nM. Le Mesge looked at Morhange triumphantly. It was evident that he\naddressed himself exclusively to Morhange, considering him alone\nworthy of his confidences.\n\n\"There have been many, sir,\" he said, \"both French and foreign\nofficers who have been brought here at the caprice of our sovereign,\nAntinea. You are the first to be honored by my disclosures. But you\nwere the pupil of Berlioux, and I owe so much to the memory of that\ngreat man that it seems to me I may do him homage by imparting to one\nof his disciples the unique results of my private research.\"\n\nHe struck the bell. Ferradji appeared.\n\n\"Coffee for these gentlemen,\" ordered M. Le Mesge.\n\nHe handed us a box, gorgeously decorated in the most flaming colors,\nfull of Egyptian cigarettes.\n\n\"I never smoke,\" he explained. \"But Antinea sometimes comes here.\nThese are her cigarettes. Help yourselves, gentlemen.\"\n\nI have always had a horror of that pale tobacco which gives a barber\nof the Rue de la Michodi\u00e8re the illusion of oriental voluptuousness.\nBut, in their way, these musk-scented cigarettes were not bad, and it\nwas a long time since I had used up my stock of Caporal.\n\n\"Here are the back numbers of _Le Vie Parisienne_\" said M. Le Mesge\nto me. \"Amuse yourself with them, if you like, while I talk to your\nfriend.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" I replied brusquely, \"it is true that I never studied with\nBerlioux. Nevertheless, you must allow me to listen to your\nconversation: I shall hope to find something in it to amuse me.\"\n\n\"As you wish,\" said the little old man.\n\nWe settled ourselves comfortably. M. Le Mesge sat down before the\ndesk, shot his cuffs, and commenced as follows:\n\n\"However much, gentlemen, I prize complete objectivity in matters of\nerudition, I cannot utterly detach my own history from that of the\nlast descendant of Clito and Neptune.\n\n\"I am the creation of my own efforts. From my childhood, the\nprodigious impulse given to the science of history by the nineteenth\ncentury has affected me. I saw where my way led. I have followed it,\nin spite of everything.\n\n\"In spite of everything, everything--I mean it literally. With no\nother resources than my own work and merit, I was received as Fellow\nof History and Geography at the examination of 1880. A great\nexamination! Among the thirteen who were accepted there were names\nwhich have since become illustrious: Julian, Bourgeois, Auerbach.... I\ndo not envy my colleagues on the summits of their official honors; I\nread their works with commiseration; and the pitiful errors to which\nthey are condemned by the insufficiency of their documents would amply\ncounterbalance my chagrin and fill me with ironic joy, had I not been\nraised long since above the satisfaction of self-love.\n\n\"When I was Professor at the Lyc\u00e9e du Parc at Lyons. I knew Berlioux\nand followed eagerly his works on African History. I had, at that\ntime, a very original idea for my doctor's thesis. I was going to\nestablish a parallel between the Berber heroine of the seventh\ncentury, who struggled against the Arab invader, Kahena, and the\nFrench heroine, Joan of Arc, who struggled against the English\ninvader. I proposed to the _Facult\u00e9 des Lettres_ at Paris this title\nfor my thesis: _Joan of Arc and the Tuareg_. This simple announcement\ngave rise to a perfect outcry in learned circles, a furor of\nridicule. My friends warned me discreetly. I refused to believe them.\nFinally I was forced to believe when my rector summoned me before him\nand, after manifesting an astonishing interest in my health, asked\nwhether I should object to taking two years' leave on half pay. I\nrefused indignantly. The rector did not insist; but fifteen days\nlater, a ministerial decree, with no other legal procedure, assigned\nme to one of the most insignificant and remote Lyc\u00e9es of France, at\nMont-de-Marsan.\n\n\"Realize my exasperation and you will excuse the excesses to which I\ndelivered myself in that strange country. What is there to do in\nLandes, if you neither eat nor drink? I did both violently. My pay\nmelted away in _fois gras_, in woodcocks, in fine wines. The result\ncame quickly enough: in less than a year my joints began to crack like\nthe over-oiled axle of a bicycle that has gone a long way upon a dusty\ntrack. A sharp attack of gout nailed me to my bed. Fortunately, in\nthat blessed country, the cure is in reach of the suffering. So I\ndeparted to Dax, at vacation time, to try the waters.\n\n\"I rented a room on the bank of the Adour, overlooking the _Promenade\ndes Baignots_. A charwoman took care of it for me. She worked also for\nan old gentleman, a retired Examining Magistrate, President of the\nRoger-Ducos Society, which was a vague scientific backwater, in which\nthe scholars of the neighborhood applied themselves with prodigious\nincompetence to the most whimsical subjects. One afternoon I stayed in\nmy room on account of a very heavy rain. The good woman was\nenergetically polishing the copper latch of my door. She used a paste\ncalled Tripoli, which she spread upon a paper and rubbed and\nrubbed.... The peculiar appearance of the paper made me curious. I\nglanced at it. 'Great heavens! Where did you get this paper?' She was\nperturbed. 'At my master's; he has lots of it. I tore this out of a\nnotebook.' 'Here are ten francs. Go and get me the notebook.'\n\n\"A quarter of an hour later, she was back with it. By good luck it\nlacked only one page, the one with which she had been polishing my\ndoor. This manuscript, this notebook, have you any idea what it was?\nMerely the _Voyage to Atlantis_ of the mythologist Denis de Milet,\nwhich is mentioned by Diodorus and the loss of which I had so often\nheard Berlioux deplore.[10]\n\n[Footnote 10: How did the _Voyage to Atlantis_ arrive at Dax? I have\nfound, so far, only one credible hypothesis: it might have been\ndiscovered in Africa by the traveller, de Behagle, a member of the\nRoger-Ducos Society, who studied at the college of Dax, and later, on\nseveral occasions, visited the town. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\n\"This inestimable document contained numerous quotations from the\nCritias. It gave an abstract of the illustrious dialogue, the sole\nexisting copy of which you held in your hands a little while ago. It\nestablished past controversy the location of the stronghold of the\nAtlantides, and demonstrated that this site, which is denied by\nscience, was not submerged by the waves, as is supposed by the rare\nand timorous defenders of the Atlantide hypothesis. He called it the\n'central Mazycian range,' You know there is no longer any doubt as to\nthe identification of the Mazyces of Herodotus with the people of\nImoschaoch, the Tuareg. But the manuscript of Denys unquestionably\nidentifies the historical Mazyces with the Atlantides of the supposed\nlegend.\n\n\"I learned, therefore, from Denys, not only that the central part of\nAtlantis, the cradle and home of the dynasty of Neptune, had not sunk\nin the disaster described by Plato as engulfing the rest of the\nAtlantide isle, but also that it corresponded to the Tuareg Ahaggar,\nand that, in this Ahaggar, at least in his time, the noble dynasty of\nNeptune was supposed to be still existent.\n\n\"The historians of Atlantis put the date of the cataclysm which\ndestroyed all or part of that famous country at nine thousand years\nbefore Christ. If Denis de Milet, who wrote scarcely three thousand\nyears ago, believed that in his time, the dynastic issue of Neptune\nwas still ruling its dominion, you will understand that I thought\nimmediately--what has lasted nine thousand years may last eleven\nthousand. From that instant I had only one aim: to find the possible\ndescendants of the Atlantides, and, since I had many reasons for\nsupposing them to be debased and ignorant of their original splendor,\nto inform them of their illustrious descent.\n\n\"You will easily understand that I imparted none of my intentions to\nmy superiors at the University. To solicit their approval or even\ntheir permission, considering the attitude they had taken toward me,\nwould have been almost certainly to invite confinement in a cell. So I\nraised what I could on my own account, and departed without trumpet or\ndrum for Oran. On the first of October I reached In-Salah. Stretched\nat my ease beneath a palm tree, at the oasis, I took infinite pleasure\nin considering how, that very day, the principal of Mont-de-Marsan,\nbeside himself, struggling to control twenty horrible urchins howling\nbefore the door of an empty class room, would be telegraphing wildly\nin all directions in search of his lost history professor.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge stopped and looked at us to mark his satisfaction.\n\nI admit that I forgot my dignity and I forgot the affectation he had\nsteadily assumed of talking only to Morhange.\n\n\"You will pardon me, sir, if your discourse interests me more than I\nhad anticipated. But you know very well that I lack the fundamental\ninstruction necessary to understand you. You speak of the dynasty of\nNeptune. What is this dynasty, from which, I believe, you trace the\ndescent of Antinea? What is her r\u00f4le in the story of Atlantis?\"\n\nM. Le Mesge smiled with condescension, meantime winking at Morhange\nwith the eye nearest to him. Morhange was listening without\nexpression, without a word, chin in hand, elbow on knee.\n\n\"Plato will answer for me, sir,\" said the Professor.\n\nAnd he added, with an accent of inexpressible pity:\n\n\"Is it really possible that you have never made the acquaintance of\nthe introduction to the Critias?\"\n\nHe placed on the table the book by which Morhange had been so\nstrangely moved. He adjusted his spectacles and began to read. It\nseemed as if the magic of Plato vibrated through and transfigured this\nridiculous little old man.\n\n\"'Having drawn by lot the different parts of the earth, the gods\nobtained, some a larger, and some, a smaller share. It was thus that\nNeptune, having received in the division the isle of Atlantis, came to\nplace the children he had had by a mortal in one part of that isle.\nIt was not far from the sea, a plain situated in the midst of the\nisle, the most beautiful, and, they say, the most fertile of plains.\nAbout fifty stades from that plain, in the middle of the isle, was a\nmountain. There dwelt one of those men who, in the very beginning, was\nborn of the Earth, Evenor, with his wife, Leucippe. They had only one\ndaughter, Clito. She was marriageable when her mother and father died,\nand Neptune, being enamored of her, married her. Neptune fortified the\nmountain where she dwelt by isolating it. He made alternate girdles of\nsea and land, the one smaller, the others greater, two of earth and\nthree of water, and centered them round the isle in such a manner that\nthey were at all parts equally distant!...\"\n\nM. Le Mesge broke off his reading.\n\n\"Does this arrangement recall nothing to you?\" he queried.\n\n\"Morhange, Morhange!\" I stammered. \"You remember--our route yesterday,\nour abduction, the two corridors that we had to cross before arriving\nat this mountain?... The girdles of earth and of water?... Two\ntunnels, two enclosures of earth?\"\n\n\"Ha! Ha!\" chuckled M. Le Mesge.\n\nHe smiled as he looked at me. I understood that this smile meant: \"Can\nhe be less obtuse than I had supposed?\"\n\nAs if with a mighty effort, Morhange broke the silence.\n\n\"I understand well enough, I understand.... The three girdles of\nwater.... But then, you are supposing, sir,--an explanation the\ningeniousness of which I do not contest--you are supposing the exact\nhypothesis of the Saharan sea!\"\n\n\"I suppose it, and I can prove it,\" replied the irascible little old\nchap, banging his fist on the table. \"I know well enough what Schirmer\nand the rest have advanced against it. I know it better than you do. I\nknow all about it, sir. I can present all the proofs for your\nconsideration. And in the meantime, this evening at dinner, you will\nno doubt enjoy some excellent fish. And you will tell me if these\nfish, caught in the lake that you can see from this window, seem to\nyou fresh water fish.\n\n\"You must realize,\" he continued, \"the mistake of those who, believing\nin Atlantis, have sought to explain the cataclysm in which they\nsuppose the island to have sunk. Without exception, they have thought\nthat it was swallowed up. Actually, there has not been an immersion.\nThere has been an emersion. New lands have emerged from the Atlantic\nwave. The desert has replaced the sea, the _sebkhas_, the salt lakes,\nthe Triton lakes, the sandy Syrtes are the desolate vestiges of the\nfree sea water over which, in former days, the fleets swept with a\nfair wind towards the conquest of Attica. Sand swallows up\ncivilization better than water. To-day there remains nothing of the\nbeautiful isle that the sea and winds kept gay and verdant but this\nchalky mass. Nothing has endured in this rocky basin, cut off forever\nfrom the living world, but the marvelous oasis that you have at your\nfeet, these red fruits, this cascade, this blue lake, sacred witnesses\nto the golden age that is gone. Last evening, in coming here, you had\nto cross the five enclosures: the three belts of water, dry forever;\nthe two girdles of earth through which are hollowed the passages you\ntraversed on camel back, where, formerly, the triremes floated. The\nonly thing that, in this immense catastrophe, has preserved its\nlikeness to its former state, is this mountain, the mountain where\nNeptune shut up his well-beloved Clito, the daughter of Evenor and\nLeucippe, the mother of Atlas, and the ancestress of Antinea, the\nsovereign under whose dominion you are about to enter forever.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" Morhange with the most exquisite courtesy, \"it would be only a\nnatural anxiety which would urge us to inquire the reasons and the end\nof this dominion. But behold to what extent your revelation interests\nme; I defer this question of private interest. Of late, in two\ncaverns, it has been my fortune to discover Tifinar inscriptions of\nthis name, Antinea. My comrade is witness that I took it for a Greek\nname. I understand now, thanks to you and the divine Plato, that I\nneed no longer feel surprised to hear a barbarian called by a Greek\nname. But I am no less perplexed as to the etymology of the word. Can\nyou enlighten me?\"\n\n\"I shall certainly not fail you there, sir,\" said M. Le Mesge. \"I may\ntell you, too, that you are not the first to put to me that question.\nMost of the explorers that I have seen enter here in the past ten\nyears have been attracted in the same way, intrigued by this Greek\nwork reproduced in Tifinar. I have even arranged a fairly exact\ncatalogue of these inscriptions and the caverns where they are to be\nmet with. All, or almost all, are accompanied by this legend:\n_Antinea. Here commences her domain_. I myself have had repainted with\nochre such as were beginning to be effaced. But, to return to what I\nwas telling you before, none of the Europeans who have followed this\nepigraphic mystery here, have kept their anxiety to solve this\netymology once they found themselves in Antinea's palace. They all\nbecome otherwise preoccupied. I might make many disclosures as to the\nlittle real importance which purely scientific interests possess even\nfor scholars, and the quickness with which they sacrifice them to the\nmost mundane considerations--their own lives, for instance.\"\n\n\"Let us take that up another time, sir, if it is satisfactory to you,\"\nsaid Morhange, always admirably polite.\n\n\"This digression had only one point, sir: to show you that I do not\ncount you among these unworthy scholars. You are really eager to know\nthe origin of this name, _Antinea_, and that before knowing what kind\nof woman it belongs to and her motives for holding you and this\ngentleman as her prisoners.\"\n\nI stared hard at the little old man. But he spoke with profound\nseriousness.\n\n\"So much the better for you, my boy,\" I thought. \"Otherwise it\nwouldn't have taken me long to send you through the window to air your\nironies at your ease. The law of gravity ought not to be topsy-turvy\nhere at Ahaggar.\"\n\n\"You, no doubt, formulated several hypotheses when you first\nencountered the name, Antinea,\" continued M. Le Mesge, imperturbable\nunder my fixed gaze, addressing himself to Morhange. \"Would you object\nto repeating them to me?\"\n\n\"Not at all, sir,\" said Morhange.\n\nAnd, very composedly, he enumerated the etymological suggestions I\nhave given previously.\n\nThe little man with the cherry-colored shirt front rubbed his hands.\n\n\"Very good,\" he admitted with an accent of intense jubilation.\n\"Amazingly good, at least for one with only the modicum of Greek that\nyou possess. But it is all none the less false, super-false.\"\n\n\"It is because I suspected as much that I put my question to you,\"\nsaid Morhange blandly.\n\n\"I will not keep you longer in suspense,\" said M. Le Mesge. \"The word,\nAntinea, is composed as follows: _ti_ is nothing but a Tifinar\naddition to an essentially Greek name. _Ti_ is the Berber feminine\narticle. We have several examples of this combination. Take _Tipasa_,\nthe North African town. The name means the whole, from _ti_ and from\n[Greek: nap]. So, _tinea_ signifies the new, from _ti_ and from\n[Greek: ea].\"\n\n\"And the prefix, _an_?\" queried Morhang.\n\n\"Is it possible, sir, that I have put myself to the trouble of talking\nto you for a solid hour about the Critias with such trifling effect?\nIt is certain that the prefix _an_, alone, has no meaning. You will\nunderstand that it has one, when I tell you that we have here a very\ncurious case of apocope. You must not read _an_; you must read _atlan_.\n_Atl_ has been lost, by apocope; _an_ has survived. To sum up, Antinea\nis composed in the following manner: [Greek: ti-nea--atl'An]. And its\nmeaning, _the new Atlantis_, is dazzlingly apparent from this\ndemonstration.\"\n\nI looked at Morhange. His astonishment was without bounds. The Berber\nprefix _ti_ had literally stunned him.\n\n\"Have you had occasion, sir, to verify this very ingenious etymology?\"\nhe was finally able to gasp out.\n\n\"You have only to glance over these few books,\" said M. Le Mesge\ndisdainfully.\n\nHe opened successively five, ten, twenty cupboards. An enormous\nlibrary was spread out to our view.\n\n\"Everything, everything--it is all here,\" murmured Morhange, with an\nastonishing inflection of terror and admiration.\n\n\"Everything that is worth consulting, at any rate,\" said M. Le Mesge.\n\"All the great books, whose loss the so-called learned world deplores\nto-day.\"\n\n\"And how has it happened?\"\n\n\"Sir, you distress me. I thought you familiar with certain events. You\nare forgetting, then, the passage where Pliny the Elder speaks of the\nlibrary of Carthage and the treasures which were accumulated there? In\n146, when that city fell under the blows of the knave, Scipio, the\nincredible collection of illiterates who bore the name of the Roman\nSenate had only the profoundest contempt for these riches. They\npresented them to the native kings. This is how Mantabal received this\npriceless heritage; it was transmitted to his son and grandson,\nHiempsal, Juba I, Juba II, the husband of the admirable Cleopatra\nSelene, the daughter of the great Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Cleopatra\nSelene had a daughter who married an Atlantide king. This is how\nAntinea, the daughter of Neptune, counts among her ancestors the\nimmortal queen of Egypt. That is how, by following the laws of\ninheritance, the remains of the library of Carthage, enriched by the\nremnants of the library of Alexandria, are actually before your eyes.\n\n\"Science fled from man. While he was building those monstrous Babels\nof pseudo-science in Berlin, London, Paris, Science was taking refuge\nin this desert corner of Ahaggar. They may well forge their hypotheses\nback there, based on the loss of the mysterious works of antiquity:\nthese works are not lost. They are here. They are here: the Hebrew,\nthe Chaldean, the Assyrian books. Here, the great Egyptian traditions\nwhich inspired Solon, Herodotus and Plato. Here, the Greek\nmythologists, the magicians of Roman Africa, the Indian mystics, all\nthe treasures, in a word, for the lack of which contemporary\ndissertations are poor laughable things. Believe me, he is well\navenged, the little universitarian whom they took for a madman, whom\nthey defied. I have lived, I live, I shall live in a perpetual burst\nof laughter at their false and garbled erudition. And when I shall be\ndead, Error,--thanks to the jealous precaution of Neptune taken to\nisolate his well-beloved Clito from the rest of the world,--Error, I\nsay, will continue to reign as sovereign mistress over their pitiful\ncompositions.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Morhange in grave voice, \"you have just affirmed the\ninfluence of Egypt on the civilizations of the people here. For\nreasons which some day, perhaps, I shall have occasion to explain to\nyou, I would like to have proof of that relationship.\"\n\n\"We need not wait for that, sir,\" said M. Le Mesge. Then, in my turn,\nI advanced.\n\n\"Two words, if you please, sir,\" I said brutally. \"I will not hide\nfrom you that these historical discussions seem to me absolutely out\nof place. It is not my fault if you have had trouble with the\nUniversity, and if you are not to-day at the College of France or\nelsewhere. For the moment, just one thing concerns me: to know just\nwhat this lady, Antinea, wants with us. My comrade would like to know\nher relation with ancient Egypt: very well. For my part, I desire\nabove everything to know her relations with the government of Algeria\nand the Arabian Bureau.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge gave a strident laugh.\n\n\"I am going to give you an answer that will satisfy you both,\" he\nreplied.\n\nAnd he added:\n\n\"Follow me. It is time that you should learn.\"\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nTHE RED MARBLE HALL\n\n\nWe passed through an interminable series of stairs and corridors\nfollowing M. Le Mesge.\n\n\"You lose all sense of direction in this labyrinth,\" I muttered to\nMorhange.\n\n\"Worse still, you will lose your head,\" answered my companion _sotto\nvoce_. \"This old fool is certainly very learned; but God knows what he\nis driving at. However, he has promised that we are soon to know.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge had stopped before a heavy dark door, all incrusted with\nstrange symbols. Turning the lock with difficulty, he opened it.\n\n\"Enter, gentlemen, I beg you,\" he said.\n\nA gust of cold air struck us full in the face. The room we were\nentering was chill as a vault.\n\nAt first, the darkness allowed me to form no idea of its proportions.\nThe lighting, purposely subdued, consisted of twelve enormous copper\nlamps, placed column-like upon the ground and burning with brilliant\nred flames. As we entered, the wind from the corridor made the flames\nflicker, momentarily casting about us our own enlarged and misshapen\nshadows. Then the gust died down, and the flames, no longer flurried,\nagain licked up the darkness with their motionless red tongues.\n\nThese twelve giant lamps (each one about ten feet high) were arranged\nin a kind of crown, the diameter of which must have been about fifty\nfeet. In the center of this circle was a dark mass, all streaked with\ntrembling red reflections. When I drew nearer, I saw it was a bubbling\nfountain. It was the freshness of this water which had maintained the\ntemperature of which I have spoken.\n\nHuge seats were cut in the central rock from which gushed the\nmurmuring, shadowy fountain. They were heaped with silky cushions.\nTwelve incense burners, within the circle of red lamps, formed a\nsecond crown, half as large in diameter. Their smoke mounted toward\nthe vault, invisible in the darkness, but their perfume, combined with\nthe coolness and sound of the water, banished from the soul all other\ndesire than to remain there forever.\n\nM. Le Mesge made us sit down in the center of the hall, on the\nCyclopean seats. He seated himself between us.\n\n\"In a few minutes,\" he said, \"your eyes will grow accustomed to the\nobscurity.\"\n\nI noticed that he spoke in a hushed voice, as if he were in church.\n\nLittle by little, our eyes did indeed grow used to the red light. Only\nthe lower part of the great hall was illuminated. The whole vault was\ndrowned in shadow and its height was impossible to estimate. Vaguely,\nI could perceive overhead a great smooth gold chandelier, flecked,\nlike everything else, with sombre red reflections. But there was no\nmeans of judging the length of the chain by which it hung from the\ndark ceiling.\n\nThe marble of the pavement was of so high a polish, that the great\ntorches were reflected even there.\n\nThis room, I repeat, was round a perfect circle of which the fountain\nat our backs was the center.\n\nWe sat facing the curving walls. Before long, we began to be able to\nsee them. They were of peculiar construction, divided into a series\nof niches, broken, ahead of us, by the door which had just opened to\ngive us passage, behind us, by a second door, a still darker hole\nwhich I divined in the darkness when I turned around. From one door to\nthe other, I counted sixty niches, making, in all, one hundred and\ntwenty. Each was about ten feet high. Each contained a kind of case,\nlarger above than below, closed only at the lower end. In all these\ncases, except two just opposite me, I thought I could discern a\nbrilliant shape, a human shape certainly, something like a statue of\nvery pale bronze. In the arc of the circle before me, I counted\nclearly thirty of these strange statues.\n\nWhat were these statues? I wanted to see. I rose.\n\nM. Le Mesge put his hand on my arm.\n\n\"In good time,\" he murmured in the same low voice, \"all in good time.\"\n\nThe Professor was watching the door by which we had entered the hall,\nand from behind which we could hear the sound of footsteps becoming\nmore and more distinct.\n\nIt opened quietly to admit three Tuareg slaves. Two of them were\ncarrying a long package on their shoulders; the third seemed to be\ntheir chief.\n\nAt a sign from him, they placed the package on the ground and drew out\nfrom one of the niches the case which it contained.\n\n\"You may approach, gentlemen,\" said M. Le Mesge.\n\nHe motioned the three Tuareg to withdraw several paces.\n\n\"You asked me, not long since, for some proof of the Egyptian\ninfluence on this country,\" said M. Le Mesge. \"What do you say to that\ncase, to begin with?\"\n\nAs he spoke, he pointed to the case that the servants had deposited\nupon the ground after they took it from its niche.\n\nMorhange uttered a thick cry.\n\nWe had before us one of those cases designed for the preservation of\nmummies. The same shiny wood, the same bright decorations, the only\ndifference being that here Tifinar writing replaced the hieroglyphics.\nThe form, narrow at the base, broader above, ought to have been enough\nto enlighten us.\n\nI have already said that the lower half of this large case was\nclosed, giving the whole structure the appearance of a rectangular\nwooden shoe.\n\nM. Le Mesge knelt and fastened on the lower part of the case, a square\nof white cardboard, a large label, that he had picked up from his\ndesk, a few minutes before, on leaving the library.\n\n\"You may read,\" he said simply, but still in the same low tone.\n\nI knelt also, for the light of the great candelabra was scarcely\nsufficient to read the label where, none the less, I recognized the\nProfessor's handwriting.\n\nIt bore these few words, in a large round hand:\n\n\"Number 53. Major Sir Archibald Russell. Born at Richmond, July 5,\n1860. Died at Ahaggar, December 3, 1896.\"\n\nI leapt to my feet.\n\n\"Major Russell!\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Not so loud, not so loud,\" said M. Le Mesge. \"No one speaks out loud\nhere.\"\n\n\"The Major Russell,\" I repeated, obeying his injunction as if in spite\nof myself, \"who left Khartoum last year, to explore Sokoto?\"\n\n\"The same,\" replied the Professor.\n\n\"And ... where is Major Russell?\"\n\n\"He is there,\" replied M. Le Mesge.\n\nThe Professor made a gesture. The Tuareg approached.\n\nA poignant silence reigned in the mysterious hall, broken only by the\nfresh splashing of the fountain.\n\nThe three Negroes were occupied in undoing the package that they had\nput down near the painted case. Weighed down with wordless horror,\nMorhange and I stood watching.\n\nSoon, a rigid form, a human form, appeared. A red gleam played over\nit. We had before us, stretched out upon the ground, a statue of pale\nbronze, wrapped in a kind of white veil, a statue like those all\naround us, upright in their niches. It seemed to fix us with an\nimpenetrable gaze.\n\n\"Sir Archibald Russell,\" murmured M. Le Mesge slowly.\n\nMorhange approached, speechless, but strong enough to lift up the\nwhite veil. For a long, long time he gazed at the sad bronze statue.\n\n\"A mummy, a mummy?\" he said finally. \"You deceive yourself, sir, this\nis no mummy.\"\n\n\"Accurately speaking, no,\" replied M. Le Mesge. \"This is not a mummy.\nNone the less, you have before you the mortal remains of Sir Archibald\nRussell. I must point out to you, here, my dear sir, that the\nprocesses of embalming used by Antinea differ from the processes\nemployed in ancient Egypt. Here, there is no natron, nor bands, nor\nspices. The industry of Ahaggar, in a single effort, has achieved a\nresult obtained by European science only after long experiments.\nImagine my surprise, when I arrived here and found that they were\nemploying a method I supposed known only to the civilized world.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge struck a light tap with his finger on the forehead of Sir\nArchibald Russell. It rang like metal.\n\n\"It is bronze,\" I said. \"That is not a human forehead: it is bronze.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"It is a human forehead,\" he affirmed curtly, \"and not bronze. Bronze\nis darker, sir. This is the great unknown metal of which Plato speaks\nin the Critias, and which is something between gold and silver: it is\nthe special metal of the mountains of the Atlantides. It is\n_orichalch_.\"\n\nBending again, I satisfied myself that this metal was the same as that\nwith which the walls of the library were overcast.\n\n\"It is orichalch,\" continued M. Le Mesge. \"You look as if you had no\nidea how a human body can look like a statue of orichalch. Come,\nCaptain Morhange, you whom I gave credit for a certain amount of\nknowledge, have you never heard of the method of Dr. Variot, by which\na human body can be preserved without embalming? Have you never read\nthe book of that practitioner?[11] He explains a method called\nelectro-plating. The skin is coated with a very thin layer of silver\nsalts, to make it a conductor. The body then is placed in a solution,\nof copper sulphate, and the polar currents do their work. The body of\nthis estimable English major has been metalized in the same manner,\nexcept that a solution of orichalch sulphate, a very rare substance,\nhas been substituted for that of copper sulphate. Thus, instead of the\nstatue of a poor slave, a copper statue, you have before you a statue\nof metal more precious than silver or gold, in a word, a statue worthy\nof the granddaughter of Neptune.\"\n\n[Footnote 11: Variot: _L'anthropologie galvanique_. Paris, 1890. (Note\nby M. Leroux.)]\n\nM. Le Mesge waved his arm. The black slaves seized the body. In a few\nseconds, they slid the orichalch ghost into its painted wooden sheath.\nThat was set on end and slid into its niche, beside the niche where an\nexactly similar sheath was labelled \"Number 52.\"\n\nUpon finishing their task, they retired without a word. A draught of\ncold air from the door again made the flames of the copper torches\nflicker and threw great shadows about us.\n\nMorhange and I remained as motionless as the pale metal specters which\nsurrounded us. Suddenly I pulled myself together and staggered forward\nto the niche beside that in which they just had laid the remains of\nthe English major. I looked for the label.\n\nSupporting myself against the red marble wall, I read:\n\n\"Number 52. Captain Laurent Deligne. Born at Paris, July 22, 1861.\nDied at Ahaggar, October 30, 1896.\"\n\n\"Captain Deligne!\" murmured Morhange. \"He left Colomb-B\u00e9char in 1895\nfor Timmimoun and no more has been heard of him since then.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said M. Le Mesge, with a little nod of approval.\n\n\"Number 51,\" read Morhange with chattering teeth. \"Colonel von\nWittman, born at Jena in 1855. Died at Ahaggar, May 1, 1896....\nColonel Wittman, the explorer of Kanem, who disappeared off Agad\u00e8s.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said M. Le Mesge again.\n\n\"Number 50,\" I read in my turn, steadying myself against the wall, so\nas not to fall. \"Marquis Alonzo d'Oliveira, born at Cadiz, February\n21, 1868. Died at Ahaggar, February 1, 1896. Oliveira, who was going\nto Araouan.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said M. Le Mesge again. \"That Spaniard was one of the best\neducated. I used to have interesting discussions with him on the exact\ngeographical position of the kingdom of Ant\u00e9e.\"\n\n\"Number 49,\" said Morhange in a tone scarcely more than a whisper.\n\"Lieutenant Woodhouse, born at Liverpool, September 16, 1870. Died at\nAhaggar, October 4, 1895.\"\n\n\"Hardly more than a child,\" said M. Le Mesge.\n\n\"Number 48,\" I said. \"Lieutenant Louis de Maillefeu, born at Provins,\nthe....\"\n\nI did not finish. My voice choked.\n\nLouis de Maillefeu, my best friend, the friend of my childhood and of\nSaint-Cyr.... I looked at him and recognized him under the metallic\ncoating. Louis de Maillefeu!\n\nI laid my forehead against the cold wall and, with shaking shoulders,\nbegan to sob.\n\nI heard the muffled voice of Morhange speaking to the Professor:\n\n\"Sir, this has lasted long enough. Let us make an end of it.\"\n\n\"He wanted to know,\" said M. Le Mesge. \"What am I to do?\"\n\nI went up to him and seized his shoulders.\n\n\"What happened to him? What did he die of?\"\n\n\"Just like the others,\" the Professor replied, \"just like Lieutenant\nWoodhouse, like Captain Deligne, like Major Russell, like Colonel von\nWittman, like the forty-seven of yesterday and all those of\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Of what did they die?\" Morhange demanded imperatively in his turn.\n\nThe Professor looked at Morhange. I saw my comrade grow pale.\n\n\"Of what did they die, sir? _They died of love_.\"\n\nAnd he added in a very low, very grave voice:\n\n\"Now you know.\"\n\nGently and with a tact which we should hardly have suspected in him,\nM. Le Mesge drew us away from the statues. A moment later, Morhange\nand I found ourselves again seated, or rather sunk among the cushions\nin the center of the room. The invisible fountain murmured its plaint\nat our feet.\n\nLe Mesge sat between us.\n\n\"Now you know,\" he repeated. \"You know, but you do not yet\nunderstand.\"\n\nThen, very slowly, he said:\n\n\"You are, as they have been, the prisoners of Antinea. And vengeance\nis due Antinea.\"\n\n\"Vengeance?\" said Morhange, who had regained his self-possession. \"For\nwhat, I beg to ask? What have the lieutenant and I done to Atlantis?\nHow have we incurred her hatred?\"\n\n\"It is an old quarrel, a very old quarrel,\" the Professor replied\ngravely. \"A quarrel which long antedates you, M. Morhange.\"\n\n\"Explain yourself, I beg of you, Professor.\"\n\n\"You are Man. She is a Woman,\" said the dreamy voice of M. Le Mesge.\n\"The whole matter lies there.\"\n\n\"Really, sir, I do not see ... we do not see.\"\n\n\"You are going to understand. Have you really forgotten to what an\nextent the beautiful queens of antiquity had just cause to complain of\nthe strangers whom fortune brought to their borders? The poet, Victor\nHugo, pictured their detestable acts well enough in his colonial poem\ncalled _la Fille d'O-Taiti_. Wherever we look, we see similar examples\nof fraud and ingratitude. These gentlemen made free use of the beauty\nand the riches of the lady. Then, one fine morning, they disappeared.\nShe was indeed lucky if her lover, having observed the position\ncarefully, did not return with ships and troops of occupation.\"\n\n\"Your learning charms me,\" said Morhange. \"Continue.\"\n\n\"Do you need examples? Alas! they abound. Think of the cavalier\nfashion in which Ulysses treated Calypso, Diomedes Callirho\u00eb. What\nshould I say of Theseus and Ariadne? Jason treated Medea with\ninconceivable lightness. The Romans continued the tradition with still\ngreater brutality. Aenaeus, who has many characteristics in common\nwith the Reverend Spardek, treated Dido in a most undeserved fashion.\nCaesar was a laurel-crowned blackguard in his relations with the\ndivine Cleopatra. Titus, that hypocrite Titus, after having lived a\nwhole year in Idummea at the expense of the plaintive Berenice, took\nher back to Rome only to make game of her. It is time that the sons of\nJaphet paid this formidable reckoning of injuries to the daughters of\nShem.\n\n\"A woman has taken it upon herself to re-establish the great Hegelian\nlaw of equilibrium for the benefit of her sex. Separated from the\nAryan world by the formidable precautions of Neptune, she draws the\nyoungest and bravest to her. Her body is condescending, while her\nspirit is inexorable. She takes what these bold young men can give\nher. She lends them her body, while her soul dominates them. She is\nthe first sovereign who has never been made the slave of passion, even\nfor a moment. She has never been obliged to regain her self-mastery,\nfor she never has lost it. She is the only woman who has been able to\ndisassociate those two inextricable things, love and voluptuousness.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge paused a moment and then went on.\n\n\"Once every day, she comes to this vault. She stops before the niches;\nshe meditates before the rigid statues; she touches the cold bosoms,\nso burning when she knew them. Then, after dreaming before the empty\nniche where the next victim soon will sleep his eternal sleep in a\ncold case of orichalch, she returns nonchalantly where he is waiting\nfor her.\"\n\nThe Professor stopped speaking. The fountain again made itself heard\nin the midst of the shadow. My pulses beat, my head seemed on fire. A\nfever was consuming me.\n\n\"And all of them,\" I cried, regardless of the place, \"all of them\ncomplied! They submitted! Well, she has only to come and she will see\nwhat will happen.\"\n\nMorhange was silent.\n\n\"My dear sir,\" said M. Le Mesge in a very gentle voice, \"you are\nspeaking like a child. You do not know. You have not seen Antinea. Let\nme tell you one thing: that among those\"--and with a sweeping gesture\nhe indicated the silent circle of statues--\"there were men as\ncourageous as you and perhaps less excitable. I remember one of them\nespecially well, a phlegmatic Englishman who now is resting under\nNumber 32. When he first appeared before Antinea, he was smoking a\ncigar. And, like all the rest, he bent before the gaze of his\nsovereign.\n\n\"Do not speak until you have seen her. A university training hardly\nfits one to discourse upon matters of passion, and I feel scarcely\nqualified, myself, to tell you what Antinea is. I only affirm this,\nthat when you have seen her, you will remember nothing else. Family,\ncountry, honor, you will renounce everything for her.\"\n\n\"Everything?\" asked Morhange in a calm voice.\n\n\"Everything,\" Le Mesge insisted emphatically. \"You will forget all,\nyou will renounce all.\"\n\nFrom outside, a faint sound came to us.\n\nLe Mesge consulted his watch.\n\n\"In any case, you will see.\"\n\nThe door opened. A tall white Targa, the tallest we had yet seen in\nthis remarkable abode, entered and came toward us.\n\nHe bowed and touched me lightly on the shoulder.\n\n\"Follow him,\" said M. Le Mesge.\n\nWithout a word, I obeyed.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nANTINEA\n\n\nMy guide and I passed along another long corridor. My excitement\nincreased. I was impatient for one thing only, to come face to face\nwith that woman, to tell her.... So far as anything else was\nconcerned, I already was done for.\n\nI was mistaken in hoping that the adventure would take an heroic turn\nat once. In real life, these contrasts never are definitely marked\nout. I should have remembered from many past incidents that the\nburlesque was regularly mixed with the tragic in my life.\n\nWe reached a little transparent door. My guide stood aside to let me\npass.\n\nI found myself in the most luxurious of dressing-rooms. A ground glass\nceiling diffused a gay rosy light over the marble floor. The first\nthing I noticed was a clock, fastened to the wall. In place of the\nfigures for the hours, were the signs of the Zodiac. The small hand\nhad not yet reached the sign of Capricorn.\n\nOnly three o'clock!\n\nThe day seemed to have lasted a century already.... And only a little\nmore than half of it was gone.\n\nAnother idea came to me, and a convulsive laugh bent me double.\n\n\"Antinea wants me to be at my best when I meet her.\"\n\nA mirror of orichalch formed one whole side of the room. Glancing into\nit, I realized that in all decency there was nothing exaggerated in\nthe demand.\n\nMy untrimmed beard, the frightful layer of dirt which lay about my\neyes and furrowed my cheeks, my clothing, spotted by all the clay of\nthe Sahara and torn by all the thorns of Ahaggar--all this made me\nappear a pitiable enough suitor.\n\nI lost no time in undressing and plunging into the porphry bath in the\ncenter of the room. A delicious drowsiness came over me in that\nperfumed water. A thousand little jars, spread on a costly carved wood\ndressing-table, danced before my eyes. They were of all sizes and\ncolors, carved in a very transparent kind of jade. The warm humidity\nof the atmosphere hastened my relaxation.\n\nI still had strength to think, \"The devil take Atlantis and the vault\nand Le Mesge.\"\n\nThen I fell asleep in the bath.\n\nWhen I opened my eyes again, the little hand of the clock had almost\nreached the sign of Taurus. Before me, his black hands braced on the\nedge of the bath, stood a huge Negro, bare-faced and bare-armed, his\nforehead bound with an immense orange turban.\n\nHe looked at me and showed his white teeth in a silent laugh.\n\n\"Who is this fellow?\"\n\nThe Negro laughed harder. Without saying a word, he lifted me like a\nfeather out of the perfumed water, now of a color on which I shall not\ndwell.\n\nIn no time at all, I was stretched out on an inclined marble table.\n\nThe Negro began to massage me vigorously.\n\n\"More gently there, fellow!\"\n\nMy masseur did not reply, but laughed and rubbed still harder.\n\n\"Where do you come from? Kanem? Torkou? You laugh too much for a\nTarga.\"\n\nUnbroken silence. The Negro was as speechless as he was hilarious.\n\n\"After all, I am making a fool of myself,\" I said, giving up the case.\n\"Such as he is, he is more agreeable than Le Mesge with his\nnightmarish erudition. But, on my word, what a recruit he would be for\nHamman on the rue des Mathurins!\"\n\n\"Cigarette, sidi?\"\n\nWithout awaiting my reply, he placed a cigarette between my lips and\nlighted it, and resumed his task of polishing every inch of me.\n\n\"He doesn't talk much, but he is obliging,\" I thought.\n\nAnd I sent a puff of smoke into his face.\n\nThis pleasantry seemed to delight him immensely. He showed his\npleasure by giving me great slaps.\n\nWhen he had dressed me down sufficiently, he took a little jar from\nthe dressing-table and began to rub me with a rose-colored ointment.\nWeariness seemed to fly away from my rejuvenated muscles.\n\nA stroke on a copper gong. My masseur disappeared. A stunted old\nNegress entered, dressed in the most tawdry tinsel. She was talkative\nas a magpie, but at first I did not understand a word in the\ninterminable string she unwound, while she took first my hands, then\nmy feet, and polished the nails with determined grimaces.\n\nAnother stroke on the gong. The old woman gave place to another Negro,\ngrave, this time, and dressed all in white with a knitted skull cap on\nhis oblong head. It was the barber, and a remarkably dexterous one. He\nquickly trimmed my hair, and, on my word, it was well done. Then,\nwithout asking me what style I preferred, he shaved me clean.\n\nI looked with pleasure at my face, once more visible.\n\n\"Antinea must like the American type,\" I thought. \"What an affront to\nthe memory of her worthy grandfather, Neptune!\"\n\nThe gay Negro entered and placed a package on the divan. The barber\ndisappeared. I was somewhat astonished to observe that the package,\nwhich my new valet opened carefully, contained a suit of white\nflannels exactly like those French officers wear in Algeria in summer.\n\nThe wide trousers seemed made to my measure. The tunic fitted without\na wrinkle, and my astonishment was unbounded at observing that it even\nhad two gilt _galons_, the insignia of my rank, braided on the cuffs.\nFor shoes, there were slippers of red Morocco leather, with gold\nornaments. The underwear, all of silk, seemed to have come straight\nfrom the rue de la Paix.\n\n\"Dinner was excellent,\" I murmured, looking at myself in the mirror\nwith satisfaction. \"The apartment is perfectly arranged. Yes, but....\"\n\nI could not repress a shudder when I suddenly recalled that room of\nred marble.\n\nThe clock struck half past four.\n\nSomeone rapped gently on the door. The tall white Targa, who had\nbrought me, appeared in the doorway.\n\nHe stepped forward, touched me on the arm and signed for me to follow.\n\nAgain I followed him.\n\nWe passed through interminable corridors. I was disturbed, but the\nwarm water had given me a certain feeling of detachment. And above\nall, more than I wished to admit, I had a growing sense of lively\ncuriosity. If, at that moment, someone had offered to lead me back to\nthe route across the white plain near Shikh-Salah, would I have\naccepted? Hardly.\n\nI tried to feel ashamed of my curiosity. I thought of Maillefeu.\n\n\"He, too, followed this corridor. And now he is down there, in the red\nmarble hall.\"\n\nI had no time to linger over this reminiscence. I was suddenly bowled\nover, thrown to the ground, as if by a sort of meteor. The corridor\nwas dark; I could see nothing. I heard only a mocking growl.\n\nThe white Targa had flattened himself back against the wall.\n\n\"Good,\" I mumbled, picking myself up, \"the deviltries are beginning.\"\n\nWe continued on our way. A glow different from that of the rose night\nlights soon began to light up the corridor.\n\nWe reached a high bronze door, in which a strange lacy design had\nbeen cut in filigree. A clear gong sounded, and the double doors\nopened part way. The Targa remained in the corridor, closing the doors\nafter me.\n\nI took a few steps forward mechanically, then paused, rooted to the\nspot, and rubbed my eyes.\n\nI was dazzled by the sight of the sky.\n\nSeveral hours of shaded light had unaccustomed me to daylight. It\npoured in through one whole side of the huge room.\n\nThe room was in the lower part of this mountain, which was more\nhoneycombed with corridors and passages than an Egyptian pyramid. It\nwas on a level with the garden which I had seen in the morning from\nthe balcony, and seemed to be a continuation of it; the carpet\nextended out under the great palm trees and the birds flew about the\nforest of pillars in the room.\n\nBy contrast, the half of the room untouched by direct light from the\noasis seemed dark. The sun, setting behind the mountain, painted the\ngarden paths with rose and flamed with red upon the traditional\nflamingo which stood with one foot raised at the edge of the sapphire\nlake.\n\nSuddenly I was bowled over a second time.\n\nI felt a warm, silky touch, a burning breath on my neck. Again the\nmocking growl which had so disturbed me in the corridor.\n\nWith a wrench, I pulled myself free and sent a chance blow at my\nassailant. The cry, this time of pain and rage, broke out again.\n\nIt was echoed by a long peal of laughter. Furious, I turned to look\nfor the insolent onlooker, thinking to speak my mind. And then my\nglance stood still.\n\nAntinea was before me.\n\n\nIn the dimmest part of the room, under a kind of arch lit by the mauve\nrays from a dozen incense-lamps, four women lay on a heap of\nmany-colored cushions and rare white Persian rugs.\n\nI recognized the first three as Tuareg women, of a splendid regular\nbeauty, dressed in magnificent robes of white silk embroidered in\ngold. The fourth, very dark skinned, almost negroid, seemed younger.\nA tunic of red silk enhanced the dusk of her face, her arms and her\nbare feet. The four were grouped about a sort of throne of white rugs,\ncovered with a gigantic lion's skin, on which, half raised on one\nelbow, lay Antinea.\n\nAntinea! Whenever I saw her after that, I wondered if I had really\nlooked at her before, so much more beautiful did I find her. More\nbeautiful? Inadequate word. Inadequate language! But is it really the\nfault of the language or of those who abuse the word?\n\nOne could not stand before her without recalling the woman for whom\nEphractoeus overcame Atlas, of her for whom Sapor usurped the scepter\nof Ozymandias, for whom Mamylos subjugated Susa and Tentyris, for whom\nAntony fled....\n\n    _O tremblant coeur humain, si jamais tu vibras\n    C'est dans l'\u00e9treinte alti\u00e8re et chaude de ses bras_.\n\nAn Egyptian _klaft_ fell over her abundant blue-black curls. Its two\npoints of heavy, gold-embroidered cloth extended to her slim hips. The\ngolden serpent, emerald-eyed, was clasped about her little round,\ndetermined forehead, darting its double tongue of rubies over her\nhead.\n\nShe wore a tunic of black chiffon shot with gold, very light, very\nfull, slightly gathered in by a white muslin scarf embroidered with\niris in black pearls.\n\nThat was Antinea's costume. But what was she beneath all this? A slim\nyoung girl, with long green eyes and the slender profile of a hawk. A\nmore intense Adonis. A child queen of Sheba, but with a look, a smile,\nsuch as no Oriental ever had. A miracle of irony and freedom.\n\nI did not see her body. Indeed I should not have thought of looking at\nit, had I had the strength. And that, perhaps, was the most\nextraordinary thing about that first impression. In that unforgettable\nmoment nothing would have seemed to me more horribly sacrilegious than\nto think of the fifty victims in the red marble hall, of the fifty\nyoung men who had held that slender body in their arms.\n\nShe was still laughing at me.\n\n\"King Hiram,\" she called.\n\nI turned and saw my enemy.\n\nOn the capital of one of the columns, twenty feet above the floor, a\nsplendid leopard was crouched. He still looked surly from the blow I\nhad dealt him.\n\n\"King Hiram,\" Antinea repeated. \"Come here.\"\n\nThe beast relaxed like a spring released. He fawned at his mistress's\nfeet. I saw his red tongue licking her bare little ankles.\n\n\"Ask the gentleman's pardon,\" she said.\n\nThe leopard looked at me spitefully. The yellow skin of his muzzle\npuckered about his black moustache.\n\n\"Fftt,\" he grumbled like a great cat.\n\n\"Go,\" Antinea ordered imperiously.\n\nThe beast crawled reluctantly toward me. He laid his head humbly\nbetween his paws and waited.\n\nI stroked his beautiful spotted forehead.\n\n\"You must not be vexed,\" said Antinea. \"He is always that way with\nstrangers.\"\n\n\"Then he must often be in bad humor,\" I said simply.\n\nThose were my first words. They brought a smile to Antinea's lips.\n\nShe gave me a long, quiet look.\n\n\"Aguida,\" she said to one of the Targa women, \"you will give\ntwenty-five pounds in gold to Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh.\"\n\n\"You are a lieutenant?\" she asked, after a pause.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where do you come from?\"\n\n\"From France.\"\n\n\"I might have guessed that,\" she said ironically, \"but from what part\nof France?\"\n\n\"From what we call the Lot-et-Garonne.\"\n\n\"From what town?\"\n\n\"From Duras.\"\n\nShe reflected a moment.\n\n\"Duras! There is a little river there, the Dropt, and a fine old\nch\u00e2teau.\"\n\n\"You know Duras?\" I murmured, amazed.\n\n\"You go there from Bordeaux by a little branch railway,\" she went\non. \"It is a shut-in road, with vine-covered hills crowned by\nthe feudal ruins. The villages have beautiful names: Mons\u00e9gur,\nSauve-terre-de-Guyenne, la Tresne, Cr\u00e9on, ... Cr\u00e9on, as in Antigone.\"\n\n\"You have been there?\"\n\nShe looked at me.\n\n\"Don't speak so coldly,\" she said. \"Sooner or later we will be\nintimate, and you may as well lay aside formality now.\"\n\nThis threatening promise suddenly filled me with great happiness. I\nthought of Le Mesge's words: \"Don't talk until you have seen her. When\nyou have seen her, you will renounce everything for her.\"\n\n\"Have I been in Duras?\" she went on with a burst of laughter. \"You are\njoking. Imagine Neptune's granddaughter in the first-class compartment\nof a local train!\"\n\nShe pointed to an enormous white rock which towered above the palm\ntrees of the garden.\n\n\"That is my horizon,\" she said gravely.\n\nShe picked up one of several books which lay scattered about her on\nthe lion's skin.\n\n\"The time table of the _Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest_,\" she said.\n\"Admirable reading for one who never budges! Here it is half-past five\nin the afternoon. A train, a local, arrived three minutes ago at\nSurg\u00e8res in the Charente-Inf\u00e9rieure. It will start on in six minutes.\nIn two hours it will reach La Rochelle. How strange it seems to think\nof such things here. So far away! So much commotion there! Here,\nnothing changes.\"\n\n\"You speak French well,\" I said.\n\nShe gave a little nervous laugh.\n\n\"I have to. And German, too, and Italian, and English and Spanish. My\nway of living has made me a great polygot. But I prefer French, even\nto Tuareg and Arabian. It seems as if I had always known it. And I am\nnot saying that to please you.\"\n\nThere was a pause. I thought of her grandmother, of whom Plutarch\nsaid: \"There were few races with which she needed an interpreter.\nCleopatra spoke their own language to the Ethiopians, to the\nTroglodytes, the Hebrews, the Arabs, the Medes and the Persians.\"\n\n\"Do not stand rooted in the middle of the room. You worry me. Come\nsit here, beside me. Move over, King Hiram.\"\n\nThe leopard obeyed with good temper.\n\nBeside her was an onyx bowl. She took from it a perfectly plain ring\nof orichalch and slipped it on my left ring-finger. I saw that she\nwore one like it.\n\n\"Tanit-Zerga, give Monsieur de Saint-Avit a rose sherbet.\"\n\nThe dark girl in red silk obeyed.\n\n\"My private secretary,\" said Antinea, introducing her. \"Mademoiselle\nTanit-Zerga, of G\u00e2o, on the Niger. Her family is almost as ancient as\nmine.\"\n\nAs she spoke, she looked at me. Her green eyes seemed to be appraising\nme.\n\n\"And your comrade, the Captain?\" she asked in a dreamy tone. \"I have\nnot yet seen him. What is he like? Does he resemble you?\"\n\nFor the first time since I had entered, I thought of Morhange. I did\nnot answer.\n\nAntinea smiled.\n\nShe stretched herself out full length on the lion skin. Her bare right\nknee slipped out from under her tunic.\n\n\"It is time to go find him,\" she said languidly. \"You will soon\nreceive my orders. Tanit-Zerga, show him the way. First take him to\nhis room. He cannot have seen it.\"\n\nI rose and lifted her hand to my lips. She struck me with it so\nsharply as to make my lips bleed, as if to brand me as her possession.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI was in the dark corridor again. The young girl in the red silk tunic\nwalked ahead of me.\n\n\"Here is your room,\" she said. \"If you wish, I will take you to the\ndining-room. The others are about to meet there for dinner.\"\n\nShe spoke an adorable lisping French.\n\n\"No, Tanit-Zerga, I would rather stay here this evening. I am not\nhungry. I am tired.\"\n\n\"You remember my name?\" she said.\n\nShe seemed proud of it. I felt that in her I had an ally in case of\nneed.\n\n\"I remember your name, Tanit-Zerga, because it is beautiful.\"[12]\n\n[Footnote 12: In Berber, Tanit means a spring; zerga is the feminine of\nthe adjective azreg, blue. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\nThen I added:\n\n\"Now, leave me, little one. I want to be alone.\"\n\nIt seemed as if she would never go. I was touched, but at the same\ntime vexed. I felt a great need of withdrawing into myself.\n\n\"My room is above yours,\" she said. \"There is a copper gong on the\ntable here. You have only to strike if you want anything. A white\nTarga will answer.\"\n\nFor a second, these instructions amused me. I was in a hotel in the\nmidst of the Sahara. I had only to ring for service.\n\nI looked about my room. My room! For how long?\n\nIt was fairly large. Cushions, a couch, an alcove cut into the rock,\nall lighted by a great window covered by a matting shade.\n\nI went to the window and raised the shade. The light of the setting\nsun entered.\n\nI leaned my elbows on the rocky sill. Inexpressible emotion filled my\nheart. The window faced south. It was about two hundred feet above the\nground. The black, polished volcanic wall yawned dizzily below me.\n\nIn front of me, perhaps a mile and a half away, was another wall, the\nfirst enclosure mentioned in the Critias. And beyond it in the\ndistance, I saw the limitless red desert.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nMORHANGE DISAPPEARS\n\n\nMy fatigue was so great that I lay as if unconscious until the next\nday. I awoke about three o'clock in the afternoon.\n\nI thought at once of the events of the previous day; they seemed\namazing.\n\n\"Let me see,\" I said to myself. \"Let us work this out. I must begin by\nconsulting Morhange.\"\n\nI was ravenously hungry.\n\nThe gong which Tanit-Zerga had pointed out lay within arm's reach. I\nstruck it. A white Targa appeared.\n\n\"Show me the way to the library,\" I ordered.\n\nHe obeyed. As we wound our way through the labyrinth of stairs and\ncorridors I realized that I could never have found my way without his\nhelp.\n\nMorhange was in the library, intently reading a manuscript.\n\n\"A lost treatise of Saint Optat,\" he said. \"Oh, if only Dom Granger\nwere here. See, it is written in semi-uncial characters.\"\n\nI did not reply. My eyes were fixed on an object which lay on the\ntable beside the manuscript. It was an orichalch ring, exactly like\nthat which Antinea had given me the previous day and the one which she\nherself wore.\n\nMorhange smiled.\n\n\"Well?\" I said.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"You have seen her?\"\n\n\"I have indeed,\" Morhange replied.\n\n\"She is beautiful, is she not?\"\n\n\"It would be difficult to dispute that,\" my comrade answered. \"I even\nbelieve that I can say that she is as intelligent as she is\nbeautiful.\"\n\nThere was a pause. Morhange was calmly fingering the orichalch ring.\n\n\"You know what our fate is to be?\"\n\n\"I know. Le Mesge explained it to us yesterday in polite mythological\nterms. This evidently is an extraordinary adventure.\"\n\nHe was silent, then said, looking at me:\n\n\"I am very sorry to have dragged you here. The only mitigating feature\nis that since last evening you seem to have been bearing your lot very\neasily.\"\n\nWhere had Morhange learned this insight into the human heart? I did\nnot reply, thus giving him the best of proofs that he had judged\ncorrectly.\n\n\"What do you think of doing?\" I finally murmured.\n\nHe rolled up the manuscript, leaned back comfortably in his armchair\nand lit a cigar.\n\n\"I have thought it over carefully. With the aid of my conscience I\nhave marked out a line of conduct. The matter is clear and admits no\ndiscussion.\n\n\"The question is not quite the same for me as for you, because of my\nsemi-religious character, which, I admit, has set out on a rather\ndoubtful adventure. To be sure, I have not taken holy orders, but,\neven aside from the fact that the ninth commandment itself forbids my\nhaving relations with a woman not my wife, I admit that I have no\ntaste for the kind of forced servitude for which the excellent\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh has so kindly recruited us.\n\n\"That granted, the fact remains that my life is not my own with the\nright to dispose of it as might a private explorer travelling at his\nown expenses and for his own ends. I have a mission to accomplish,\nresults to obtain. If I could regain my liberty by paying the singular\nransom which this country exacts, I should consent to give\nsatisfaction to Antinea according to my ability. I know the tolerance\nof the Church, and especially that of the order to which I aspire:\nsuch a procedure would be ratified immediately and, who knows, perhaps\neven approved? Saint Mary the Egyptian, gave her body to boatmen under\nsimilar circumstances. She received only glorification for it. In so\ndoing she had the certainty of attaining her goal, which was holy. The\nend justified the means.\n\n\"But my case is quite different. If I give in to the absurd caprices\nof this woman, that will not keep me from being catalogued down in the\nred marble hall, as Number 54, or as Number 55, if she prefers to take\nyou first. Under those conditions....\"\n\n\"Under those conditions?\"\n\n\"Under those conditions, it would be unpardonable for me to\nacquiesce.\"\n\n\"Then what do you intend to do?\"\n\n\"What do I intend to do?\" Morhange leaned back in the armchair and\nsmilingly launched a puff of smoke toward the ceiling.\n\n\"Nothing,\" he said. \"And that is all that is necessary. Man has this\nsuperiority over woman. He is so constructed that he can refuse\nadvances.\"\n\nThen he added with an ironical smile:\n\n\"A man cannot be forced to accept unless he wishes to.\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"I tried the most subtle reasoning on Antinea,\" he continued. \"It was\nbreath wasted. 'But,' I said at the end of my arguments, 'why not Le\nMesge?' She began to laugh. 'Why not the Reverend Spardek?' she\nreplied. 'Le Mesge and Spardek are savants whom I respect. But\n\n    _Maudit soit \u00e0 jamais r\u00eaveur inutile,\n    Qui voulut, le premier, dans sa stupidit\u00e9,\n    S'\u00e9prenant d'un probl\u00e8me insoluble et st\u00e9rile,\n    Aux choses de l'amour m\u00ealer l'honn\u00eatet\u00e9._\n\n\"'Besides,' she added with that really very charming smile of hers,\n'probably you have not looked carefully at either of them.' There\nfollowed several compliments on my figure, to which I found nothing to\nreply, so completely had she disarmed me by those four lines from\nBaudelaire.\n\n\"She condescended to explain further: 'Le Mesge is a learned gentleman\nwhom I find useful. He knows Spanish and Italian, keeps my papers in\norder, and is busy working out my genealogy. The Reverend Spardek\nknows English and German. Count Bielowsky is thoroughly conversant\nwith the Slavic languages. Besides, I love him like a father. He knew\nme as a child when I had not dreamed such stupid things as you know\nof me. They are indispensable to me in my relations with visitors of\ndifferent races, although I am beginning to get along well enough in\nthe languages which I need.... But I am talking a great deal, and this\nis the first time that I have ever explained my conduct. Your friend\nis not so curious.' With that, she dismissed me. A strange woman\nindeed. I think there is a bit of Renan in her but she is cleverer\nthan that master of sensualism.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said Le Mesge, suddenly entering the room, \"why are you\nso late? They are waiting dinner for you.\"\n\nThe little Professor was in a particularly good humor that evening. He\nwore a new violet rosette.\n\n\"Well?\" he said, in a mocking tone, \"you have seen her?\"\n\nNeither Morhange nor I replied.\n\nThe Reverend Spardek and the Hetmari of Jitomir already had begun\neating when we arrived. The setting sun threw raspberry lights on the\ncream-colored mat.\n\n\"Be seated, gentlemen,\" said Le Mesge noisily. \"Lieutenant de\nSaint-Avit, you were not with us last evening. You are about to taste\nthe cooking of Koukou, our Bambara chef, for the first time. You must\ngive me your opinion of it.\"\n\nA Negro waiter set before me a superb fish covered with a pimento\nsauce as red as tomatoes.\n\nI have explained that I was ravenously hungry. The dish was exquisite.\nThe sauce immediately made me thirsty.\n\n\"White Ahaggar, 1879,\" the Herman of Jitomir breathed in my ear as he\nfilled my goblet with a clear topaz liquid. \"I developed it myself:\n_rien pour la t\u00eate, tout pour les jambes_.\"\n\nI emptied the goblet at a gulp. The company began to seem charming.\n\n\"Well, Captain Morhange,\" Le Mesge called out to my comrade who had\ntaken a mouthful of fish, \"what do you say to this acanthopterygian?\nIt was caught to-day in the lake in the oasis. Do you begin to admit\nthe hypothesis of the Saharan sea?\"\n\n\"The fish is an argument,\" my companion replied.\n\nSuddenly he became silent. The door had opened. A white Targa entered.\nThe diners stopped talking.\n\nThe veiled man walked slowly toward Morhange and touched his right\narm.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Morhange.\n\nHe got up and followed the messenger.\n\nThe pitcher of Ahaggar, 1879, stood between me and Count Bielowsky. I\nfilled my goblet--a goblet which held a pint, and gulped it down.\n\nThe Hetman looked at me sympathetically.\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" laughed Le Mesge, nudging me with his elbow. \"Antinea has\nrespect for the hierarchic order.\"\n\nThe Reverend Spardek smiled modestly.\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" laughed Le Mesge again.\n\nMy glass was empty. For a moment I was tempted to hurl it at the head\nof the Fellow in History. But what of it? I filled it and emptied it\nagain.\n\n\"Morhange will miss this delicious roast of mutton,\" said the\nProfessor, more and more hilarious, as he awarded himself a thick\nslice of meat.\n\n\"He won't regret it,\" said the Hetman crossly. \"This is not roast; it\nis ram's horn. Really Koukou is beginning to make fun of us.\"\n\n\"Blame it on the Reverend,\" the shrill voice of Le Mesge cut in. \"I\nhave told him often enough to hunt other proselytes and leave our cook\nalone.\"\n\n\"Professor,\" Spardek began with dignity.\n\n\"I maintain my contention,\" cried Le Mesge, who seemed to me to be\ngetting a bit overloaded. \"I call the gentleman to witness,\" he went\non, turning to me. \"He has just come. He is unbiased. Therefore I ask\nhim: has one the right to spoil a Bambara cook by addling his head\nwith theological discussions for which he has no predisposition?\"\n\n\"Alas!\" the pastor replied sadly. \"You are mistaken. He has only too\nstrong a propensity to controversy.\"\n\n\"Koukou is a good-for-nothing who uses Colas' cow as an excuse for\ndoing nothing and letting our scallops burn,\" declared the Hetman.\n\"Long live the Pope!\" he cried, filling the glasses all around.\n\n\"I assure you that this Bambara worries me,\" Spardek went on with\ngreat dignity. \"Do you know what he has come to? He denies\ntransubstantiation. He is within an inch of the heresy of Zwingli and\nOecolampades. Koukou denies transubstantiation.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Le Mesge, very much excited, \"cooks should be left in\npeace. Jesus, whom I consider as good a theologian as you, understood\nthat, and it never occurred to him to call Martha away from her oven\nto talk nonsense to her.\"\n\n\"Exactly so,\" said the Hetman approvingly.\n\nHe was holding a jar between his knees and trying to draw its cork.\n\n\"Oh, C\u00f4tes R\u00f4ties, wines from the C\u00f4te-R\u00f4tie!\" he murmured to me as he\nfinally succeeded. \"Touch glasses.\"\n\n\"Koukou denies transubstantiation,\" the pastor continued, sadly\nemptying his glass.\n\n\"Eh!\" said the Hetman of Jitomir in my ear, \"let them talk on. Don't\nyou see that they are quite drunk?\"\n\nHis own voice was thick. He had the greatest difficulty in the world\nin filling my goblet to the brim.\n\nI wanted to push the pitcher away. Then an idea came to me:\n\n\"At this very moment, Morhange.... Whatever he may say.... She is so\nbeautiful.\"\n\nI reached out for the glass and emptied it once more.\n\nLe Mesge and the pastor were now engaged in the most extraordinary\nreligious controversy, throwing at each other's heads the Book of\nCommon Prayer, The Declaration of the Rights of Man, and the\nUnigenitus. Little by little, the Hetman began to show that ascendancy\nover them, which is the characteristic of a man of the world even when\nhe is thoroughly drunk; the superiority of education over instruction.\n\nCount Bielowsky had drunk five times as much as the Professor or the\npastor. But he carried his wine ten times better.\n\n\"Let us leave these drunken fellows,\" he said with disgust. \"Come on,\nold man. Our partners are waiting in the gaming room.\"\n\n\"Ladies and gentlemen,\" said the Hetman as we entered. \"Permit me to\npresent a new player to you, my friend, Lieutenant de Saint-Avit.\"\n\n\"Let it go at that,\" he murmured in my ear. \"They are the servants.\nBut I like to fool myself, you see.\"\n\nI saw that he was very drunk indeed.\n\nThe gaming room was very long and narrow. A huge table, almost level\nwith the floor and surrounded with cushions on which a dozen natives\nwere lying, was the chief article of furniture. Two engravings on the\nwall gave evidence of the happiest broadmindedness in taste; one of da\nVinci's St. John the Baptist, and the _Maison des Derni\u00e8res\nCartouches_ of Alphonse de Neuville.\n\nOn the table were earthenware goblets. A heavy jar held palm liqueur.\n\nI recognized acquaintances among those present; my masseur, the\nmanicure, the barber, and two or three Tuareg who had lowered their\nveils and were gravely smoking long pipes. While waiting for something\nbetter, all were plunged in the delights of a card game that looked\nlike \"rams.\" Two of Antinea's beautiful ladies in waiting, Aguida and\nSydya, were among the number. Their smooth bistre skins gleamed\nbeneath veils shot with silver. I was sorry not to see the red silk\ntunic of Tanit-Zerga. Again, I thought of Morhange, but only for an\ninstant.\n\n\"The chips, Koukou,\" demanded the Hetman, \"We are not here to amuse\nourselves.\"\n\nThe Zwinglian cook placed a box of many-colored chips in front of him.\nCount Bielowsky set about counting them and arranging them in little\npiles with infinite care.\n\n\"The white are worth a _louis_,\" he explained to me. \"The red, a\nhundred francs. The yellow, five hundred. The green, a thousand. Oh,\nit's the devil of a game that we play here. You will see.\"\n\n\"I open with ten thousand,\" said the Zwinglian cook.\n\n\"Twelve thousand,\" said the Hetman.\n\n\"Thirteen,\" said Sydya with a slow smile, as she seated herself on the\ncount's knee and began to arrange her chips lovingly in little piles.\n\n\"Fourteen,\" I said.\n\n\"Fifteen,\" said the sharp voice of Rosita, the old manicure.\n\n\"Seventeen,\" proclaimed the Hetman.\n\n\"Twenty thousand,\" the cook broke in.\n\nHe hammered on the table and, casting a defiant look at us, repeated:\n\n\"I take it at twenty thousand.\"\n\nThe Hetman made an impatient gesture.\n\n\"That devil, Koukou! You can't do anything against the beast. You will\nhave to play carefully, Lieutenant.\"\n\nKoukou had taken his place at the end of the table. He threw down the\ncards with an air which abashed me.\n\n\"I told you so; the way it was at Anna Deslions',\" the Hetman murmured\nproudly.\n\n\"Make your bets, gentlemen,\" yelped the Negro. \"Make your bets.\"\n\n\"Wait, you beast,\" called Bielowsky. \"Don't you see that the glasses\nare empty? Here, Cacambo.\"\n\nThe goblets were filled immediately by the jolly masseur.\n\n\"Cut,\" said Koukou, addressing Sydya, the beautiful Targa who sat at\nhis right.\n\nThe girl cut, like one who knows superstitions, with her left hand.\nBut it must be said that her right was busy lifting a cup to her lips.\nI watched the curve of her beautiful throat.\n\n\"My deal,\" said Koukou.\n\nWe were thus arranged: at the left, the Hetman, Aguida, whose waist he\nhad encircled with the most aristocratic freedom, Cacambo, a Tuareg\nwoman, then two veiled Negroes who were watching the game intently. At\nthe right, Sydya, myself, the old manicure, Rosita, Barouf, the\nbarber, another woman and two white Tuareg, grave and attentive,\nexactly opposite those on the left.\n\n\"Give me one,\" said the Hetman.\n\nSydya made a negative gesture.\n\nKoukou drew, passed a four-spot to the Hetman, gave himself a five.\n\n\"Eight,\" announced Bielowsky.\n\n\"Six,\" said pretty Sydya.\n\n\"Seven,\" broke in Koukou. \"One card makes up for another,\" he added\ncoldly.\n\n\"I double,\" said the Hetman.\n\nCacambo and Aguida followed his example. On our side, we were more\ncareful. The manicure especially would not risk more than twenty\nfrancs at a time.\n\n\"I demand that the cards be evened up,\" said Koukou imperturbably.\n\n\"This fellow is unbearable,\" grumbled the count. \"There, are you\nsatisfied?\"\n\nKoukou dealt and laid down a nine.\n\n\"My country and my honor!\" raged Bielowsky. \"I had an eight.\"\n\nI had two kings, and so showed no ill temper. Rosita took the cards\nout of my hands.\n\nI watched Sydya at my right. Her heavy black hair covered her\nshoulders. She was really very beautiful, though a bit tipsy, as were\nall that fantastic company. She looked at me, too, but with lowered\neyelids, like a timid little wild animal.\n\n\"Oh,\" I thought. \"She may well be afraid. I am labelled 'No\ntrespassing.'\"\n\nI touched her foot. She drew it back in fright.\n\n\"Who wants cards?\" Koukou demanded.\n\n\"Not I,\" said the Hetman.\n\n\"Served,\" said Sydya.\n\nThe cook drew a four.\n\n\"Nine,\" he said.\n\n\"That card was meant for me,\" cursed the count. \"And five, I had a\nfive. If only I had never promised his Majesty the Emperor Napoleon II\nnever to cut fives! There are times when it is hard, very hard. And\nlook at that beast of a Negro who plays Charlemagne.\"\n\nIt was true. Koukou swept in three-quarters of the chips, rose with\ndignity, and bowed to the company.\n\n\"Till to-morrow, gentlemen.\"\n\n\"Get along, the whole pack of you,\" howled the Hetman of Jitomir.\n\"Stay with me, Lieutenant de Saint-Avit.\"\n\nWhen we were alone, he poured out another huge cupfull of liqueur. The\nceiling of the room was lost in the gray smoke.\n\n\"What time is it?\" I asked.\n\n\"After midnight. But you are not going to leave me like this, my dear\nboy? I am heavy-hearted.\"\n\nHe wept bitterly. The tail of his coat spread out on the divan behind\nhim like the apple-green wings of a beetle.\n\n\"Isn't Aguida a beauty?\" he went on, still weeping. \"She makes me\nthink of the Countess de Teruel, though she is a little darker. You\nknow the Countess de Teruel, Mercedes, who went in bathing nude at\nBiarritz, in front of the rock of the Virgin, one day when Prince\nBismarck was standing on the foot-bridge. You do not remember her?\nMercedes de Teruel.\"\n\nI shrugged my shoulders.\n\n\"I forget; you must have been too young. Two, perhaps three years old.\nA child. Yes, a child. Oh, my child, to have been of that generation\nand to be reduced to playing cards with savages ... I must tell\nyou....\"\n\nI stood up and pushed him off.\n\n\"Stay, stay,\" he implored. \"I will tell you everything you want to\nknow, how I came here, things I have never told anyone. Stay, I must\nunbosom myself to a true friend. I will tell you everything, I repeat.\nI trust you. You are a Frenchman, a gentleman. I know that you will\nrepeat nothing to her.\"\n\n\"That I will repeat nothing to her?... To whom?\"\n\nHis voice stuck in his throat. I thought I saw a shudder of fear pass\nover him.\n\n\"To her ... to Antinea,\" he murmured.\n\nI sat down again.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nTHE HETMAN OF JITOMIR'S STORY\n\n\nCount Casimir had reached that stage where drunkenness takes on a kind\nof gravity, of regretfulness.\n\nHe thought a little, then began his story. I regret that I cannot\nreproduce more perfectly its archaic flavor.\n\n\"When the grapes begin to color in Antinea's garden, I shall be\nsixty-eight. It is very sad, my dear boy, to have sowed all your wild\noats. It isn't true that life is always beginning over again. How\nbitter, to have known the Tuileries in 1860, and to have reached the\npoint where I am now!\n\n\"One evening, just before the war (I remember that Victor Black was\nstill living), some charming women whose names I need not disclose (I\nread the names of their sons from time to time in the society news of\nthe _Gaulois_) expressed to me their desire to rub elbows with some\nreal _demi-mondaines_ of the artist quarter. I took them to a ball at\nthe _Grande Chaumi\u00e8re_. There was a crowd of young painters, models,\nstudents. In the midst of the uproar, several couples danced the\n_cancan_ till the chandeliers shook with it. We noticed especially a\nlittle, dark man, dressed in a miserable top-coat and checked trousers\nwhich assuredly knew the support of no suspenders. He was cross-eyed,\nwith a wretched beard and hair as greasy as could be. He bounded and\nkicked extravagantly. The ladies called him L\u00e9on Gambetta.\n\n\"What an annoyance, when I realize that I need only have felled this\nwretched lawyer with one pistol shot to have guaranteed perfect\nhappiness to myself and to my adopted country, for, my dear fellow, I\nam French at heart, if not by birth.\n\n\"I was born in 1829, at Warsaw, of a Polish father and a Russian\nmother. It is from her that I hold my title of Hetman of Jitomir. It\nwas restored to me by Czar Alexander II on a request made to him on\nhis visit to Paris, by my august master, the Emperor Napoleon III.\n\n\"For political reasons, which I cannot describe without retelling the\nhistory of unfortunate Poland, my father, Count Bielowsky, left Warsaw\nin 1830, and went to live in London. After the death of my mother, he\nbegan to squander his immense fortune--from sorrow, he said. When, in\nhis time, he died at the period of the Prichard affair, he left me\nbarely a thousand pounds sterling of income, plus two or three systems\nof gaming, the impracticability of which I learned later.\n\n\"I will never be able to think of my nineteenth and twentieth years\nwithout emotion, for I then completely liquidated this small\ninheritance. London was indeed an adorable spot in those days. I had a\njolly bachelor's apartment in Piccadilly.\n\n    \"'Picadilly! Shops, palaces, bustle and breeze,\n      The whirling of wheels and the murmur of trees.'\n\n\"Fox hunting in a _briska_, driving a buggy in Hyde Park, the rout,\nnot to mention the delightful little parties with the light Venuses of\nDrury Lane, this took all my time. All? I am unjust. There was also\ngaming, and a sentiment of filial piety forced me to verify the\nsystems of the late Count, my father. It was gaming which was the\ncause of the event I must describe to you, by which my life was to be\nso strangely changed.\n\n\"My friend, Lord Malmesbury, had said to me a hundred times, 'I must\ntake you to see an exquisite creature who lives in Oxford Street,\nnumber 277, Miss Howard.' One evening I went with him. It was the\ntwenty-second of February, 1848. The mistress of the house was really\nmarvelously beautiful, and the guests were charming. Besides\nMalmesbury, I observed several acquaintances: Lord Clebden, Lord\nChesterfield, Sir Francis Mountjoye, Major in the Second Life Guards,\nand Count d'Orsay. They played cards and then began to talk politics.\nEvents in France played the main part in the conversation and they\ndiscussed endlessly the consequences of the revolt that had broken out\nin Paris that same morning, in consequence of the interdiction of the\nbanquet in the 12th arrondissement, of which word had just been\nreceived by telegram. Up to that time, I had never bothered myself\nwith public affairs. So I don't know what moved me to affirm with the\nimpetuosity of my nineteen years that the news from France meant the\nRepublic next day and the Empire the day after....\n\n\"The company received my sally with a discreet laugh, and their looks\nwere centered on a guest who made the fifth at a _bouillotte_ table\nwhere they had just stopped playing.\n\n\"The guest smiled, too. He rose and came towards me. I observed that\nhe was of middle height, perhaps even shorter, buttoned tightly into a\nblue frock coat, and that his eye had a far-off, dreamy look.\n\n\"All the players watched this scene with delighted amusement.\n\n\"'Whom have I the honor of addressing?' he asked in a very gentle\nvoice.\n\n\"'Count Bielowsky,' I answered coolly to show him that the difference\nin our ages was not sufficient to justify the interrogation.\n\n\"Well, my dear Count, may your prediction indeed be realized; and I\nhope that you will not neglect the Tuileries,' said the guest in the\nblue coat, with a smile.\n\n\"And he added, finally consenting to present himself:\n\n\"'Prince Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte.'\n\n\"I played no active r\u00f4le in the _coup d'\u00e9tat_, and I do not regret it.\nIt is a principle with me that a stranger should not meddle with the\ninternal affairs of a country. The prince understood this discretion,\nand did not forget the young man who had been of such good omen to\nhim.\n\n\"I was one of the first whom he called to the Elys\u00e9e. My fortune was\ndefinitely established by a defamatory note on 'Napoleon the little.'\nThe next year, when Mgr. Sibour was out of the way, I was made\nGentleman of the Chamber, and the Emperor was even so kind as to have\nme marry the daughter of the Marshal Repeto, Duke of Mondovi.\n\n\"I have no scruple in announcing that this union was not what it\nshould have been. The Countess, who was ten years older than I, was\ncrabbed and not particularly pretty. Moreover, her family had insisted\nresolutely on a marriage portion. Now I had nothing at this time\nexcept the twenty-five thousand pounds for my appointment as Gentleman\nof the Chamber. A sad lot for anyone on intimate terms with the Count\nd'Orsay and the Duke of Gramont-Caderousse! Without the kindness of\nthe Emperor, where would I have been?\n\n\"One morning in the spring of 1852, I was in my study opening my mail.\nThere was a letter from His Majesty, calling me to the Tuileries at\nfour o'clock; a letter from Cl\u00e9mentine, informing me that she expected\nme at five o'clock at her house. Cl\u00e9mentine was the beautiful one for\nwhom, just then, I was ready to commit any folly. I was so proud of\nher that, one evening at the _Maison Dor\u00e9e_, I flaunted her before\nPrince Metternich, who was tremendously taken with her. All the court\nenvied me that conquest; and I was morally obliged to continue to\nassume its expenses. And then Cl\u00e9mentine was so pretty! The Emperor\nhimself.... The other letters, good lord, the other letters were the\nbills of the dressmakers of that young person, who, in spite of my\ndiscreet remonstrances, insisted on having them sent to my conjugal\ndwelling.\n\n\"There were bills for something over forty thousand francs: gowns and\nball dresses from Gagelin-Opigez, 23 Rue de Richelieu; hats and\nbonnets from Madame Alexandrine, 14 Rue d'Antin; lingerie and many\npetticoats from Madame Pauline, 100 Rue de Clery; dress trimmings and\ngloves from the _Ville de Lyon_, 6 Rue de la Chauss\u00e9e d'Antin;\nfoulards from the _Malle des Indes_; handkerchiefs from the _Compagnie\nIrlandaise_; laces from Ferguson; cosmetics from _Cand\u00e8s_.... This\nwhitening cream of _Cand\u00e8s_, in particular, overwhelmed me with\nstupefaction. The bill showed fifty-one flasks. Six hundred and\ntwenty-seven francs and fifty centimes' worth of whitening cream from\n_Cand\u00e8s_.... Enough to soften the skin of a squadron of a hundred\nguards!\n\n\"'This can't keep on,' I said, putting the bills in my pocket.\n\n\"At ten minutes to four, I crossed the wicket by the Carrousel.\n\n\"In the Salon of the _aides de camp_ I happened on Bacciochi.\n\n\"'The Emperor has the grippe,' he said to me. 'He is keeping to his\nroom. He has given orders to have you admitted as soon as you arrive.\nCome.'\n\n\"His Majesty, dressed in a braided vest and Cossack trousers, was\nmeditating before a window. The pale green of the Tuileries showed\nluminously under a gentle warm shower.\n\n\"'Ah! Here he is,' said Napoleon. 'Here, have a cigarette. It seems\nthat you had great doings, you and Gramont-Caderousse, last evening,\nat the _Ch\u00e2teau de Fleurs_.'\n\n\"I smiled with satisfaction.\n\n\"'So Your Majesty knows already....'\n\n\"'I know, I know vaguely.'\n\n\"'Do you know Gramont-Caderousse's last \"mot\"?'\n\n\"'No, but you are going to tell it to me.'\n\n\"'Here goes, then. We were five or six: myself, Viel-Castel, Gramont,\nPersigny....'\n\n\"'Persigny!' said the Emperor. 'He has no right to associate with\nGramont, after all that Paris says about his wife.'\n\n\"'Just so Sire. Well, Persigny was excited, no doubt about it. He\nbegan telling us how troubled he was because of the Duchess's\nconduct.'\n\n\"'This Fialin isn't over tactful,' muttered the Emperor.\n\n\"'Just so, Sire. Then, does Your Majesty know what Gramont hurled at\nhim?'\n\n\"'What?'\n\n\"'He said to him, \"_Monsieur le Duc_, I forbid you to speak ill of my\nmistress before me.\"\n\n\"'Gramont goes too far,' said Napoleon with a dreamy smile.\n\n\"'That is what we all thought, including Viel-Castel, who was\nnevertheless delighted.'\n\n\"'Apropos of this,' said Napoleon after a silence, 'I have forgotten\nto ask you for news of the Countess Bielowsky.'\n\n\"'She is very well, Sire, I thank Your Majesty,'\n\n\"'And Cl\u00e9mentine? Still the same dear child?'\n\n\"'Always, Sire. But....'\n\n\"'It seems that M. Baroche is madly in love with her.'\n\n\"'I am very much honored, Sire. But this honor becomes too\nburdensome.'\n\n\"I had drawn from my pocket that morning's bills and I spread them out\nunder the eyes of the Emperor.\n\n\"He looked at them with his distant smile.\n\n\"'Come, come. If that is all, I can fix that, since I have a favor to\nask of you.'\n\n\"'I am entirely at Your Majesty's service.'\n\n\"He struck a gong.\n\n\"'Send for M. Mocquard.'\n\n\"'I have the grippe,' he said. 'Mocquard will explain the affair to\nyou.'\n\n\"The Emperor's private secretary entered.\n\n\"'Here is Bielowsky, Mocquard,' said Napoleon. 'You know what I want\nhim to do. Explain it to him.'\n\n\"And he began to tap on the window-panes against which the rain was\nbeating furiously.\n\n\"'My dear Count,' said Mocquard, taking a chair, 'it is very simple.\nYou have doubtless heard of a young explorer of promise, M. Henry\nDuveyrier.'\n\n\"I shook my head as a sign of negation, very much surprised at this\nbeginning.\n\n\"'M. Duveyrier,' continued Mocquard, 'has returned to Paris after a\nparticularly daring trip to South Africa and the Sahara. M. Vivien de\nSaint Martin, whom I have seen recently has assured me that the\nGeographical Society intends to confer its great gold medal upon him,\nin recognition of these exploits. In the course of his trip, M.\nDuveyrier has entered into negotiations with the chief of the people\nwho always have been so rebellious to His Majesty's armies, the\nTuareg.'\n\n\"I looked at the Emperor. My bewilderment was such that he began to\nlaugh.\n\n\"'Listen,' he said.\n\n\"'M. Duveyrier,' continued Mocquard, 'was able to arrange to have a\ndelegation of these chiefs come to Paris to present their respects to\nHis Majesty. Very important results may arise from this visit, and His\nExcellency the Colonial Minister, does not despair of obtaining the\nsignature of a treaty of commerce, reserving special advantages to our\nfellow countrymen. These chiefs, five of them, among them Sheik Otham,\n_Amenokol_ or Sultan of the Confederation of Adzjer, arrive to-morrow\nmorning at the _Gare de Lyon_. M. Duveyrier will meet them. But the\nEmperor has thought that besides....'\n\n\"'I thought,' said Napoleon III, delighted by my bewilderment, 'I\nthought that it was correct to have some one of the Gentlemen of my\nChamber wait upon the arrival of these Mussulman dignitaries. That is\nwhy you are here, my poor Bielowsky. Don't be frightened,' he added,\nlaughing harder. 'You will have M. Duveyrier with you. You are charged\nonly with the special part of the reception: to accompany these\nprinces to the lunch that I am giving them to-morrow at the Tuileries;\nthen, in the evening, discreetly on account of their religious\nscruples, to succeed in giving them a very high idea of Parisian\ncivilization, with nothing exaggerated: do not forget that in the\nSahara they are very high religious dignitaries. In that respect, I\nhave confidence in your tact and give you _carte blanche_....\nMocquard!'\n\n\"'Sire?'\n\n\"'You will apportion on the budget, half to Foreign Affairs, half to\nthe Colonies, the funds Count Bielowsky will need for the reception of\nthe Tuareg delegation. It seems to me that a hundred thousand francs,\nto begin.... The Count has only to tell you if he is forced to exceed\nthat figure.'\n\n\"Cl\u00e9mentine lived on the Rue Boccador, in a little Moorish pavilion\nthat I had bought for her from M. de Lesseps. I found her in bed. When\nshe saw me, she burst into tears.\n\n\"'Great fools that we are!' she murmured amidst her sobs, 'what have\nwe done!'\n\n\"'Cl\u00e9mentine, tell me!'\n\n\"'What have we done, what have we done!' she repeated, and I felt\nagainst me, her floods of black hair, her warm cheek which was\nfragrant with _eau de Nanon_.\n\n\"'What is it? What can it be?'\n\n\"'It is....' and she murmured something in my ear.\n\n\"'No!' I said, stupefied. 'Are you quite sure?'\n\n\"'Am I quite sure!'\n\n\"I was thunderstruck.\n\n\"'You don't seem much pleased,' she said sharply.\n\n\"'I did not say that.... Though, really, I am very much pleased, I\nassure you.'\n\n\"'Prove it to me: let us spend the day together tomorrow.'\n\n\"'To-morrow!' I stammered. 'Impossible!'\n\n\"'Why?' she demanded suspiciously.\n\n\"'Because to-morrow, I have to pilot the Tuareg mission about Paris.\nThe Emperor's orders.'\n\n\"'What bluff is this?' asked Cl\u00e9mentine.\n\n\"'I admit that nothing so much resembles a lie as the truth.'\n\n\"I retold Mocquard's story to Cl\u00e9mentine, as well as I could. She\nlistened to me with an expression that said: 'you can't fool me that\nway.'\n\n\"Finally, furious, I burst out:\n\n\"'You can see for yourself. I am dining with them, tomorrow; and I\ninvite you.'\n\n\"'I shall be very pleased to come,' said Cl\u00e9mentine with great\ndignity.\n\n\"I admit that I lacked self-control at that minute. But think what a\nday it had been! Forty thousand francs of bills as soon as I woke up.\nThe ordeal of escorting the savages around Paris all the next day.\nAnd, quite unexpectedly, the announcement of an approaching irregular\npaternity....\n\n\"'After all,' I thought, as I returned to my house, 'these are the\nEmperor's orders. He has commanded me to give the Tuareg an idea of\nParisian civilization. Cl\u00e9mentine comports herself very well in\nsociety and just now it would not do to aggravate her. I will engage a\nroom for to-morrow at the _Caf\u00e9 de Paris_, and tell Gramont-Caderousse\nand Viel-Castel to bring their silly mistresses. It will be very\nFrench to enjoy the attitude of these children of the desert in the\nmidst of this little party.'\n\n\"The train from Marseilles arrived at 10:20. On the platform I found\nM. Duveyrier, a young man of twenty-three with blue eyes and a little\nblond beard. The Tuareg fell into his arms as they descended from the\ntrain. He had lived with them for two years, in their tents, the devil\nknows where. He presented me to their chief, Sheik Otham, and to four\nothers, splendid fellows in their blue cotton draperies and their\namulets of red leather. Fortunately, they all spoke a kind of\n_sabir_[13] which helped things along.\n\n[Footnote 13: Dialect spoken in Algeria and the Levant--a mixture of\nArabian, French, Italian and Spanish.]\n\n\"I only mention in passing the lunch at the Tuileries, the visits in\nthe evening to the Museum, to the _Hotel de Ville_, to the Imperial\nPrinting Press. Each time, the Tuareg inscribed their names in the\nregistry of the place they were visiting. It was interminable. To give\nyou an idea, here is the complete name of Sheik Otham alone:\nOtham-ben-el-Hadj-el-Bekri-ben-el-Hadj-el-Faqqi-ben-Mohammad-Bouya-\nben-si-Ahmed-es-Souki-ben-Mahmoud.[14]\n\n[Footnote 14: I have succeeded in finding on the registry of the\nImperial Printing Press the names of the Tuareg chiefs and those who\naccompanied them on their visit, M. Henry Duveyrier and the Count\nBielowsky. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\n\"And there were five of them like that!\n\n\"I maintained my good humor, however, because on the boulevards,\neverywhere, our success was colossal. At the _Caf\u00e9 de Paris_, at\nsix-thirty, it amounted to frenzy. The delegation, a little drunk,\nembraced me: '_Bono, Napol\u00e9on, bono, Eug\u00e9nie; bono, Casimir; bono,\nChristians_.' Gramont-Caderousse and Viel-Castel were already in booth\nnumber eight, with Anna Grimaldi, of the _Folies Dramatiques_, and\nHortense Schneider, both beautiful enough to strike terror to the\nheart. But the palm was for my dear Cl\u00e9mentine, when she entered. I\nmust tell you how she was dressed: a gown of white tulle, over China\nblue tarletan, with pleatings, and ruffles of tulle over the\npleatings. The tulle skirt was caught up on each side by garlands of\ngreen leaves mingled with rose clusters. Thus it formed a valence\nwhich allowed the tarletan skirt to show in front and on the sides.\nThe garlands were caught up to the belt and, in the space between\ntheir branches, were knots of rose satin with long ends. The pointed\nbodice was draped with tulle, the billowy bertha of tulle was edged\nwith lace. By way of head-dress, she had placed upon her black locks a\ndiadem crown of the same flowers. Two long leafy tendrils were twined\nin her hair and fell on her neck. As cloak, she had a kind of scarf of\nblue cashmere embroidered in gold and lined with blue satin.\n\n\"So much beauty and splendor immediately moved the Tuareg and,\nespecially, Cl\u00e9mentine's right-hand neighbor, El-Hadj-ben-Guem\u00e2ma,\nbrother of Sheik Otham and Sultan of Ahaggar. By the time the soup\narrived, a bouillon of wild game, seasoned with Tokay, he was already\nmuch smitten. When they served the compote of fruits Martinique _\u00e0 la\nliqueur de Mme. Amphoux_, he showed every indication of illimitable\npassion. The Cyprian wine _de la Commanderie_ made him quite sure of\nhis sentiments. Hortense kicked my foot under the table. Gramont,\nintending to do the same to Anna, made a mistake and aroused the\nindignant protests of one of the Tuareg. I can safely say that when\nthe time came to go to Mabille, we were enlightened as to the manner\nin which our visitors respected the prohibition decreed by the Prophet\nin respect to wine.\n\n\"At Mabille, while Cl\u00e9mentine, Hortense, Anna, Ludovic and the three\nTuareg gave themselves over to the wildest gallops, Sheik Otham took\nme aside and confided to me, with visible emotion, a certain\ncommission with which he had just been charged by his brother, Sheik\nAhmed.\n\n\"The next day, very early, I reached Cl\u00e9mentine's house.\n\n\"'My dear,' I began, after having waked her, not without difficulty,\n'listen to me. I want to talk to you seriously.'\n\n\"She rubbed her eyes a bit crossly.\n\n\"'How did you like that young Arabian gentleman who was so taken with\nyou last night?'\n\n\"'Why, well enough,' she said, blushing.\n\n\"'Do you know that in his country, he is the sovereign prince and\nreigns over territories five or six times greater than those of our\naugust master, the Emperor Napoleon III?'\n\n\"'He murmured something of that kind to me,' she said, becoming\ninterested.\n\n\"'Well, would it please you to mount on a throne, like our august\nsovereign, the Empress Eug\u00e9nie?'\n\n\"Cl\u00e9mentine, looked startled.\n\n\"'His own brother, Sheik Otham, has charged me in his name to make\nthis offer.'\n\n\"Cl\u00e9mentine, dumb with amazement, did not reply.\n\n\"'I, Empress!' she finally stammered.\n\n\"'The decision rests with you. They must have your answer before\nmidday. If it is 'yes,' we lunch together at Voisin's, and the bargain\nis made.'\n\n\"I saw that she had already made up her mind, but she thought it well\nto display a little sentiment.\n\n\"'And you, you!' she groaned. 'To leave you thus.... Never!'\n\n\"'No foolishness, dear child,' I said gently. 'You don't know perhaps\nthat I am ruined. Yes, completely: I don't even know how I am going to\npay for your complexion cream!'\n\n\"'Ah!' she sighed.\n\n\"She added, however, 'And ... the child?'\n\n\"'What child?'\n\n\"'Our child ... our child.'\n\n\"'Ah! That is so. Why, you will have to put it down to profit and\nloss. I am even convinced that Sheik Ahmed will find that it resembles\nhim.'\n\n\"'You can turn everything into a joke,' she said between laughing and\ncrying.\n\n\n\"The next morning, at the same hour, the Marseilles express carried\naway the five Tuareg and Cl\u00e9mentine. The young woman, radiant, was\nleaning on the arm of Sheik Ahmed, who was beside himself with joy.\n\n\"'Have you many shops in your capital?' she asked him languidly.\n\n\"And he, smiling broadly under his veil, replied:\n\n\"'_Besef, besef, bono, roumis, bono_.'\n\n\"At the last moment, Cl\u00e9mentine had a pang of emotion.\n\n\"'Listen, Casimir, you have always been kind to me. I am going to be a\nqueen. If you weary of it here, promise me, swear to me....'\n\n\"The Sheik had understood. He took a ring from his finger and slipped\nit onto mine.\n\n\"'Sidi Casimir, comrade,' he affirmed. 'You come--find us. Take Sidi\nAhmed's ring and show it. Everybody at Ahaggar comrades. _Bono_\nAhaggar, _bono_.'\n\n\"When I came out of the _Gare de Lyon_, I had the feeling of having\nperpetrated an excellent joke.\"\n\nThe Hetman of Jitomir was completely drunk. I had had the utmost\ndifficulty in understanding the end of his story, because he\ninterjected, every other moment, couplets from Jacques Offenbach's\nbest score.\n\n    _Dans un bois passait un jeune homme,\n    Un jeune homme frais et beau,\n    Sa main tenait une pomme,\n    Vous voyez d'ici le tableau_.\n\n\"Who was disagreeably surprised by the fall of Sedan? It was Casimir,\npoor old Casimir! Five thousand _louis_ to pay by the fifth of\nSeptember, and not the first sou, no, not the first sou. I take my hat\nand my courage and go to the Tuileries. No more Emperor there, no! But\nthe Empress was so kind. I found her alone--ah, people scatter quickly\nunder such circumstances!--alone, with a senator, M. M\u00e9rim\u00e9e, the only\nliterary man I have ever known who was at the same time a man of the\nworld. 'Madame,' he was saying to her, 'you must give up all hope. M.\nThiers, whom I just met on the _Pont Royal_, would listen to nothing.'\n\n\"'Madame,' I said in my turn, 'Your Majesty always will know where her\ntrue friends are.'\n\n\"And I kissed her hand.\n\n        \"_Evoh\u00e9, que les d\u00e9esses\n        Out de dr\u00f4les de fa\u00e7ons\n    Pour enj\u00f4ler, pour enj\u00f4ler, pour enj\u00f4ler les ga\u00e2ar\u00e7ons_!\n\n\"I returned to my home in the Rue de Lille. On the way I encountered\nthe rabble going from the _Corps L\u00e9gislatif_ to the Hotel de Ville. My\nmind was made up.\n\n\"'Madame,' I said to my wife, 'my pistols.'\n\n\"'What is the matter?' she asked, frightened.\n\n\"'All is lost. But there is still a chance to preserve my honor. I am\ngoing to be killed on the barricades.'\n\n\"'Ah! Casimir,' she sobbed, falling into my arms. 'I have misjudged\nyou. Will you forgive me?'\n\n\"'I forgive you, Aurelie,' I said with dignified emotion. 'I have not\nalways been right myself.'\n\n\"I tore myself away from this mad scene. It was six o'clock. On the\nRue de Bac, I hailed a cab on its mad career.\n\n\"'Twenty francs tip,' I said to the coachman, 'if you get to the _Gare\nde Lyon_ in time for the Marseilles train, six thirty-seven.'\"\n\nThe Hetman of Jitomir could say no more. He had rolled over on the\ncushions and slept with clenched fists.\n\nI walked unsteadily to the great window.\n\nThe sun was rising, pale yellow, behind the sharp blue mountains.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nHOURS OF WAITING\n\n\nIt was at night that Saint-Avit liked to tell me a little of his\nenthralling history. He gave it to me in short installments, exact and\nchronological, never anticipating the episodes of a drama whose tragic\noutcome I knew already. Not that he wished to obtain more effect that\nway--I felt that he was far removed from any calculation of that sort!\nSimply from the extraordinary nervousness into which he was thrown by\nrecalling such memories.\n\nOne evening, the mail from France had just arrived. The letters that\nChatelain had handed us lay upon the little table, not yet opened. By\nthe light of the lamp, a pale halo in the midst of the great black\ndesert, we were able to recognize the writing of the addresses. Oh!\nthe victorious smile of Saint-Avit when, pushing aside all those\nletters, I said to him in a trembling voice:\n\n\"Go on.\"\n\nHe acquiesced without further words.\n\n\"Nothing can give you any idea of the fever I was in from the day when\nthe Hetman of Jitomir told me of his adventures to the day when I\nfound myself in the presence of Antinea. The strangest part was that\nthe thought that I was, in a way, condemned to death, did not enter\ninto this fever. On the contrary, it was stimulated by my desire for\nthe event which would be the signal of my downfall, the summons from\nAntinea. But this summons was not speedy in coming. And from this\ndelay, arose my unhealthy exasperation.\n\n\"Did I have any lucid moments in the course of these hours? I do not\nthink so. I do not recall having even said to myself, 'What, aren't\nyou ashamed? Captive in an unheard of situation, you not only are not\ntrying to escape, but you even bless your servitude and look forward\nto your ruin.' I did not even color my desire to remain there, to\nenjoy the next step in the adventure, by the pretext I might have\ngiven--unwillingness to escape without Morhange. If I felt a vague\nuneasiness at not seeing him again, it was not because of a desire to\nknow that he was well and safe.\n\n\"Well and safe, I knew him to be, moreover. The Tuareg slaves of\nAntinea's household were certainly not very communicative. The women\nwere hardly more loquacious. I heard, it is true, from Sydya and\nAguida, that my companion liked pomegranates or that he could not\nendure _kouskous_ of bananas. But if I asked for a different kind of\ninformation, they fled, in fright, down the long corridors. With\nTanit-Zerga, it was different. This child seemed to have a distaste\nfor mentioning before me anything bearing in any way upon Antinea.\nNevertheless, I knew that she was devoted to her mistress with a\ndoglike fidelity. But she maintained an obstinate silence if I\npronounced her name or, persisting, the name of Morhange.\n\n\"As for the Europeans, I did not care to question these sinister\npuppets. Besides, all three were difficult of approach. The Hetman of\nJitomir was sinking deeper and deeper into alcohol. What intelligence\nremained to him, he seemed to have dissolved the evening when he had\ninvoked his youth for me. I met him from time to time in the corridors\nthat had become all at once too narrow for him, humming in a thick\nvoice a couplet from the music of _La Reine Hortense_.\n\n_De ma fille Isabelle\nSois l'\u00e9poux \u00e0 l'instant,\nCar elle est la plus belle\nEt toi, le plus vaillant_.\n\n\"As for Pastor Spardek, I would cheerfully have killed the old\nskinflint. And the hideous little man with the decorations, the placid\nprinter of labels for the red marble hall,--how could I meet him\nwithout wanting to cry out in his face: 'Eh! eh! Sir Professor, a very\ncurious case of apocope: [Greek: Atlantinea]. Suppression of _alpha_,\nof _tau_ and of _lambda_! I would like to direct your attention to\nanother case as curious: [Greek: kl\u00eam\u00eantinea], Cl\u00e9mentine. Apocope of\n_kappa_, of _lamba_, of _epsilon_ and of _mu_. If Morhange were with\nus, he would tell you many charming erudite things about it. But,\nalas! Morhange does not deign to come among us any more. We never see\nMorhange.'\n\n\"My fever for information found a little more favorable reception from\nRosita, the old Negress manicure. Never have I had my nails polished\nso often as during those days of waiting! Now--after six years--she\nmust be dead. I shall not wrong her memory by recording that she was\nvery partial to the bottle. The poor old soul was defenseless against\nthose that I brought her and that I emptied with her, through\npoliteness.\n\n\"Unlike the other slaves, who are brought from the South toward Turkey\nby the merchants of Rh\u00e2t, she was born in Constantinople and had been\nbrought into Africa by her master when he became _ka\u00efmakam_ of\nRhadam\u00e8s.... But don't let me complicate this already wandering\nhistory by the incantations of this manicure.\n\n\"'Antinea,' she said to me, 'is the daughter of\nEl-Hadj-Ahmed-ben-Guem\u00e2ma, Sultan of Ahaggar, and Sheik of the great\nand noble tribe of Kel-Rhel\u00e2. She was born in the year twelve hundred\nand eighty-one of the Hegira. She has never wished to marry any one.\nHer wish has been respected for the will of women is sovereign in this\nAhaggar where she rules to-day. She is a cousin of Sidi-el-Senoussi,\nand, if she speaks the word, Christian blood will flow from Djerid to\nTouat, and from Tchad to Senegal. If she had wished it, she might have\nlived beautiful and respected in the land of the Christians. But she\nprefers to have them come to her.'\n\n\"'Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,' I said, 'do you know him? He is entirely\ndevoted to her?'\n\n\"'Nobody here knows Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh very well, because he is\ncontinually traveling. It is true that he is entirely devoted to\nAntinea. Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh is a Senoussi, and Antinea is the cousin\nof the chief of the Senoussi. Besides, he owes his life to her. He is\none of the men who assassinated the great K\u00e9bir Flatters. On account\nof that, Ikenoukhen, _amenokol_ of the Adzjer Tuareg, fearing French\nreprisals, wanted to deliver Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh to them. When the\nwhole Sahara turned against him, he found asylum with Antinea.\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh will never forget it, for he is brave and observes\nthe law of the Prophet. To thank her, he led to Antinea, who was then\ntwenty years old, three French officers of the first troops of\noccupation in Tunis. They are the ones who are numbered, in the red\nmarble hall, 1, 2, and 3.'\n\n\"'And Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh has always fulfilled his duties\nsuccessfully?'\n\n\"'Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh is well trained, and he knows the vast Sahara as\nI know my little room at the top of the mountain. At first, he made\nmistakes. That is how, on his first trips, he brought back old Le\nMesge and marabout Spardek.'\n\n\"'What did Antinea say when she saw them?'\n\n\"'Antinea? She laughed so hard that she spared them.\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh was vexed to see her laugh so. Since then, he has\nnever made a mistake.'\n\n\"'He has never made a mistake?'\n\n\"'No. I have cared for the hands and feet of all that he has brought\nhere. All were young and handsome. But I think that your comrade, whom\nthey brought to me the other day, after you were here, is the\nhandsomest of all.'\n\n\"'Why,' I asked, turning the conversation, 'why, since she spared them\ntheir lives, did she not free the pastor and M. Le Mesge?'\n\n\"'She has found them useful, it seems,' said the old woman. 'And then,\nwhoever once enters here, can never leave. Otherwise, the French would\nsoon be here and, when they saw the hall of red marble, they would\nmassacre everybody. Besides, of all those whom Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh has\nbrought here, no one, save one, has wished to escape after seeing\nAntinea.'\n\n\"'She keeps them a long time?'\n\n\"'That depends upon them and the pleasure that she takes in them. Two\nmonths, three months, on the average. It depends. A big Belgian\nofficer, formed like a colossus, didn't last a week. On the other\nhand, everyone here remembers little Douglas Kaine, an English\nofficer: she kept him almost a year.'\n\n\"'And then?'\n\n\"'And then, he died,' said the old woman as if astonished at my\nquestion.\n\n\"'Of what did he die?'\n\n\"She used the same phrase as M. Le Mesge:\n\n\"'Like all the others: of love.\n\n\"'Of love,' she continued. \"They all die of love when they see that\ntheir time is ended, and that Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh has gone to find\nothers. Several have died quietly with tears in their great eyes. They\nneither ate nor slept any more. A French naval officer went mad. All\nnight, he sang a sad song of his native country, a song which echoed\nthrough the whole mountain. Another, a Spaniard, was as if maddened:\nhe tried to bite. It was necessary to kill him. Many have died of\n_kif_, a _kif_ that is more violent than opium. When they no longer\nhave Antinea, they smoke, smoke. Most have died that way ... the\nhappiest. Little Kaine died differently.'\n\n\"'How did little Kaine die?'\n\n\"'In a way that pained us all very much. I told you that he stayed\nlonger among us than anyone else. We had become used to him. In\nAntinea's room, on a little Kairouan table, painted in blue and gold,\nthere is a gong with a long silver hammer with an ebony handle, very\nheavy. Aguida told me about it. When Antinea gave little Kaine his\ndismissal, smiling as she always does, he stopped in front of her,\nmute, very pale. She struck the gong for someone to take him away. A\nTarga slave came. But little Kaine had leapt for the hammer, and the\nTarga lay on the ground with his skull smashed. Antinea smiled all the\ntime. They led little Kaine to his room. The same night, eluding\nguards, he jumped out of his window at a height of two hundred feet.\nThe workmen in the embalming room told me that they had the greatest\ndifficulty with his body. But they succeeded very well. You have only\nto go see for yourself. He occupies niche number 26 in the red marble\nhall.'\n\n\"The old woman drowned her emotion in her glass.\n\n\"'Two days before,' she continued, 'I had done his nails, here, for\nthis was his room. On the wall, near the window, he had written\nsomething in the stone with his knife. See, it is still here.'\n\n\"'Was it not Fate, that on this July midnight....'\n\n\"At any other moment, that verse, traced in the stone of the window\nthrough which the English officer had hurled himself, would have\nkilled me with overpowering emotion. But just then, another thought\nwas in my heart.\n\n\"'Tell me,' I said, controlling my voice as well as I could, 'when\nAntinea holds one of us in her power, she shuts him up near her, does\nshe not? Nobody sees him any more?'\n\nThe old woman shook her head.\n\n\"'She is not afraid that he will escape. The mountain is well guarded.\nAntinea has only to strike her silver gong; he will be brought back to\nher immediately.'\n\n\"'But my companion. I have not see him since she sent for him....'\n\n\"The Negress smiled comprehendingly.\n\n\"'If you have not seen him, it is because he prefers to remain near\nher. Antinea does not force him to. Neither does she prevent him.'\n\n\"I struck my fist violently upon the table.\n\n\"'Get along with you, old fool. And be quick about it!'\n\n\"Rosita fled frightened, hardly taking time to collect her little\ninstruments.\n\n\"'Was it not Fate, that on this July midnight....'\n\n\"I obeyed the Negress's suggestion. Following the corridors, losing my\nway, set on the right road again by the Reverend Spardek, I pushed\nopen the door of the red marble hall. I entered.\n\n\"The freshness of the perfumed crypt did me good. No place can be so\nsinister that it is not, as it were, purified by the murmur of running\nwater. The cascade, gurgling in the middle hall, comforted me. One day\nbefore an attack I was lying with my section in deep grass, waiting\nfor the moment, the blast of the bugle, which would demand that we\nleap forward into the hail of bullets. A stream was at my feet. I\nlistened to its fresh rippling. I admired the play of light and shade\nin the transparent water, the little beasts, the little black fish,\nthe green grass, the yellow wrinkled sand.... The mystery of water\nalways has carried me out of myself.\n\n\"Here, in this magic hall, my thoughts were held by the dark\ncascade. It felt friendly. It kept me from faltering in the midst of\nthese rigid evidences of so many monstrous sacrifices.... Number 26.\nIt was he all right. Lieutenant Douglas Kaine, born at Edinburgh,\nSeptember 21, 1862. Died at Ahaggar, July 16, 1890. Twenty-eight.\nHe wasn't even twenty-eight! His face was thin under the coat of\norichalch. His mouth sad and passionate. It was certainly he. Poor\nyoungster.--Edinburgh,--I knew Edinburgh, without ever having been\nthere. From the wall of the castle you can see the Pentland hills.\n\"Look a little lower down,\" said Stevenson's sweet Miss Flora to Anne\nof Saint-Yves, \"look a little lower down and you will see, in the fold\nof the hill, a clump of trees and a curl of smoke that rises from\namong them. That is Swanston Cottage, where my brother and I live with\nmy aunt. If it really pleases you to see it, I shall be glad.\" When he\nleft for Darfour, Douglas Kaine must surely have left in Edinburgh a\nMiss Flora, as blonde as Saint-Yves' Flora. But what are these slips\nof girls beside Antinea! Kaine, however sensible a mortal, however\nmade for this kind of love, had loved otherwise. He was dead. And here\nwas number 27, on account of whom Kaine dashed himself on the rocks of\nthe Sahara, and who, in his turn, is dead also.\n\n\"To die, to love. How naturally the word resounded in the red marble\nhall. How Antinea seemed to tower above that circle of pale statues!\nDoes love, then, need so much death in order that it may be\nmultiplied? Other women, in other parts of the world, are doubtless as\nbeautiful as Antinea, more beautiful perhaps. I hold you to witness\nthat I have not said much about her beauty. Why then, this obsession,\nthis fever, this consumption of all my being? Why am I ready, for the\nsake of pressing this quivering form within my arms for one instant,\nto face things that I dare not think of for fear I should tremble\nbefore them?\n\n\"Here is number 53, the last. Morhange will be 54. I shall be 55. In\nsix months, eight, perhaps,--what difference anyway?--I shall be\nhoisted into this niche, an image without eyes, a dead soul, a\nfinished body.\n\n\"I touched the heights of bliss, of exaltation that can be felt. What\na child I was, just now! I lost my temper with a Negro manicure. I was\njealous of Morhange, on my word! Why not, since I was at it, be\njealous of those here present; then of the others, the absent, who\nwill come, one by one, to fill the black circle of the still empty\nniches.... Morhange, I know, is at this moment with Antinea, and it is\nto me a bitter and splendid joy to think of his joy. But some evening,\nin three months, four perhaps, the embalmers will come here. Niche 54\nwill receive its prey. Then a Targa slave will advance toward me. I\nshall shiver with superb ecstasy. He will touch my arm. And it will be\nmy turn to penetrate into eternity by the bleeding door of love.\n\n\"When I emerged from my meditation, I found myself back in the\nlibrary, where the falling night obscured the shadows of the people\nwho were assembled there.\n\n\"I recognized M. Le Mesge, the Pastor, the Hetman, Aguida, two Tuareg\nslaves, still more, all joining in the most animated conference.\n\n\"I drew nearer, astonished, even alarmed to see together so many\npeople who ordinarily felt no kind of sympathy for each other.\n\n\"An unheard of occurrence had thrown all the people of the mountain\ninto uproar.\n\n\"Two Spanish explorers, come from Rio de Oro, had been seen to the\nWest, in Adhar Ahnet.\n\n\"As soon as Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh was informed, he had prepared to go to\nmeet them.\n\n\"At that instant he had received the order to do nothing.\n\n\"Henceforth it was impossible to doubt.\n\n\"For the first time, Antinea was in love.\"\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\nTHE LAMENT OF TANIT-ZERGA\n\n\n\"_Arra\u00f4u, arra\u00f4u_.\"\n\nI roused myself vaguely from the half sleep to which I had finally\nsuccumbed. I half opened my eyes. Immediately I flattened back.\n\n\"_Arra\u00f4u_.\"\n\nTwo feet from my face was the muzzle of King Hiram, yellow with a\ntracery of black. The leopard was helping me to wake up; otherwise he\ntook little interest, for he yawned; his dark red jaws, beautiful\ngleaming white fangs, opened and closed lazily.\n\nAt the same moment I heard a burst of laughter.\n\nIt was little Tanit-Zerga. She was crouching on a cushion near the\ndivan where I was stretched out, curiously watching my close interview\nwith the leopard.\n\n\"King Hiram was bored,\" she felt obliged to explain to me. \"I brought\nhim.\"\n\n\"How nice,\" I growled. \"Only tell me, could he not have gone somewhere\nelse to be amused?\"\n\n\"He is all alone now,\" said the girl. \"_They_ have sent him away. He\nmade too much noise when he played.\"\n\nThese words recalled me to the events of the previous evening.\n\n\"If you like, I will make him go away,\" said Tanit-Zerga.\n\n\"No, let him alone.\"\n\nI looked at the leopard with sympathy. Our common misfortune brought\nus together.\n\nI even caressed his rounded forehead. King Hiram showed his\ncontentment by stretching out at full length and uncurling his great\namber claws. The mat on the floor had much to suffer.\n\n\"Gal\u00e9 is here, too,\" said the little girl.\n\n\"Gal\u00e9! Who may he be?\"\n\nAt the same time, I saw on Tanit-Zerga's knees a strange animal,\nabout the size of a big cat, with flat ears, and a long muzzle. Its\npale gray fur was rough.\n\nIt was watching me with queer little pink eyes.\n\n\"It is my mongoose,\" explained Tanit-Zerga.\n\n\"Come now,\" I said sharply, \"is that all?\"\n\nI must have looked so crabbed and ridiculous that Tanit-Zerga began to\nlaugh. I laughed, too.\n\n\"Gal\u00e9 is my friend,\" she said when she was serious again. \"I saved her\nlife. It was when she was quite little. I will tell you about it some\nday. See how good-natured she is.\"\n\nSo saying, she dropped the mongoose on my knees.\n\n\"It is very nice of you, Tanit-Zerga,\" I said, \"to come and pay me a\nvisit.\" I passed my hand slowly over the animal's back. \"What time is\nit now?\"\n\n\"A little after nine. See, the sun is already high. Let me draw the\nshade.\"\n\nThe room was in darkness. Gal\u00e9's eyes grew redder. King Hiram's became\ngreen.\n\n\"It is very nice of you,\" I repeated, pursuing my idea. \"I see that\nyou are free to-day. You never came so early before.\"\n\nA shade passed over the girl's forehead.\n\n\"Yes, I am free,\" she said, almost bitterly.\n\nI looked at Tanit-Zerga more closely. For the first time I realized\nthat she was beautiful. Her hair, which she wore falling over her\nshoulders, was not so much curly as it was gently waving. Her features\nwere of remarkable fineness: the nose very straight, a small mouth\nwith delicate lips, a strong chin. She was not black, but copper\ncolored. Her slender graceful body had nothing in common with the\ndisgusting thick sausages which the carefully cared for bodies of the\nblacks become.\n\nA large circle of copper made a heavy decoration around her forehead\nand hair. She had four bracelets, still heavier, on her wrists and\nanklets, and, for clothing, a green silk tunic, slashed in points,\nbraided with gold. Green, bronze, gold.\n\n\"You are a Sonrha\u00ef, Tanit-Zerga?\" I asked gently.\n\nShe replied with almost ferocious pride:\n\n\"I am a Sonrha\u00ef.\"\n\n\"Strange little thing,\" I thought.\n\nEvidently this was a subject on which Tanit-Zerga did not intend the\nconversation to turn. I recalled how, almost painfully, she had\npronounced that \"they,\" when she had told me how they had driven away\nKing Hiram.\n\n\"I am a Sonrha\u00ef,\" she repeated. \"I was born at G\u00e2o, on the Niger, the\nancient Sonrha\u00ef capital. My fathers reigned over the great Mandingue\nEmpire. You need not scorn me because I am here as a slave.\"\n\nIn a ray of sunlight, Gal\u00e9, seated on his little haunches, washed his\nshining mustaches with his forepaws; and King Hiram, stretched out on\nthe mat, groaned plaintively in his sleep.\n\n\"He is dreaming,\" said Tanit-Zerga, a finger on her lips.\n\nThere was a moment of silence. Then she said:\n\n\"You must be hungry. And I do not think that you will want to eat with\nthe others.\"\n\nI did not answer.\n\n\"You must eat,\" she continued. \"If you like, I will go get something\nto eat for you and me. I will bring King Hiram's and Gal\u00e9's dinner\nhere, too. When you are sad, you should not stay alone.\"\n\nAnd the little green and gold fairy vanished, without waiting for my\nanswer.\n\nThat was how my friendship with Tanit-Zerga began. Each morning she\ncame to my room with the two beasts. She rarely spoke to me of\nAntinea, and when she did, it was always indirectly. The question that\nshe saw ceaselessly hovering on my lips seemed to be unbearable to\nher, and I felt her avoiding all the subjects towards which I, myself,\ndared not direct the conversation.\n\nTo make sure of avoiding them, she prattled, prattled, prattled, like\na nervous little parokeet.\n\nI was sick and this Sister of Charity in green and bronze silk tended\nme with such care as never was before. The two wild beasts, the big\nand the little, were there, each side of my couch, and, during my\ndelirium, I saw their mysterious, sad eyes fixed on me.\n\nIn her melodious voice, Tanit-Zerga told me wonderful stories, and\namong them, the one she thought most wonderful, the story of her life.\n\nIt was not till much later, very suddenly, that I realized how far\nthis little barbarian had penetrated into my own life. Wherever thou\nart at this hour, dear little girl, from whatever peaceful shores thou\nwatchest my tragedy, cast a look at thy friend, pardon him for not\nhaving accorded thee, from the very first, the gratitude that thou\ndeservedest so richly.\n\n\"I remember from my childhood,\" she said, \"the vision of a yellow and\nrose-colored sun rising through the morning mists over the smooth\nwaves of a great river, 'the river where there is water,' the Niger,\nit was.... But you are not listening to me.\"\n\n\"I am listening to you, I swear it, little Tanit-Zerga.\"\n\n\"You are sure I am not wearying you? You want me to go on?\"\n\n\"Go on, little Tanit-Zerga, go on.\"\n\n\"Well, with my little companions, of whom I was very fond, I played at\nthe edge of the river where there is water, under the jujube trees,\nbrothers of the _zeg-zeg_, the spines of which pierced the head of\nyour prophet and which we call 'the tree of Paradise' because our\nprophet told us that under it would live those chosen of Paradise;[15]\nand which is sometimes so big, so big, that a horseman cannot traverse\nits shade in a century.\n\n[Footnote 15: The Koran, Chapter 66, verse 17. (Note by M. Leroux.)]\n\n\"There we wove beautiful garlands with mimosa, the pink flowers of the\ncaper bush and white cockles. Then we threw them in the green water to\nward off evil spirits; and we laughed like mad things when a great\nsnorting hippopotamus raised his swollen head and we bombarded him in\nglee until he had to plunge back again with a tremendous splash.\n\n\"That was in the mornings. Then there fell on G\u00e2o the deathlike lull\nof the red siesta. When that was finished, we came back to the edge of\nthe river to see the enormous crocodiles with bronze goggle-eyes creep\nalong little by little, among the clouds of mosquitoes and day-flies\non the banks, and work their way traitorously into the yellow ooze of\nthe mud flats.\n\n\"Then we bombarded them, as we had done the hippopotamus in the\nmorning; and to f\u00eate the sun setting behind the black branches of the\n_douldouls_, we made a circle, stamping our feet, then clapping our\nhands, as we sang the Sonrha\u00ef hymn.\n\n\"Such were the ordinary occupations of free little girls. But you must\nnot think that we were only frivolous; and I will tell you, if you\nlike, how I, who am talking to you, I saved a French chieftain who\nmust be vastly greater than yourself, to judge by the number of gold\nribbons he had on his white sleeves.\"\n\n\"Tell me, little Tanit-Zerga,\" I said, my eyes elsewhere.\n\n\"You have no right to smile,\" she said a little aggrieved, \"and to pay\nno attention to me. But never mind! It is for myself that I tell these\nthings, for the sake of recollection. Above G\u00e2o, the Niger makes a\nbend. There is a little promontory in the river, thickly covered with\nlarge gum trees. It was an evening in August and the sun was sinking.\nNot a bird in the forest but had gone to rest, motionless until the\nmorning. Suddenly we heard an unfamiliar noise in the west, boum-boum,\nboum-boum, boum-baraboum, boum-boum, growing louder--boum-boum,\nboum-baraboum--and, suddenly, there was a great flight of water birds,\naigrettes, pelicans, wild ducks and teal, which scattered over the gum\ntrees, followed by a column of black smoke, which was scarcely\nflurried by the breeze that was springing up.\n\n\"It was a gunboat, turning the point, sending out a wake that shook\nthe overhanging bushes on each side of the river. One could see that\nthe red, white and blue flag on the stern had drooped till it was\ndragging in the water, so heavy was the evening.\n\n\"She stopped at the little point of land. A small boat was let down,\nmanned by two native soldiers who rowed, and three chiefs who soon\nleapt ashore.\n\n\"The oldest, a French _marabout_, with a great white burnous, who knew\nour language marvelously, asked to speak to Sheik Sonni-Azkia. When my\nfather advanced and told him that it was he, the _marabout_ told him\nthat the commandant of the Club at Timbuctoo was very angry, that a\nmile from there the gunboat had run on an invisible pile of logs, that\nshe had sprung a leak and that she could not so continue her voyage\ntowards Ansango.\n\n\"My father replied that the French who protected the poor natives\nagainst the Tuareg were welcome: that it was not from evil design, but\nfor fish that they had built the barrage, and that he put all the\nresources of G\u00e2o, including the forge, at the disposition of the\nFrench chief, for repairing the gunboat.\n\n\"While they were talking, the French chief looked at me and I looked\nat him. He was already middle-aged, tall, with shoulders a little\nbent, and blue eyes as clear as the stream whose name I bear.\n\n\"'Come here, little one,' he said in his gentle voice.\n\n\"'I am the daughter of Sheik Sonni-Azkia, and I do only what I wish,'\nI replied, vexed at his informality.\n\n\"'You are right,' he answered smiling, 'for you are pretty. Will you\ngive me the flowers that you have around your neck?'\n\n\"It was a great necklace of purple hibiscus. I held it out to him. He\nkissed me. The peace was made.\n\n\"Meantime, under the direction of my father, the native soldiers and\nstrong men of the tribe had hauled the gunboat into a pocket of the\nriver.\n\n\"'There is work there for all day to-morrow, Colonel,' said the chief\nmechanic, after inspecting the leaks. 'We won't be able to get away\nbefore the day after to-morrow. And, if we're to do that, these lazy\nsoldiers mustn't loaf on the job.'\n\n\"'What an awful bore,' groaned my new friend.\n\n\"But his ill-humor did not last long, so ardently did my little\ncompanions and I seek to distract him. He listened to our most\nbeautiful songs; and, to thank us, made us taste the good things that\nhad been brought from the boat for his dinner. He slept in our great\ncabin, which my father gave up to him; and for a long time, before I\nwent to sleep, I looked through the cracks of the cabin where I lay\nwith my mother, at the lights of the gunboat trembling in red ripples\non the surface of the dark waves.\n\n\"That night, I had a frightful dream. I saw my friend, the French\nofficer, sleeping in peace, while a great crow hung croaking above his\nhead: 'Caw,--caw--the shade of the gum trees of G\u00e2o--caw, caw--will\navail nothing tomorrow night--caw, caw--to the white chief nor to his\nescort.'\n\n\"Dawn had scarcely begun, when I went to find the native soldiers.\nThey were stretched out on the bridge of the gunboat, taking advantage\nof the fact that the whites were still sleeping, to do nothing.\n\n\"I approached the oldest one and spoke to him with authority:\n\n'Listen, I saw the black crow in a dream last night. He told me that\nthe shade of the gum trees of G\u00e2o would be fatal to your chief in the\ncoming night!...'\n\n\"And, as they all remained motionless, stretched out, gazing at the\nsky, without even seeming to have heard, I added:\n\n\"'And to his escort!'\n\n\"It was the hour when the sun was highest, and the Colonel was eating\nin the cabin with the other Frenchmen, when the chief mechanic\nentered.\n\n\"'I don't know what has come over the natives. They are working like\nangels. If they keep on this way, Colonel, we shall be able to leave\nthis evening.'\n\n\"'Very good,' said the Colonel, 'but don't let them spoil the job by\ntoo much haste. We don't have to be at Ansango before the end of the\nweek. It will be better to start in the morning.'\n\n\"I trembled. Suppliantly I approached and told him the story of my\ndream. He listened with a smile of astonishment; then, at the last, he\nsaid gravely:\n\n\"'It is agreed, little Tanit-Zerga. We will leave this evening if you\nwish it.'\n\n\"And he kissed me.\n\n\"The darkness had already fallen when the gunboat, now repaired, left\nthe harbor. My friend stood in the midst of the group of Frenchmen who\nwaved their caps as long as we could see them. Standing alone on the\nrickety jetty, I waited, watching the water flow by, until the last\nsound of the steam-driven vessel, boum-baraboum, had died away into\nthe night.\"[16]\n\n[Footnote 16: Cf. the records and the _Bulletin de la Soci\u00e9t\u00e9 de\nG\u00e9ographie de Paris_ (1897) for the cruises on the Niger, made by the\n_Commandant_ of the Timbuctoo region, Colonel Joffre, Lieutenants\nBaudry and Bluset, and by Father Hacquart of the White Fathers. (Note\nby M. Leroux.)]\n\nTanit-Zerga paused.\n\n\"That was the last night of G\u00e2o. While I was sleeping and the moon was\nstill high above the forest, a dog yelped, but only for an instant.\nThen came the cry of men, then of women, the kind of cry that you can\nnever forget if you have once heard it. When the sun rose, it found\nme, quite naked, running and stumbling towards the north with my\nlittle companions, beside the swiftly moving camels of the Tuareg who\nescorted us. Behind, followed the women of the tribe, my mother among\nthem, two by two, the yoke upon their necks. There were not many men.\nAlmost all lay with their throats cut under the ruins of the thatch of\nG\u00e2o beside my father, brave Sonni-Azkia. Once again G\u00e2o had been razed\nby a band of Awellimiden, who had come to massacre the French on their\ngunboat.\n\n\"The Tuareg hurried us, hurried us, for they were afraid of being\npursued. We traveled thus for ten days; and, as the millet and hemp\ndisappeared, the march became more frightful. Finally, near Isakeryen,\nin the country of Kidal, the Tuareg sold us to a caravan of Trarzan\nMoors who were going from Bamrouk to Rh\u00e2t. At first, because they went\nmore slowly, it seemed good fortune. But, before long, the desert was\nan expanse of rough pebbles, and the women began to fall. As for the\nmen, the last of them had died far back under the blows of the stick\nfor having refused to go farther.\n\n\"I still had the strength to keep going, and even as far in the lead\nas possible, so as not to hear the cries of my little playmates. Each\ntime one of them fell by the way, unable to rise again, they saw one\nof the drivers descend from his camel and drag her into the bushes a\nlittle way to cut her throat. But one day, I heard a cry that made me\nturn around. It was my mother. She was kneeling, holding out her poor\narms to me. In an instant I was beside her. But a great Moor, dressed\nin white, separated us. A red moroccan case hung around his neck from\na black chaplet. He drew a cutlass from it. I can still see the blue\nsteel on the brown skin. Another horrible cry. An instant later,\ndriven by a club, I was trotting ahead, swallowing my little tears,\ntrying to regain my place in the caravan.\n\n\"Near the wells of Asiou, the Moors were attacked by a party of Tuareg\nof Kel-Tazeholet, serfs of the great tribe of Kel-Rhel\u00e2, which rules\nover Ahaggar. They, in their turn, were massacred to the last man.\nThat is how I was brought here, and offered as homage to Antinea, who\nwas pleased with me and ever since has been kind to me. That is why it\nis no slave who soothes your fever to-day with stories that you do not\neven listen to, but the last descendant of the great Sonrha\u00ef Emperors,\nof Sonni-Ali, the destroyer of men and of countries, of Mohammed\nAzkia, who made the pilgrimage to Mecca, taking with him fifteen\nhundred cavaliers and three hundred thousand _mithkal_ of gold in the\ndays when our power stretched without rival from Chad to Touat and to\nthe western sea, and when G\u00e2o raised her cupola, sister of the sky,\nabove the other cities, higher above her rival cupolas than is the\ntamarisk above the humble plants of sorghum.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nTHE SILVER HAMMER\n\n    _Je ne m'en d\u00e9fends plus et je ne veux qu' aller\n    Reconna\u00eetre la place o\u00f9 je dois l'immoler_.\n                                      (Andromaque.)\n\n\nIt was this sort of a night when what I am going to tell you now\nhappened. Toward five o'clock the sky clouded over and a sense of the\ncoming storm trembled in the stifling air.\n\nI shall always remember it. It was the fifth of January, 1897.\n\nKing Hiram and Gal\u00e9 lay heavily on the matting of my room. Leaning on\nmy elbows beside Tanit-Zerga in the rock-hewn window, I spied the\nadvance tremors of lightning.\n\nOne by one they rose, streaking the now total darkness with their\nbluish stripes. But no burst of thunder followed. The storm did not\nattain the peaks of Ahaggar. It passed without breaking, leaving us in\nour gloomy bath of sweat.\n\n\"I am going to bed,\" said Tanit-Zerga.\n\nI have said that her room was above mine. Its bay window was some\nthirty feet above that before which I lay.\n\nShe took Gal\u00e9 in her arms. But King Hiram would have none of it.\nDigging his four paws into the matting, he whined in anger and\nuneasiness.\n\n\"Leave him,\" I finally said to Tanit-Zerga. \"For once he may sleep\nhere.\"\n\nSo it was that this little beast incurred his large share of\nresponsibility in the events which followed.\n\nLeft alone, I became lost in my reflections. The night was black. The\nwhole mountain was shrouded in silence.\n\nIt took the louder and louder growls of the leopard to rouse me from\nmy meditation.\n\nKing Hiram was braced against the door, digging at it with his drawn\nclaws. He, who had refused to follow Tanit-Zerga a while ago, now\nwanted to go out. He was determined to go out.\n\n\"Be still,\" I said to him. \"Enough of that. Lie down!\"\n\nI tried to pull him away from the door.\n\nI succeeded only in getting a staggering blow from his paw.\n\nThen I sat down on the divan.\n\nMy quiet was short. \"Be honest with yourself,\" I said. \"Since Morhange\nabandoned you, since the day when you saw Antinea, you have had only\none idea. What good is it to beguile yourself with the stories of\nTanit-Zerga, charming as they are? This leopard is a pretext, perhaps\na guide. Oh, you know that mysterious things are going to happen\ntonight. How have you been able to keep from doing anything as long as\nthis?\"\n\nImmediately I made a resolve.\n\n\"If I open the door,\" I thought, \"King Hiram will leap down the\ncorridor and I shall have great difficulty in following him. I must\nfind some other way.\"\n\nThe shade of the window was worked by means of a small cord. I pulled\nit down. Then I tied it into a firm leash which I fastened to the\nmetal collar of the leopard.\n\nI half opened the door.\n\n\"There, now you can go. But quietly, quietly.\"\n\nI had all the trouble in the world to curb the ardor of King Hiram who\ndragged me along the shadowy labyrinth of corridors. It was shortly\nbefore nine o'clock, and the rose-colored night lights were almost\nburned out in the niches. Now and then, we passed one which was\ncasting its last flickers. What a labyrinth! I realized that from here\non I would not recognize the way to her room. I could only follow the\nleopard.\n\nAt first furious, he gradually became used to towing me. He strained\nahead, belly to the ground, with snuffs of joy.\n\nNothing is more like one black corridor than another black corridor.\nDoubt seized me. Suppose I should suddenly find myself in the baccarat\nroom! But that was unjust to King Hiram. Barred too long from the dear\npresence, the good beast was taking me exactly where I wanted him to\ntake me.\n\nSuddenly, at a turn, the darkness ahead lifted. A rose window, faintly\nglimmering red and green, appeared before us.\n\nThe leopard stopped with a low growl before the door in which the rose\nwindow was cut.\n\nI recognized it as the door through which the white Targa had led me\nthe day after my arrival, when I had been set upon by King Hiram, when\nI had found myself in the presence of Antinea.\n\n\"We are much better friends to-day,\" I said, flattering him so that he\nwould not give a dangerously loud growl.\n\nI tried to open the door. The light, coming through the window, fell\nupon the floor, green and red.\n\nA simple latch, which I turned. I shortened the leash to have better\ncontrol of King Hiram who was getting nervous.\n\nThe great room where I had seen Antinea for the first time was\ncompletely dark. But the garden on which it gave shone under a\nclouded moon, in a sky weighted down with the storm which did not\nbreak. Not a breath of air. The lake gleamed like a sheet of pewter.\n\nI seated myself on a cushion, holding the leopard firmly between my\nknees. He was purring with impatience. I was thinking. Not about my\ngoal. For a long time that had been fixed. But about the means.\n\nThen, I seemed to hear a distant murmur, a faint sound of voices.\n\nKing Hiram growled louder, struggled. I gave him a little more leash.\nHe began to rub along the dark walls on the sides whence the voices\nseemed to come. I followed him, stumbling as quietly as I could among\nthe scattered cushions.\n\nMy eyes, become accustomed to the darkness, could see the pyramid of\ncushions on which Antinea had first appeared to me.\n\nSuddenly I stumbled. The leopard had stopped. I realized that I had\nstepped on his tail. Brave beast, he did not make a sound.\n\nGroping along the wall, I felt a second door. Quietly, very quietly, I\nopened it as I had opened the preceding one. The leopard whimpered\nfeebly.\n\n\"King Hiram,\" I murmured, \"be quiet.\"\n\nAnd I put my arms about his powerful neck.\n\nI felt his warm wet tongue on my hands. His flanks quivered. He shook\nwith happiness.\n\nIn front of us, lighted in the center, another room opened up. In the\nmiddle six men were squatting on the matting, playing dice and\ndrinking coffee from tiny copper coffee cups with long stems.\n\nThey were the white Tuareg.\n\nA lamp, hung from the ceiling, threw a circle of light over them.\nEverything outside that circle was in deep shadow.\n\nThe black faces, the copper cups, the white robes, the moving light\nand shadow, made a strange etching.\n\nThey played with a reserved dignity, announcing the throws in raucous\nvoices.\n\nThen, slowly, very slowly, I slipped the leash from the collar of the\nimpatient little beast.\n\n\"Go, boy.\"\n\nHe leapt with a sharp yelp.\n\nAnd what I had foreseen happened.\n\nThe first bound of King Hiram carried him into the midst of the white\nTuareg, sowing confusion in the bodyguard. Another leap carried him\ninto the shadow again. I made out vaguely the shaded opening of\nanother corridor on the side of the room opposite where I was\nstanding.\n\n\"There!\" I thought.\n\nThe confusion in the room was indescribable, but noiseless. One\nrealized the restraint which nearness to a great presence imposed upon\nthe exasperated guards. The stakes and the dice-boxes had rolled in\none direction, the copper cups, in the other.\n\nTwo of the Tuareg, doubled up with pain, were rubbing their ribs with\nlow oaths.\n\nI need not say that I profited by this silent confusion to glide into\nthe room. I was now flattened against the wall of the second corridor,\ndown which King Hiram had just disappeared.\n\nAt that moment a clear gong echoed in the silence. The trembling which\nseized the Tuareg assured me that I had chosen the right way.\n\nOne of the six men got up. He passed me and I fell in behind him. I\nwas perfectly calm. My least movement was perfectly calculated.\n\n\"All that I risk here now,\" I said to myself, \"is being led back\npolitely to my room.\"\n\nThe Targa lifted a curtain. I followed on his heels into the chamber\nof Antinea.\n\nThe room was huge and at once well lighted and very dark. While the\nright half, where Antinea was, gleamed under shaded lamps, the left\nwas dim.\n\nThose who have penetrated into a Mussulman home know what a _guignol_\nis, a kind of square niche in the wall, four feet from the floor, its\nopening covered by a curtain. One mounts to it by wooden steps. I\nnoticed such a _guignol_ at my left. I crept into it. My pulses beat\nin the shadow. But I was calm, quite calm.\n\nThere I could see and hear everything.\n\nI was in Antinea's chamber. There was nothing singular about the room,\nexcept the great luxury of the hangings. The ceiling was in shadow,\nbut multicolored lanterns cast a vague and gentle light over gleaming\nstuffs and furs.\n\nAntinea was stretched out on a lion's skin, smoking. A little silver\ntray and pitcher lay beside her. King Hiram was flattened out at her\nfeet, licking them madly.\n\nThe Targa slave stood rigid before her, one hand on his heart, the\nother on his forehead, saluting.\n\nAntinea spoke in a hard voice, without looking at the man.\n\n\"Why did you let the leopard pass? I told you that I wanted to be\nalone.\"\n\n\"He knocked us over, mistress,\" said the Targa humbly.\n\n\"The doors were not closed, then?\"\n\nThe slave did not answer.\n\n\"Shall I take him away?\" he asked.\n\nAnd his eyes, fastened upon King Hiram who stared at him maliciously,\nexpressed well enough his desire for a negative reply.\n\n\"Let him stay since he is here,\" said Antinea.\n\nShe tapped nervously on the little silver tray.\n\n\"What is the captain doing?\" she asked.\n\n\"He dined a while ago and seemed to enjoy his food,\" the Targa\nanswered.\n\n\"Has he said nothing?\"\n\n\"Yes, he asked to see his companion, the other officer.\"\n\nAntinea tapped the little tray still more rapidly.\n\n\"Did he say nothing else?\"\n\n\"No, mistress,\" said the man.\n\nA pallor overspread the Atlantide's little forehead.\n\n\"Go get him,\" she said brusquely.\n\nBowing, the Targa left the room.\n\nI listened to this dialogue with great anxiety. Was this Morhange? Had\nhe been faithful to me, after all? Had I suspected him unjustly? He\nhad wanted to see me and been unable to!\n\nMy eyes never left Antinea's.\n\nShe was no longer the haughty, mocking princess of our first\ninterview. She no longer wore the golden circlet on her forehead. Not\na bracelet, not a ring. She was dressed only in a full flowing tunic.\nHer black hair, unbound, lay in masses of ebony over her slight\nshoulders and her bare arms.\n\nHer beautiful eyes were deep circled. Her divine mouth drooped. I did\nnot know whether I was glad or sorry to see this new quivering\nCleopatra.\n\nFlattened at her feet, King Hiram gazed submissively at her.\n\nAn immense orichalch mirror with golden reflections was set into the\nwall at the right. Suddenly she raised herself erect before it. I saw\nher nude.\n\nA splendid and bitter sight!--A woman who thinks herself alone,\nstanding before her mirror in expectation of the man she wishes to\nsubdue!\n\nThe six incense-burners scattered about the room sent up invisible\ncolumns of perfume. The balsam spices of Arabia wore floating webs in\nwhich my shameless senses were entangled.... And, back toward me,\nstanding straight as a lily, Antinea smiled into her mirror.\n\nLow steps sounded in the corridor. Antinea immediately fell back into\nthe nonchalant pose in which I had first seen her. One had to see such\na transformation to believe it possible.\n\nMorhange entered the room, preceded by a white Targa.\n\nHe, too, seemed rather pale. But I was most struck by the expression\nof serene peace on that face which I thought I knew so well. I felt\nthat I never had understood what manner of man Morhange was, never.\n\nHe stood erect before Antinea without seeming to notice her gesture\ninviting him to be seated.\n\nShe smiled at him.\n\n\"You are surprised, perhaps,\" she said finally, \"that I should send\nfor you at so late an hour.\"\n\nMorhange did not move an eyelash.\n\n\"Have you considered it well?\" she demanded.\n\nMorhange smiled gravely, but did not reply.\n\nI could read in Antinea's face the effort it cost her to continue\nsmiling; I admired the self-control of these two beings.\n\n\"I sent for you,\" she continued. \"You do not guess why?... Well, it is\nto tell you something that you do not expect. It will be no surprise\nto you if I say that I never met a man like you. During your\ncaptivity, you have expressed only one wish. Do you recall it?\"\n\n\"I asked your permission to see my friend before I died,\" said\nMorhange simply.\n\nI do not know what stirred me more on hearing these words: delight at\nMorhange's formal tone in speaking to Antinea, or emotion at hearing\nthe one wish he had expressed.\n\nBut Antinea continued calmly:\n\n\"That is why I sent for you--to tell you that you are going to see him\nagain. And I am going to do something else. You will perhaps scorn me\neven more when you realize that you had only to oppose me to bend me\nto your will--I, who have bent all other wills to mine. But, however\nthat may be, it is decided: I give you both your liberty. Tomorrow\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh will lead you past the fifth enclosure. Are you\nsatisfied?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Morhange with a mocking smile.\n\n\"That will give me a chance,\" he continued, \"to make better plans for\nthe next trip I intend to make this way. For you need not doubt that I\nshall feel bound to return to express my gratitude. Only, next time,\nto render so great a queen the honors due her, I shall ask my\ngovernment to furnish me with two or three hundred European soldiers\nand several cannon.\"\n\nAntinea was standing up, very pale.\n\n\"What are you saying?\"\n\n\"I am saying,\" said Morhange coldly, \"that I foresaw this. First\nthreats, then promises.\"\n\nAntinea stepped toward him. He had folded his arms. He looked at her\nwith a sort of grave pity.\n\n\"I will make you die in the most atrocious agonies,\" she said finally.\n\n\"I am your prisoner,\" Morhange replied.\n\n\"You shall suffer things that you cannot even imagine.\"\n\n\"I am your prisoner,\" repeated Morhange in the same sad calm.\n\nAntinea paced the room like a beast in a cage. She advanced toward my\ncompanion and, no longer mistress of herself, struck him in the face.\n\nHe smiled and caught hold of her, drawing her little wrists together\nwith a strange mixture of force and gentleness.\n\nKing Hiram growled. I thought he was about to leap. But the cold eyes\nof Morhange held him fascinated.\n\n\"I will have your comrade killed before your eyes,\" gasped Antinea.\n\nIt seemed to me that Morhange paled, but only for a second. I was\novercome by the nobility and insight of his reply.\n\n\"My companion is brave. He does not fear death. And, in any case, he\nwould prefer death to life purchased at the price you name.\"\n\nSo saying, he let go Antinea's wrists. Her pallor was terrible. From\nthe expression of her mouth I felt that this would be her last word to\nhim.\n\n\"Listen,\" she said.\n\nHow beautiful she was, in her scorned majesty, her beauty powerless\nfor the first time!\n\n\"Listen,\" she continued. \"Listen. For the last time. Remember that I\nhold the gates of this palace, that I have supreme power over your\nlife. Remember that you breathe only at my pleasure. Remember....\"\n\n\"I have remembered all that,\" said Morhange.\n\n\"A last time,\" she repeated.\n\nThe serenity of Morhange's face was so powerful that I scarcely\nnoticed his opponent. In that transfigured countenance, no trace of\nworldliness remained.\n\n\"A last time,\" came Antinea's voice, almost breaking.\n\nMorhange was not even looking at her.\n\n\"As you will,\" she said.\n\nHer gong resounded. She had struck the silver disc. The white Targa\nappeared.\n\n\"Leave the room!\"\n\nMorhange, his head held high, went out.\n\nNow Antinea is in my arms. This is no haughty, voluptuous woman whom\nI am pressing to my heart. It is only an unhappy, scorned little girl.\n\nSo great was her trouble that she showed no surprise when I stepped\nout beside her. Her head is on my shoulder. Like the crescent moon in\nthe black clouds, I see her clear little bird-like profile amid her\nmass of hair. Her warm arms hold me convulsively.... _O tremblant\ncoeur humain_....\n\nWho could resist such an embrace, amid the soft perfumes, in the\nlangorous night? I feel myself a being without will. Is this my voice,\nthe voice which is murmuring:\n\n\"Ask me what you will, and I will do it, I will do it.\"\n\nMy senses are sharpened, tenfold keen. My head rests against a soft,\nnervous little knee. Clouds of odors whirl about me. Suddenly it seems\nas if the golden lanterns are waving from the ceiling like giant\ncensers. Is this my voice, the voice repeating in a dream:\n\n\"Ask me what you will, and I will do it. I will do it.\"\n\nAntinea's face is almost touching mine. A strange light flickers in\nher great eyes.\n\nBeyond, I see the gleaming eyes of King Hiram. Beside him, there is a\nlittle table of Kairouan, blue and gold. On that table I see the gong\nwith which Antinea summons the slaves. I see the hammer with which she\nstruck it just now, a hammer with a long ebony handle, a heavy silver\nhead ... the hammer with which little Lieutenant Kaine dealt death....\n\nI see nothing more....\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nTHE MAIDENS OF THE ROCKS\n\n\nI awakened in my room. The sun, already at its zenith, filled the\nplace with unbearable light and heat.\n\nThe first thing I saw, on opening my eyes, was the shade, ripped down,\nlying in the middle of the floor. Then, confusedly, the night's events\nbegan to come back to me.\n\nMy head felt stupid and heavy. My mind wandered. My memory seemed\nblocked. \"I went out with the leopard, that is certain. That red mark\non my forefinger shows how he strained at the leash. My knees are\nstill dusty. I remember creeping along the wall in the room where the\nwhite Tuareg were playing at dice. That was the minute after King\nHiram had leapt past them. After that ... oh, Morhange and Antinea....\nAnd then?\"\n\nI recalled nothing more. I recalled nothing more. But something must\nhave happened, something which I could not remember.\n\nI was uneasy. I wanted to go back, yet it seemed as if I were afraid\nto go. I have never felt anything more painful than those conflicting\nemotions.\n\n\"It is a long way from here to Antinea's apartments. I must have been\nvery sound asleep not to have noticed when they brought me back--for\nthey have brought me back.\"\n\nI stopped trying to think it out. My head ached too much.\n\n\"I must have air,\" I murmured. \"I am roasting here; it will drive me\nmad.\"\n\nI had to see someone, no matter whom. Mechanically, I walked toward\nthe library.\n\nI found M. Le Mesge in a transport of delirious joy. The Professor was\nengaged in opening an enormous bale, carefully sewed in a brown\nblanket.\n\n\"You come at a good time, sir,\" he cried, on seeing me enter. \"The\nmagazines have just arrived.\"\n\nHe dashed about in feverish haste. Presently a stream of pamphlets and\nmagazines, blue, green, yellow and salmon, was bursting from an\nopening in the bale.\n\n\"Splendid, splendid!\" he cried, dancing with joy. \"Not too late,\neither; here are the numbers for October fifteenth. We must give a\nvote of thanks to good Ameur.\"\n\nHis good spirits were contagious.\n\n\"There is a good Turkish merchant who subscribes to all the\ninteresting magazines of the two continents. He sends them on by\nRhadam\u00e8s to a destination which he little suspects. Ah, here are the\nFrench ones.\"\n\nM. Le Mesge ran feverishly over, the tables of contents.\n\n\"Internal politics: articles by Francis Charmes, Anatole\nLeroy-Beaulieu, d'Haussonville on the Czar's trip to Paris. Look, a\nstudy by Avenel of wages in the Middle Ages. And verse, verses of the\nyoung poets, Fernand Gregh, Edmond Haraucourt. Ah, the resum\u00e9 of a\nbook by Henry de Castries on Islam. That may be interesting.... Take\nwhat you please.\"\n\nJoy makes people amiable and M. Le Mesge was really delirious with it.\n\nA puff of breeze came from the window. I went to the balustrade and,\nresting my elbows on it, began to run through a number of the _Revue\ndes Deux Mondes_.\n\nI did not read, but flipped over the pages, my eyes now on the lines\nof swarming little black characters, now on the rocky basin which lay\nshivering, pale pink, under the declining sun.\n\nSuddenly my attention became fixed. There was a strange coincidence\nbetween the text and the landscape.\n\n\"In the sky overhead were only light shreds of cloud, like bits of\nwhite ash floating up from burnt-out logs. The sun fell over a circle\nof rocky peaks, silhouetting their severe lines against the azure sky.\nFrom on high, a great sadness and gentleness poured down into the\nlonely enclosure, like a magic drink into a deep cup....\"[17]\n\n[Footnote 17: Gabrielle d'Annunzio: _Les Vierges aux Rochers_. Cf. The\n_Revue des Deux Mondes_ of October 15, 1896; page 867.]\n\nI turned the pages feverishly. My mind seemed to be clearing.\n\nBehind me, M. Le Mesge, deep in an article, voiced his opinions in\nindignant growls.\n\nI continued reading:\n\n\"On all sides a magnificent view spread out before us in the raw\nlight. The chain of rocks, clearly visible in their barren desolation\nwhich stretched to the very summit, lay stretched out like some great\nheap of gigantic, unformed things left by some primordial race of\nTitans to stupefy human beings. Overturned towers....\"\n\n\"It is shameful, downright shameful,\" the Professor was repeating.\n\n\"Overturned towers, crumbling citadels, cupolas fallen in, broken\npillars, mutilated colossi, prows of vessels, thighs of monsters,\nbones of titans,--this mass, impassable with its ridges and gullies,\nseemed the embodiment of everything huge and tragic. So clear were the\ndistances....\"\n\n\"Downright shameful,\" M. Le Mesge kept on saying in exasperation,\nthumping his fist on the table.\n\n\"So clear were the distances that I could see, as if I had it under my\neyes, infinitely enlarged, every contour of the rock which Violante\nhad shown me through the window with the gesture of a creator....\"\n\nTrembling, I closed the magazine. At my feet, now red, I saw the rock\nwhich Antinea had pointed out to me the day of our first interview,\nhuge, steep, overhanging the reddish brown garden.\n\n\"That is my horizon,\" she had said.\n\nM. Le Mesge's excitement had passed all bounds.\n\n\"It is worse than shameful; it is infamous.\"\n\nI almost wanted to strangle him into silence. He seized my arm.\n\n\"Read that, sir; and, although you don't know a great deal about the\nsubject, you will see that this article on Roman Africa is a miracle\nof misinformation, a monument of ignorance. And it is signed ... do\nyou know by whom it is signed?\"\n\n\"Leave me alone,\" I said brutally.\n\n\"Well, it is signed Gaston Boissier. Yes, sir! Gaston Boissier, grand\nofficer of the Legion of Honor, lecturer at the _Ecole Normale\nSup\u00e9rieure_, permanent secretary of the French Academy, member of the\nAcademy of Inscriptions and Literature, one of those who once ruled\nout the subject of my thesis ... one of those ... ah, poor university,\nah, poor France!\"\n\nI was no longer listening. I had begun to read again. My forehead was\ncovered with sweat. But it seemed as if my head had been cleared like\na room when a window is opened; memories were beginning to come back\nlike doves winging their way home to the dovecote.\n\n\"At that moment, an irrepressible tremor shook her whole body; her\neyes dilated as if some terrible sight had filled them with horror.\n\n\"'Antonello,' she murmured.\n\n\"And for seconds, she was unable to say another word.\n\n\"I looked at her in mute anguish and the suffering which drew her dear\nlips together seemed also to clutch at my heart. The vision which was\nin her eyes passed into mine, and I saw again the thin white face of\nAntonello, and the quick quivering of his eyelids, the waves of agony\nwhich seized his long worn body and shook it like a reed.\"\n\nI threw the magazine upon the table.\n\n\"That is it,\" I said.\n\nTo cut the pages, I had used the knife with which M. Le Mesge had cut\nthe cords of the bale, a short ebony-handled dagger, one of those\ndaggers that the Tuareg wear in a bracelet sheath against the upper\nleft arm.\n\nI slipped it into the big pocket of my flannel dolman and walked\ntoward the door.\n\nI was about to cross the threshold when I heard M. Le Mesge call me.\n\n\"Monsieur de Saint Avit! Monsieur de Saint Avit!\n\n\"I want to ask you something, please.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Nothing important. You know that I have to mark the labels for the\nred marble hall....\"\n\nI walked toward the table.\n\n\"Well, I forgot to ask M. Morhange, at the beginning, the date and\nplace of his birth. After that, I had no chance. I did not see him\nagain. So I am forced to turn to you. Perhaps you can tell me?\"\n\n\"I can,\" I said very calmly.\n\nHe took a large white card from a box which contained several and\ndipped his pen.\n\n\"Number 54 ... Captain?\"\n\n\"Captain Jean-Marie-Fran\u00e7ois Morhange.\"\n\nWhile I dictated, one hand resting on the table, I noticed on my cuff\na stain, a little stain, reddish brown.\n\n\"Morhange,\" repeated M. Le Mesge, finishing the lettering of my\nfriend's name. \"Born at...?\"\n\n\"Villefranche.\"\n\n\"Villefranche, Rh\u00f4ne. What date?\"\n\n\"The fourteenth of October, 1859.\"\n\n\"The fourteenth of October, 1859. Good. Died at Ahaggar, the fifth of\nJanuary, 1897.... There, that is done. A thousand thanks, sir, for\nyour kindness.\"\n\n\"You are welcome.\"\n\nI left M. Le Mesge.\n\nMy mind, thenceforth, was well made up; and, as I said, I was\nperfectly calm. Nevertheless, when I had taken leave of M. Le Mesge, I\nfelt the need of waiting a few minutes before executing my decision.\n\nFirst I wandered through the corridors; then, finding myself near my\nroom, I went to it. It was still intolerably hot. I sat down on my\ndivan and began to think.\n\nThe dagger in my pocket bothered me. I took it out and laid it on the\nfloor.\n\nIt was a good dagger, with a diamond-shaped blade, and with a collar\nof orange leather between the blade and the handle.\n\nThe sight of it recalled the silver hammer. I remembered how easily it\nfitted into my hand when I struck....\n\nEvery detail of the scene came back to me with incomparable vividness.\nBut I did not even shiver. It seemed as if my determination to kill\nthe instigator of the murder permitted me peacefully to evoke its\nbrutal details.\n\nIf I reflected over my deed, it was to be surprised at it, not to\ncondemn myself.\n\n\"Well,\" I said to myself, \"I have killed this Morhange, who was once a\nbaby, who, like all the others, cost his mother so much trouble with\nhis baby sicknesses. I have put an end to his life, I have reduced to\nnothingness the monument of love, of tears, of trials overcome and\npitfalls escaped, which constitutes a human existence. What an\nextraordinary adventure!\"\n\nThat was all. No fear, no remorse, none of that Shakespearean horror\nafter the murder, which, today, sceptic though I am and blas\u00e9 and\nutterly, utterly disillusioned, sets me shuddering whenever I am alone\nin a dark room.\n\n\"Come,\" I thought. \"It's time. Time to finish it up.\"\n\nI picked up the dagger. Before putting it in my pocket, I went through\nthe motion of striking. All was well. The dagger fitted into my hand.\n\nI had been through Antinea's apartment only when guided, the first\ntime by the white Targa, the second time, by the leopard. Yet I found\nthe way again without trouble. Just before coming to the door with the\nrose window, I met a Targa.\n\n\"Let me pass,\" I ordered. \"Your mistress has sent for me.\" The man\nobeyed, stepping back.\n\nSoon a dim melody came to my ears. I recognized the sound of a\n_rebaza_, the violin with a single string, played by the Tuareg women.\nIt was Aguida playing, squatting as usual at the feet of her mistress.\nThe three other women were also squatted about her. Tanit-Zerga was\nnot there.\n\nOh! Since that was the last time I saw her, let, oh, let me tell you\nof Antinea, how she looked in that supreme moment.\n\nDid she feel the danger hovering over her and did she wish to brave it\nby her surest artifices? I had in mind the slender; unadorned body,\nwithout rings, without jewels, which I had pressed to my heart the\nnight before. And now I started in surprise at seeing before me,\nadorned like an idol, not a woman, but a queen!\n\nThe heavy splendor of the Pharaohs weighted down her slender body. On\nher head was the great gold _pschent_ of Egyptian gods and kings;\nemeralds, the national stone of the Tuareg, were set in it, tracing\nand retracing her name in Tifinar characters. A red satin _schenti_,\nembroidered in golden lotus, enveloped her like the casket of a jewel.\nAt her feet, lay an ebony scepter, headed with a trident. Her bare\narms were encircled by two serpents whose fangs touched her armpits as\nif to bury themselves there. From the ear pieces of the _pschent_\nstreamed a necklace of emeralds; its first strand passed under her\ndetermined chin; the others lay in circles against her bare throat.\n\nShe smiled as I entered.\n\n\"I was expecting you,\" she said simply.\n\nI advanced till I was four steps from the throne, then stopped before\nher.\n\nShe looked at me ironically.\n\n\"What is that?\" she asked with perfect calm.\n\nI followed her gesture. The handle of the dagger protruded from my\npocket.\n\nI drew it out and held it firmly in my hand, ready to strike.\n\n\"The first of you who moves will be sent naked six leagues into the\nred desert and left there to die,\" said Antinea coldly to her women,\nwhom my gesture had thrown into a frightened murmuring.\n\nShe turned to me.\n\n\"That dagger is very ugly and you hold it badly. Shall I send Sydya to\nmy room to get the silver hammer? You are more adroit with it than\nwith the dagger.\"\n\n\"Antinea,\" I said in a low voice, \"I am going to kill you.\"\n\n\"Do not speak so formally. You were more affectionate last night. Are\nyou embarrassed by them?\" she said, pointing to the women, whose eyes\nwere wide with terror.\n\n\"Kill me?\" she went on. \"You are hardly reasonable. Kill me at the\nmoment when you can reap the fruits of the murder of....\"\n\n\"Did--did he suffer?\" I asked suddenly, trembling.\n\n\"Very little. I told you that you used the hammer as if you had done\nnothing else all your life.\"\n\n\"Like little Kaine,\" I murmured.\n\nShe smiled in surprise.\n\n\"Oh, you know that story.... Yes, like little Kaine. But at least\nKaine was sensible. You ... I do not understand.\"\n\n\"I do not understand myself, very well.\"\n\nShe looked at me with amused curiosity.\n\n\"Antinea,\" I said.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"I did what you told me to. May I in turn ask one favor, ask you one\nquestion?\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"It was dark, was it not, in the room where _he_ was?\"\n\n\"Very dark. I had to lead you to the bed where he lay asleep.\"\n\n\"He _was_ asleep, you are sure?\"\n\n\"I said so.\"\n\n\"He--did not die instantly, did he?\"\n\n\"No. I know exactly when he died; two minutes after you struck him and\nfled with a shriek.\"\n\n\"Then surely _he_ could not have known?\"\n\n\"Known what?\"\n\n\"That it was I who--who held the hammer.\"\n\n\"He might not have known it, indeed,\" Antinea said. \"But he did know.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"He did know ... because I told him,\" she said, staring at me with\nmagnificent audacity.\n\n\"And,\" I murmured, \"he--he believed it?\"\n\n\"With the help of my explanation, he recognized your shriek. If he had\nnot realized that you were his murderer, the affair would not have\ninterested me,\" she finished with a scornful little smile.\n\nFour steps, I said, separated me from Antinea. I sprang forward. But,\nbefore I reached her, I was struck to the floor.\n\nKing Hiram had leapt at my throat.\n\nAt the same moment I heard the calm, haughty voice of Antinea:\n\n\"Call the men,\" she commanded.\n\nA second later I was released from the leopard's clutch. The six white\nTuareg had surrounded me and were trying to bind me.\n\nI am fairly strong and quick. I was on my feet in a second. One of my\nenemies lay on the floor, ten feet away, felled by a well-placed blow\non the jaw. Another was gasping under my knee. That was the last time\nI saw Antinea. She stood erect, both hands resting on her ebony\nscepter, watching the struggle with a smile of contemptuous interest.\n\nSuddenly I gave a loud cry and loosed the hold I had on my victim. A\ncracking in my left arm: one of the Tuareg had seized it and twisted\nuntil my shoulder was dislocated.\n\nWhen I completely lost consciousness, I was being carried down the\ncorridor by two white phantoms, so bound that I could not move a\nmuscle.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nTHE FIRE-FLIES\n\n\nThrough the great open window, waves of pale moonlight surged into my\nroom.\n\nA slender white figure was standing beside the bed where I lay.\n\n\"You, Tanit-Zerga!\" I murmured. She laid a finger on her lips.\n\n\"Sh! Yes, it is I.\"\n\nI tried to raise myself up on the bed. A terrible pain seized my\nshoulder. The events of the afternoon came back to my poor harassed\nmind.\n\n\"Oh, little one, if you knew!\"\n\n\"I know,\" she said.\n\nI was weaker than a baby. After the overstrain of the day had come a\nfit of utter nervous depression. A lump rose in my throat, choking me.\n\n\"If you knew, if you only knew!... Take me away, little one. Get me\naway from here.\"\n\n\"Not so loud,\" she whispered. \"There is a white Targa on guard at the\ndoor.\"\n\n\"Take me away; save me,\" I repeated.\n\n\"That is what I came for,\" she said simply.\n\nI looked at her. She no longer was wearing her beautiful red silk\ntunic. A plain white _haik_ was wrapped about her; and she had drawn\none corner of it over her head.\n\n\"I want to go away, too,\" she said in a smothered voice.\n\n\"For a long time, I have wanted to go away. I want to see G\u00e2o, the\nvillage on the bank of the river, and the blue gum trees, and the\ngreen water.\n\n\"Ever since I came here, I have wanted to get away,\" she repeated,\n\"but I am too little to go alone into the great Sahara. I never dared\nspeak to the others who came here before you. They all thought only of\n_her_.... But you, you wanted to kill her.\"\n\nI gave a low moan.\n\n\"You are suffering,\" she said. \"They broke your arm.\"\n\n\"Dislocated it anyhow.\"\n\n\"Let me see.\"\n\nWith infinite gentleness, she passed her smooth little hands over my\nshoulder.\n\n\"You tell me that there is a white Targa on guard before my door,\nTanit-Zerga,\" I said. \"Then how did you get in?\"\n\n\"That way,\" she said, pointing to the window. A dark perpendicular\nline halved its blue opening.\n\nTanit-Zerga went to the window. I saw her standing erect on the sill.\nA knife shone in her hands. She cut the rope at the top of the\nopening. It slipped down to the stone with a dry sound.\n\nShe came back to me.\n\n\"How can we escape?\" I asked.\n\n\"That way,\" she repeated, and she pointed again at the window.\n\nI leaned out. My feverish gaze fell upon the shadowy depths, searching\nfor those invisible rocks, the rocks upon which little Kaine had\ndashed himself.\n\n\"That way!\" I exclaimed, shuddering. \"Why, it is two hundred feet from\nhere to the ground.\"\n\n\"The rope is two hundred and fifty,\" she replied. \"It is a good strong\nrope which I stole in the oasis; they used it in felling trees. It is\nquite new.\"\n\n\"Climb down that way, Tanit-Zerga! With my shoulder!\"\n\n\"I will let you down,\" she said firmly. \"Feel how strong my arms are.\nNot that I shall rest your weight on them. But see, on each side of\nthe window is a marble column. By twisting the rope around one of\nthem, I can let you slip down and scarcely feel your weight.\n\n\"And look,\" she continued, \"I have made a big knot every ten feet. I\ncan stop the rope with them, every now and then, if I want to rest.\"\n\n\"And you?\" I asked.\n\n\"When you are down, I shall tie the rope to one of the columns and\nfollow. There are the knots on which to rest if the rope cuts my hands\ntoo much. But don't be afraid: I am very agile. At G\u00e2o, when I was\njust a child, I used to climb almost as high as this in the gum trees\nto take the little toucans out of their nests. It is even easier to\nclimb down.\"\n\n\"And when we are down, how will we get out? Do you know the way\nthrough the barriers?\"\n\n\"No one knows the way through the barriers,\" she said, \"except\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, and perhaps Antinea.\"\n\n\"Then?\"\n\n\"There are the camels of Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, those which he uses on\nhis forays. I untethered the strongest one and led him out, just below\nus, and gave him lots of hay so that he will not make a sound and will\nbe well fed when we start.\"\n\n\"But....\" I still protested.\n\nShe stamped her foot.\n\n\"But what? Stay if you wish, if you are afraid. I am going. I want to\nsee G\u00e2o once again, G\u00e2o with its blue gum-trees and its green water.\"\n\nI felt myself blushing.\n\n\"I will go, Tanit-Zerga. I would rather die of thirst in the midst of\nthe desert than stay here. Let us start.\"\n\n\"Tut!\" she said. \"Not yet.\"\n\nShe showed me that the dizzy descent was in brilliant moonlight.\n\n\"Not yet. We must wait. They would see us. In an hour, the moon will\nhave circled behind the mountain. That will be the time.\"\n\nShe sat silent, her _haik_ wrapped completely about her dark little\nfigure. Was she praying? Perhaps.\n\nSuddenly I no longer saw her. Darkness had crept in the window. The\nmoon had turned.\n\nTanit-Zerga's hand was on my arm. She drew me toward the abyss. I\ntried not to tremble.\n\nEverything below us was in shadow. In a low, firm voice, Tanit-Zerga\nbegan to speak:\n\n\"Everything is ready. I have twisted the rope about the pillar. Here\nis the slip-knot. Put it under your arms. Take this cushion. Keep it\npressed against your hurt shoulder.... A leather cushion.... It is\ntightly stuffed. Keep face to the wall. It will protect you against\nthe bumping and scraping.\"\n\nI was now master of myself, very calm. I sat down on the sill of the\nwindow, my feet in the void. A breath of cool air from the peaks\nrefreshed me.\n\nI felt little Tanit-Zerga's hand in my vest pocket.\n\n\"Here is a box. I must know when you are down, so I can follow. You\nwill open the box. There are fire-flies in it; I shall see them and\nfollow you.\"\n\nShe held my hand a moment.\n\n\"Now go,\" she murmured.\n\nI went.\n\nI remember only one thing about that descent: I was overcome with\nvexation when the rope stopped and I found myself, feet dangling,\nagainst the perfectly smooth wall.\n\n\"What is the little fool waiting for?\" I said to myself. \"I have been\nhung here for a quarter of an hour. Ah ... at last! Oh, here I am\nstopped again.\" Once or twice I thought I was reaching the ground, but\nit was only a projection from the rock. I had to give a quick shove\nwith my foot.... Then, suddenly, I found myself seated on the ground.\nI stretched out my hands. Bushes.... A thorn pricked my finger. I was\ndown.\n\nImmediately I began to get nervous again.\n\nI pulled out the cushion and slipped off the noose. With my good hand,\nI pulled the rope, holding it out five or six feet from the face of\nthe mountain, and put my foot on it.\n\nThen I took the little cardboard box from my pocket and opened it.\n\nOne after the other, three little luminous circles rose in the inky\nnight. I saw them rise higher and higher against the rocky wall. Their\npale rose aureols gleamed faintly. Then, one by one, they turned,\ndisappeared.\n\n\"You are tired, Sidi Lieutenant. Let me hold the rope.\"\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh rose up at my side.\n\nI looked at his tall black silhouette. I shuddered, but I did not let\ngo of the rope on which I began to feel distant jerks.\n\n\"Give it to me,\" he repeated with authority.\n\nAnd he took it from my hands.\n\nI don't know what possessed me then. I was standing beside that great\ndark phantom. And I ask you, what could I, with a dislocated\nshoulder, do against that man whose agile strength I already knew?\nWhat was there to do? I saw him buttressed against the wall, holding\nthe rope with both hands, with both feet, with all his body, much\nbetter than I had been able to do.\n\nA rustling above our heads. A little shadowy form.\n\n\"There,\" said Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, seizing the little shadow in his\npowerful arms and placing her on the ground, while the rope, let\nslack, slapped back against the rock.\n\nTanit-Zerga recognized the Targa and groaned.\n\nHe put his hand roughly over her mouth.\n\n\"Shut up, camel thief, wretched little fly.\"\n\nHe seized her arm. Then he turned to me.\n\n\"Come,\" he said in an imperious tone.\n\nI obeyed. During our short walk, I heard Tanit-Zerga's teeth\nchattering with terror.\n\nWe reached a little cave.\n\n\"Go in,\" said the Targa.\n\nHe lighted a torch. The red light showed a superb mehari peacefully\nchewing his cud.\n\n\"The little one is not stupid,\" said Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, pointing to\nthe animal. \"She knows enough to pick out the best and the strongest.\nBut she is rattle-brained.\"\n\nHe held the torch nearer the camel.\n\n\"She is rattle-brained,\" he continued. \"She only saddled him. No\nwater, no food. At this hour, three days from now, all three of you\nwould have been dead on the road, and on what a road!\"\n\nTanit-Zerga's teeth no longer chattered. She was looking at the Targa\nwith a mixture of terror and hope.\n\n\"Come here, Sidi Lieutenant,\" said Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, \"so that I can\nexplain to you.\"\n\nWhen I was beside him, he said:\n\n\"On each side there is a skin of water. Make that water last as long\nas possible, for you are going to cross a terrible country. It may be\nthat you will not find a well for three hundred miles.\n\n\"There,\" he went on, \"in the saddle bags, are cans of preserved meat.\nNot many, for water is much more precious. Here also is a carbine,\nyour carbine, sidi. Try not to use it except to shoot antelopes. And\nthere is this.\"\n\nHe spread out a roll of paper. I saw his inscrutible face bent over\nit; his eyes were smiling; he looked at me.\n\n\"Once out of the enclosures, what way did you plan to go?\" he asked.\n\n\"Toward Idel\u00e8s, to retake the route where you met the Captain and me,\"\nI said.\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh shook his head.\n\n\"I thought as much,\" he murmured.\n\nThen he added coldly:\n\n\"Before sunset to-morrow, you and the little one would have been\ncaught and massacred.\"\n\n\"Toward the north is Ahaggar,\" he continued, \"and all Ahaggar is under\nthe control of Antinea. You must go south.\"\n\n\"Then we shall go south.\"\n\n\"By what route?\"\n\n\"Why, by Silet and Timissao.\"\n\nThe Targa again shook his head.\n\n\"They will look for you on that road also,\" he said. \"It is a good\nroad, the road with the wells. They know that you are familiar with\nit. The Tuareg would not fail to wait at the wells.\"\n\n\"Well, then?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, \"you must not rejoin the road from\nTimissao to Timbuctoo until you are four hundred miles from here\ntoward Iferouane, or better still, at the spring of Telemsi. That is\nthe boundary between the Tuareg of Ahaggar and the Awellimiden\nTuareg.\"\n\nThe little voice of Tanit-Zerga broke in:\n\n\"It was the Awellimiden Tuareg who massacred my people and carried me\ninto slavery. I do not want to pass through the country of the\nAwellimiden.\"\n\n\"Be still, miserable little fly,\" said Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh.\n\nThen addressing me, he continued:\n\n\"I have said what I have said. The little one is not wrong. The\nAwellimiden are a savage people. But they are afraid of the French.\nMany of them trade with the stations north of the Niger. On the other\nhand, they are at war with the people of Ahaggar, who will not follow\nyou into their country. What I have said, is said. You must rejoin\nthe Timbuctoo road near where it enters the borders of the\nAwellimiden. Their country is wooded and rich in springs. If you reach\nthe springs at Telemsi, you will finish your journey beneath a canopy\nof blossoming mimosa. On the other hand, the road from here to Telemsi\nis shorter than by way of Timissao. It is quite straight.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is direct,\" I said, \"but, in following it, you have to cross\nthe Tanezruft.\"\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh waved his hand impatiently.\n\n\"Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh knows that,\" he said. \"He knows what the Tanezruft\nis. He who has traveled over all the Sahara knows that he would\nshudder at crossing the Tanezruft and the Tassili from the south. He\nknows that the camels that wander into that country either die or\nbecome wild, for no one will risk his life to go look for them. It is\nthe terror that hangs over that region that may save you. For you have\nto choose: you must run the risk of dying of thirst on the tracks of\nthe Tanezruft or have your throat cut along some other route.\n\n\"You can stay here,\" he added.\n\n\"My choice is made, Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,\" I announced.\n\n\"Good!\" he replied, again opening out the roll of paper. \"This trail\nbegins at the second barrier of earth, to which I will lead you. It\nends at Iferouane. I have marked the wells, but do not trust to them\ntoo much, for many of them are dry. Be careful not to stray from the\nroute. If you lose it, it is death.... Now mount the camel with the\nlittle one. Two make less noise than four.\"\n\nWe went a long way in silence. Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh walked ahead and his\ncamel followed meekly. We crossed, first, a dark passage, then, a deep\ngorge, then another passage.... The entrance to each was hidden by a\nthick tangle of rocks and briars.\n\nSuddenly a burning breath touched our faces. A dull reddish light\nfiltered in through the end of the passage. The desert lay before us.\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh had stopped.\n\n\"Get down,\" he said.\n\nA spring gurgled out of the rock. The Targa went to it and filled a\ncopper cup with the water.\n\n\"Drink,\" he said, holding it out to each of us in turn. We obeyed.\n\n\"Drink again,\" he ordered. \"You will save just so much of the contents\nof your water skins. Now try not to be thirsty before sunset.\"\n\nHe looked over the saddle girths.\n\n\"That's all right,\" he murmured. \"Now go. In two hours the dawn will\nbe here. You must be out of sight.\"\n\nI was filled with emotion at this last moment; I went to the Targa and\ntook his hand.\n\n\"Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,\" I asked in a low voice, \"why are you doing\nthis?\"\n\nHe stepped back and I saw his dark eyes gleam.\n\n\"Why?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, why?\"\n\nHe replied with dignity:\n\n\"The Prophet permits every just man, once in his lifetime, to let pity\ntake the place of duty. Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh is turning this permission\nto the advantage of one who saved his life.\"\n\n\"And you are not afraid,\" I asked, \"that I will disclose the secret of\nAntinea if I return among Frenchmen?\" He shook his head.\n\n\"I am not afraid of that,\" he said, and his voice was full of irony.\n\"It is not to your interest that Frenchmen should know how the Captain\nmet his death.\"\n\nI was horrified at this logical reply.\n\n\"Perhaps I am doing wrong,\" the Targa went on, \"in not killing the\nlittle one.... But she loves you. She will not talk. Now go. Day is\ncoming.\"\n\nI tried to press the hand of this strange rescuer, but he again drew\nback.\n\n\"Do not thank me. What I am doing, I do to acquire merit in the eyes\nof God. You may be sure that I shall never do it again neither for you\nnor for anyone else.\"\n\nAnd, as I made a gesture to reassure him on that point, \"Do not\nprotest,\" he said in a tone the mockery of which still sounds in my\nears. \"Do not protest. What I am doing is of value to me, but not to\nyou.\"\n\nI looked at him uncomprehendingly.\n\n\"Not to you, Sidi Lieutenant, not to you,\" his grave voice continued.\n\"For you will come back; and when that day comes, do not count on the\nhelp of Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh.\"\n\n\"I will come back?\" I asked, shuddering.\n\n\"You will come back,\" the Targa replied.\n\nHe was standing erect, a black statue against the wall of gray rock.\n\n\"You will come back,\" he repeated with emphasis. \"You are fleeing now,\nbut you are mistaken if you think that you will look at the world with\nthe same eyes as before. Henceforth, one idea, will follow you\neverywhere you go; and in one year, five, perhaps ten years, you will\npass again through the corridor through which you have just come.\"\n\n\"Be still, Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh,\" said the trembling voice of\nTanit-Zerga.\n\n\"Be still yourself, miserable little fly,\" said Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh.\n\nHe sneered.\n\n\"The little one is afraid because she knows that I tell the truth. She\nknows the story of Lieutenant Ghiberti.\"\n\n\"Lieutenant Ghiberti?\" I said, the sweat standing out on my forehead.\n\n\"He was an Italian officer whom I met between Rh\u00e2t and Rhadam\u00e8s eight\nyears ago. He did not believe that love of Antinea could make him\nforget all else that life contained. He tried to escape, and he\nsucceeded. I do not know how, for I did not help him. He went back to\nhis country. But hear what happened: two years later, to the very day,\nwhen I was leaving the look-out, I discovered a miserable tattered\ncreature, half dead from hunger and fatigue, searching in vain for the\nentrance to the northern barrier. It was Lieutenant Ghiberti, come\nback. He fills niche Number 39 in the red marble hall.\"\n\nThe Targa smiled slightly.\n\n\"That is the story of Lieutenant Ghiberti which you wished to hear.\nBut enough of this. Mount your camel.\"\n\nI obeyed without saying a word. Tanit-Zerga, seated behind me, put\nher little arms around me. Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh was still holding the\nbridle.\n\n\"One word more,\" he said, pointing to a black spot against the violet\nsky of the southern horizon. \"You see the _gour_ there; that is your\nway. It is eighteen miles from here. You should reach it by sunrise.\nThen consult your map. The next point is marked. If you do not stray\nfrom the line, you should be at the springs of Telemsi in eight days.\"\n\nThe camel's neck was stretched toward the dark wind coming from the\nsouth.\n\nThe Targa released the bridle with a sweep of his hand.\n\n\"Now go.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" I called to him, turning back in the saddle. \"Thank you,\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh, and farewell.\"\n\nI heard his voice replying in the distance:\n\n\"_Au revoir_, Lieutenant de Saint Avit.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nTHE TANEZRUFT\n\n\nDuring the first hour of our flight, the great mehari of\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh carried us at a mad pace. We covered at least five\nleagues. With fixed eyes, I guided the beast toward the _gour_ which\nthe Targa had pointed out, its ridge becoming higher and higher\nagainst the paling sky.\n\nThe speed caused a little breeze to whistle in our ears. Great tufts\nof _retem_, like fleshless skeletons, were tossed to right and left.\n\nI heard the voice of Tanit-Zerga whispering:\n\n\"Stop the camel.\"\n\nAt first I did not understand.\n\n\"Stop him,\" she repeated.\n\nHer hand pulled sharply at my right arm.\n\nI obeyed. The camel slackened his pace with very bad grace.\n\n\"Listen,\" she said.\n\nAt first I heard nothing. Then a very slight noise, a dry rustling\nbehind us.\n\n\"Stop the camel,\" Tanit-Zerga commanded. \"It is not worth while to\nmake him kneel.\"\n\nA little gray creature bounded on the camel. The mehari set out again\nat his best speed.\n\n\"Let him go,\" said Tanit-Zerga. \"Gal\u00e9 has jumped on.\"\n\nI felt a tuft of bristly hair under my arm. The mongoose had followed\nour footsteps and rejoined us. I heard the quick panting of the brave\nlittle creature becoming gradually slower and slower.\n\n\"I am happy,\" murmured Tanit-Zerga.\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh had not been mistaken. We reached the _gour_ as the\nsun rose. I looked back. The Atakor was nothing more than a monstrous\nchaos amid the night mists which trailed the dawn. It was no longer\npossible to pick out from among the nameless peaks, the one on which\nAntinea was still weaving her passionate plots.\n\nYou know what the Tanezruft is, the \"plain of plains,\" abandoned,\nuninhabitable, the country of hunger and thirst. We were then starting\non the part of the desert which Duveyrier calls the Tassili of the\nsouth, and which figures on the maps of the Minister of Public Works\nunder this attractive title: \"Rocky plateau, without water, without\nvegetation, inhospitable for man and beast.\"\n\nNothing, unless parts of the Kalahari, is more frightful than this\nrocky desert. Oh, Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh did not exaggerate in saying that\nno one would dream of following us into that country.\n\nGreat patches of oblivion still refused to clear away. Memories chased\neach other incoherently about my head. A sentence came back to me\ntextually: \"It seemed to Dick that he had never, since the beginning\nof original darkness, done anything at all save jolt through the air.\"\nI gave a little laugh. \"In the last few hours,\" I thought, \"I have\nbeen heaping up literary situations. A while ago, a hundred feet above\nthe ground, I was Fabrice of _La Chartreuse de Parme_ beside his\nItalian dungeon. Now, here on my camel, I am Dick of _The Light That\nFailed_, crossing the desert to meet his companions in arms.\" I\nchuckled again; then shuddered. I thought of the preceding night, of\nthe Orestes of _Andromaque_ who agreed to sacrifice Pyrrhus. A\nliterary situation indeed....\n\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh had reckoned eight days to get to the wooded\ncountry of the Awellimiden, forerunners of the grassy steppes of the\nSoudan. He knew well the worth of his beast. Tanit-Zerga had suddenly\ngiven him a name, _El Mellen_, the white one, for the magnificent\nmehari had an almost spotless coat. Once he went two days without\neating, merely picking up here and there a branch of an acacia tree\nwhose hideous white spines, four inches long, filled me with fear for\nour friend's oesophagus. The wells marked out by Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh\nwere indeed at the indicated spots, but we found nothing in them but a\nburning yellow mud. It was enough for the camel, enough so that at the\nend of the fifth day, thanks to prodigious self-control, we had used\nup only one of our two water skins. Then we believed ourselves safe.\n\nNear one of these muddy puddles, I succeeded that day in shooting down\na little straight-horned desert gazelle. Tanit-Zerga skinned the beast\nand we regaled ourselves with a delicious haunch. Meantime, little\nGal\u00e9, who never ceased prying about the cracks in the rocks during our\nmid-day halts in the heat, discovered an _ourane_, a sand crocodile,\nfive feet long, and made short work of breaking his neck. She ate so\nmuch she could not budge. It cost us a pint of water to help her\ndigestion. We gave it with good grace, for we were happy. Tanit-Zerga\ndid not say so, but her joy at knowing that I was thinking no more of\nthe woman in the gold diadem and the emeralds was apparent. And\nreally, during those days, I hardly thought of her. I thought only of\nthe torrid heat to be avoided, of the water skins which, if you wished\nto drink fresh water, had to be left for an hour in a cleft in the\nrocks; of the intense joy which seized you when you raised to your\nlips a leather goblet brimming with that life-saving water.... I can\nsay this with authority, with good authority, indeed; passion,\nspiritual or physical, is a thing for those who have eaten and drunk\nand rested.\n\nIt was five o'clock in the afternoon. The frightful heat was\nslackening. We had left a kind of rocky crevice where we had had a\nlittle nap. Seated on a huge rock, we were watching the reddening\nwest.\n\nI spread out the roll of paper on which Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh had marked\nthe stages of our journey as far as the road from the Soudan. I\nrealized again with joy that his itinerary was exact and that I had\nfollowed it scrupulously.\n\n\"The evening of the day after to-morrow,\" I said, \"we shall be setting\nout on the stage which will take us, by the next dawn, to the waters\nat Telemsi. Once there, we shall not have to worry any more about\nwater.\"\n\nTanit-Zerga's eyes danced in her thin face.\n\n\"And G\u00e2o?\" she asked.\n\n\"We will be only a week from the Niger. And Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh said\nthat at Telemsi, one reached a road overhung with mimosa.\"\n\n\"I know the mimosa,\" she said. \"They are the little yellow balls that\nmelt in your hand. But I like the caper flowers better. You will come\nwith me to G\u00e2o. My father, Sonni-Azkia, was killed, as I told you, by\nthe Awellimiden. But my people must have rebuilt the villages. They\nare used to that. You will see how you will be received.\"\n\n\"I will go, Tanit-Zerga, I promise you. But you also, you must promise\nme....\"\n\n\"What? Oh, I guess. You must take me for a little fool if you believe\nme capable of speaking of things which might make trouble for my\nfriend.\"\n\nShe looked at me as she spoke. Privation and great fatigue had\nchiselled the brown face where her great eyes shone.... Since then, I\nhave had time to assemble the maps and compasses, and to fix forever\nthe spot where, for the first time, I understood the beauty of\nTanit-Zerga's eyes.\n\nThere was a deep silence between us. It was she who broke it.\n\n\"Night is coming. We must eat so as to leave as soon as possible.\"\n\nShe stood up and went toward the rocks.\n\nAlmost immediately, I heard her calling in an anguished voice that\nsent a chill through me.\n\n\"Come! Oh, come see!\"\n\nWith a bound, I was at her side.\n\n\"The camel,\" she murmured. \"The camel!\"\n\nI looked, and a deadly shudder seized me.\n\nStretched out at full length, on the other side of the rocks, his pale\nflanks knotted up by convulsive spasms, _El Mellen_ lay in anguish.\n\nI need not say that we rushed to him in feverish haste. Of what _El\nMellen_ was dying, I did not know, I never have known. All the mehara\nare that way. They are at once the most enduring and the most delicate\nof beasts. They will travel for six months across the most frightful\ndeserts, with little food, without water, and seem only the better for\nit. Then, one day when nothing is the matter, they stretch out and\ngive you the slip with disconcerting ease.\n\nWhen Tanit-Zerga and I saw that there was nothing more to do, we stood\nthere without a word, watching his slackening spasms. When he breathed\nhis last, we felt that our life, as well as his, had gone.\n\nIt was Tanit-Zerga who spoke first.\n\n\"How far are we from the Soudan road?\" she asked.\n\n\"We are a hundred and twenty miles from the springs of Telemsi,\" I\nreplied. \"We could make thirty miles by going toward Iferouane; but\nthe wells are not marked on that route.\"\n\n\"Then we must walk toward the springs of Telemsi,\" she said. \"A\nhundred and twenty miles, that makes seven days?\"\n\n\"Seven days at the least, Tanit-Zerga.\"\n\n\"How far is it to the first well?\"\n\n\"Thirty-five miles.\"\n\nThe little girl's face contracted somewhat. But she braced up quickly.\n\n\"We must set out at once.\"\n\n\"Set out on foot, Tanit-Zerga!\"\n\nShe stamped her foot. I marveled to see her so strong.\n\n\"We must go,\" she repeated. \"We are going to eat and drink and make\nGal\u00e9 eat and drink, for we cannot carry all the tins, and the water\nskin is so heavy that we should not get three miles if we tried to\ncarry it. We will put a little water in one of the tins after emptying\nit through a little hole. That will be enough for to-night's stage,\nwhich will be eighteen miles without water. To-morrow we will set out\nfor another eighteen miles and we will reach the wells marked on the\npaper by Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I murmured sadly, \"if my shoulder were only not this way, I\ncould carry the water skin.\"\n\n\"It is as it is,\" said Tanit-Zerga.\n\n\"You will take your carbine and two tins of meat. I shall take two\nmore and the one filled with water. Come. We must leave in an hour if\nwe wish to cover the eighteen miles. You know that when the sun is up,\nthe rocks are so hot we cannot walk.\"\n\nI leave you to imagine in what sad silence we passed that hour which\nwe had begun so happily and confidently. Without the little girl, I\nbelieve I should have seated myself upon a rock and waited. Gal\u00e9 only\nwas happy.\n\n\"We must not let her eat too much,\" said Tanit-Zerga. \"She would not\nbe able to follow us. And to-morrow she must work. If she catches\nanother _ourane_, it will be for us.\"\n\n\nYou have walked in the desert. You know how terrible the first hours\nof the night are. When the moon comes up, huge and yellow, a sharp\ndust seems to rise in suffocating clouds. You move your jaws\nmechanically as if to crush the dust that finds its way into your\nthroat like fire. Then usually a kind of lassitude, of drowsiness,\nfollows. You walk without thinking. You forget where you are walking.\nYou remember only when you stumble. Of course you stumble often. But\nanyway it is bearable. \"The night is ending,\" you say, \"and with it\nthe march. All in all, I am less tired than at the beginning.\" The\nnight ends, but then comes the most terrible hour of all. You are\nperishing of thirst and shaking with cold. All the fatigue comes back\nat once. The horrible breeze which precedes the dawn is no comfort.\nQuite the contrary. Every time you stumble, you say, \"The next misstep\nwill be the last.\"\n\nThat is what people feel and say even when they know that in a few\nhours they will have a good rest with food and water.\n\nI was suffering terribly. Every step jolted my poor shoulder. At one\ntime, I wanted to stop, to sit down. Then I looked at Tanit-Zerga. She\nwas walking ahead with her eyes almost closed. Her expression was an\nindefinable one of mingled suffering and determination. I closed my\nown eyes and went on.\n\nSuch was the first stage. At dawn we stopped in a hollow in the rocks.\nSoon the heat forced us to rise to seek a deeper one. Tanit-Zerga did\nnot eat. Instead, she swallowed a little of her half can of water. She\nlay drowsy all day. Gal\u00e9 ran about our rock giving plaintive little\ncries.\n\nI am not going to tell you about the second march. It was more\nhorrible than anything you can imagine. I suffered all that it is\nhumanly possible to suffer in the desert. But already I began to\nobserve with infinite pity that my man's strength was outlasting the\nnervous force of my little companion. The poor child walked on without\nsaying a word, chewing feebly one corner of her _haik_ which she had\ndrawn over her face. Gal\u00e9 followed.\n\nThe well toward which we were dragging ourselves was indicated on\nCegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh's paper by the one word _Tissaririn. Tissaririn_ is\nthe plural of _Tissarirt_ and means \"two isolated trees.\"\n\nDay was dawning when finally I saw the two trees, two gum trees.\nHardly a league separated us from them. I gave a cry of joy.\n\n\"Courage, Tanit-Zerga, there is the well.\"\n\nShe drew her veil aside and I saw the poor anguished little face.\n\n\"So much the better,\" she murmured, \"because otherwise....\"\n\nShe could not even finish the sentence.\n\nWe finished the last half mile almost at a run. We already saw the\nhole, the opening of the well.\n\nFinally we reached it.\n\nIt was empty.\n\nIt is a strange sensation to be dying of thirst. At first the\nsuffering is terrible. Then, gradually, it becomes less. You become\npartly unconscious. Ridiculous little things about your life occur to\nyou, fly about you like mosquitoes. I began to remember my history\ncomposition for the entrance examination of Saint-Cyr, \"The Campaign\nof Marengo.\" Obstinately I repeated to myself, \"I have already said\nthat the battery unmasked by Marmont at the moment of Kellerman's\ncharge included eighteen pieces.... No, I remember now, it was only\ntwelve pieces. I am sure it was twelve pieces.\"\n\nI kept on repeating:\n\n\"Twelve pieces.\"\n\nThen I fell into a sort of coma.\n\nI was recalled from it by feeling a red-hot iron on my forehead. I\nopened my eyes. Tanit-Zerga was bending over me. It was her hand which\nburnt so.\n\n\"Get up,\" she said. \"We must go on.\"\n\n\"Go on, Tanit-Zerga! The desert is on fire. The sun is at the zenith.\nIt is noon.\"\n\n\"We must go on,\" she repeated.\n\nThen I saw that she was delirious.\n\nShe was standing erect. Her _haik_ had fallen to the ground and little\nGal\u00e9, rolled up in a ball, was asleep on it.\n\nBareheaded, indifferent to the frightful sunlight, she kept repeating:\n\n\"We must go on.\"\n\nA little sense came back to me.\n\n\"Cover your head, Tanit-Zerga, cover your head.\"\n\n\"Come,\" she repeated. \"Let's go. G\u00e2o is over there, not far away. I\ncan feel it. I want to see G\u00e2o again.\"\n\nI made her sit down beside me in the shadow of a rock. I realized that\nall strength had left her. The wave of pity that swept over me,\nbrought back my senses.\n\n\"G\u00e2o is just over there, isn't it?\" she asked.\n\nHer gleaming eyes became imploring.\n\n\"Yes, dear little girl. G\u00e2o is there. But for God's sake lie down. The\nsun is fearful.\"\n\n\"Oh, G\u00e2o, G\u00e2o!\" she repeated. \"I know very well that I shall see G\u00e2o\nagain.\"\n\nShe sat up. Her fiery little hands gripped mine.\n\n\"Listen. I must tell you so you can understand how I know I shall see\nG\u00e2o again.\"\n\n\"Tanit-Zerga, be quiet, my little girl, be quiet.\"\n\n\"No, I must tell you. A long time ago, on the bank of the river where\nthere is water, at G\u00e2o, where my father was a prince, there was....\nWell, one day, one feast day, there came from the interior of the\ncountry an old magician, dressed in skins and feathers, with a mask\nand a pointed head-dress, with castanets, and two serpents in a bag.\nOn the village square, where all our people formed in a circle, he\ndanced the _boussadilla_. I was in the first row, and because I had a\nnecklace of pink tourmaline, he quickly saw that I was the daughter of\na chief. So he spoke to me of the past, of the great Mandingue Empire\nover which my grandfathers had ruled, of our enemies, the fierce\nKountas, of everything, and finally he said:\n\n\"'Have no fear, little girl.'\n\n\"Then he said again, 'Do not be afraid. Evil days may be in store for\nyou, but what does that matter? For one day you will see G\u00e2o gleaming\non the horizon, no longer a servile G\u00e2o reduced to the rank of a\nlittle Negro town, but the splendid G\u00e2o of other days, the great\ncapital of the country of the blacks, G\u00e2o reborn, with its mosque of\nseven towers and fourteen cupolas of turquoise, with its houses with\ncool courts, its fountains, its watered gardens, all blooming with\ngreat red and white flowers.... That will be for you the hour of\ndeliverance and of royalty.'\"\n\nTanit-Zerga was standing up. All about us, on our heads, the sun\nblazed on the _hamada_, burning it white.\n\nSuddenly the child stretched out her arms. She gave a terrible cry.\n\n\"G\u00e2o! There is G\u00e2o!\"\n\nI looked at her.\n\n\"G\u00e2o,\" she repeated. \"Oh, I know it well! There are the trees and the\nfountains, the cupolas and the towers, the palm trees, the great red\nand white flowers. G\u00e2o....\"\n\nIndeed, along the shimmering horizon rose a fantastic city with mighty\nbuildings that towered, tier on tier, until they formed a rainbow.\nWide-eyed, we stood and watched the terrible mirage quiver feverishly\nbefore us.\n\n\"G\u00e2o!\" I cried. \"G\u00e2o!\"\n\nAnd almost immediately I uttered another cry, of sorrow and of horror.\nTanit-Zerga's little hand relaxed in mine. I had just time to catch\nthe child in my arms and hear her murmur as in a whisper:\n\n\"And then that will be the day of deliverance. The day of deliverance\nand of royalty.\"\n\nSeveral hours later I took the knife with which we had skinned the\ndesert gazelle and, in the sand at the foot of the rock where\nTanit-Zerga had given up her spirit, I made a little hollow where she\nwas to rest.\n\nWhen everything was ready, I wanted to look once more at that dear\nlittle face. Courage failed me for a moment.... Then I quickly drew\nthe _haik_ over the brown face and laid the body of the child in the\nhollow.\n\nI had reckoned without Gal\u00e9.\n\nThe eyes of the mongoose had not left me during the whole time that I\nwas about my sad duty. When she heard the first handfuls of sand fall\non the _haik_, she gave a sharp cry. I looked at her and saw her ready\nto spring, her eyes daring fire.\n\n\"Gal\u00e9!\" I implored; and I tried to stroke her.\n\nShe bit my hand and then leapt into the grave and began to dig,\nthrowing the sand furiously aside.\n\nI tried three times to chase her away. I felt that I should never\nfinish my task and that, even if I did, Gal\u00e9 would stay there and\ndisinter the body.\n\nMy carbine lay at my feet. A shot drew echoes from the immense empty\ndesert. A moment later, Gal\u00e9 also slept her last sleep, curled up, as\nI so often had seen her, against the neck of her mistress.\n\nWhen the surface showed nothing more than a little mound of trampled\nsand, I rose staggering and started off aimlessly into the desert,\ntoward the south.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\nTHE CIRCLE IS COMPLETE\n\n\nAt the foot of the valley of the Mia, at the place where the jackal\nhad cried the night Saint-Avit told me he had killed Morhange, another\njackal, or perhaps the same one, howled again.\n\nImmediately I had a feeling that this night would see the\nirremediable fulfilled.\n\nWe were seated that evening, as before, on the poor veranda improvised\noutside our dining-room. The floor was of plaster, the balustrade of\ntwisted branches; four posts supported a thatched roof.\n\nI have already said that from the veranda one could look far out over\nthe desert. As he finished speaking, Saint-Avit rose and stood leaning\nhis elbows on the railing. I followed him.\n\n\"And then....\" I said.\n\nHe looked at me.\n\n\"And then what? Surely you know what all the newspapers told--how, in\nthe country of the Awellimiden, I was found dying of hunger and thirst\nby an expedition under the command of Captain Aymard, and taken to\nTimbuctoo. I was delirious for a month afterward. I have never known\nwhat I may have said during those spells of burning fever. You may be\nsure the officers of the Timbuctoo Club did not feel it incumbent upon\nthem to tell me. When I told them of my adventures, as they are\nrelated in the report of the Morhange--Saint-Avit Expedition, I could\nsee well enough from the cold politeness with which they received my\nexplanations, that the official version which I gave them differed at\ncertain points from the fragments which had escaped me in my delirium.\n\n\"They did not press the matter. It remains understood that Captain\nMorhange died from a sunstroke and that I buried him on the border of\nthe Tarhit watercourse, three marches from Timissao. Everybody can\ndetect that there are things missing in my story. Doubtless they guess\nat some mysterious drama. But proofs are another matter. Because of\nthe impossibility of collecting them, they prefer to smother what\ncould only become a silly scandal. But now you know all the details as\nwell as I.\"\n\n\"And--she?\" I asked timidly.\n\nHe smiled triumphantly. It was triumph at having led me to think no\nlonger of Morhange, or of his crime, the triumph of feeling that he\nhad succeeded in imbuing me with his own madness.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"She! For six years I have learned nothing more about\nher. But I see her, I talk with her. I am thinking now how I shall\nreenter her presence. I shall throw myself at her feet and say simply,\n'Forgive me. I rebelled against your law. I did not know. But now I\nknow; and you see that, like Lieutenant Ghiberti, I have come back.'\n\n\"'Family, honor, country,' said old Le Mesge, 'you will forget all for\nher.' Old Le Mesge is a stupid man, but he speaks from experience. He\nknows, he who has seen broken before Antinea the wills of the fifty\nghosts in the red marble hall.\n\n\"And now, will you, in your turn, ask me 'What is this woman?' Do I\nknow myself? And besides, what difference does it make? What does her\npast and the mystery of her origin matter to me; what does it matter\nwhether she is the true descendant of the god of the sea and the\nsublime Lagides or the bastard of a Polish drunkard and a harlot of\nthe Marbeuf quarter?\n\n\"At the time when I was foolish enough to be jealous of Morhange,\nthese questions might have made some difference to the ridiculous\nself-esteem that civilized people mix up with passion. But I have held\nAntinea's body in my arms. I no longer wish to know any other, nor if\nthe fields are in blossom, nor what will become of the human\nspirit....\n\n\"I do not wish to know. Or, rather, it is because I have too exact a\nvision of that future, that I pretend to destroy myself in the only\ndestiny that is worth while: a nature unfathomed and virgin, a\nmysterious love.\n\n\"_A nature unfathomed and virgin_. I must explain myself. One winter\nday, in a large city all streaked with the soot that falls from black\nchimneys of factories and of those horrible houses in the suburbs, I\nattended a funeral.\n\n\"We followed the hearse in the mud. The church was new, damp and poor.\nAside from two or three people, relatives struck down by a dull\nsorrow, everyone had just one idea: to find some pretext to get away.\nThose who went as far as the cemetery were those who did not find an\nexcuse. I see the gray walls and the cypresses, those trees of sun and\nshade, so beautiful in the country of southern France against the low\npurple hills. I see the horrible undertaker's men in greasy jackets\nand shiny top hats. I see.... No, I'll stop; it's too horrible.\n\n\"Near the wall, in a remote plot, a grave had been dug in frightful\nyellow pebbly clay. It was there that they left the dead man whose\nname I no longer remember.\n\n\"While they were lowering the casket, I looked at my hands, those\nhands which in that strangely lighted country had pressed the hands of\nAntinea. A great pity for my body seized me, a great fear of what\nthreatened it in these cities of mud. 'So,' I said to myself, 'it may\nbe that this body, this dear body, will come to such an end! No, no,\nmy body, precious above all other treasures, I swear to you that I\nwill spare you that ignominy; you shall not rot under a registered\nnumber in the filth of a suburban cemetery. Your brothers in love, the\nfifty knights of orichalch, await you, mute and grave, in the red\nmarble hall. I shall take you back to them.'\n\n\"A _mysterious love_. Shame to him who retails the secrets of his\nloves. The Sahara lays its impassable barrier about Antinea; that is\nwhy the most unreasonable requirements of this woman are, in reality,\nmore modest and chaste than your marriage will be, with its vulgar\npublic show, the bans, the invitations, the announcements telling an\nevil-minded and joking people that after such and such an hour, on\nsuch and such a day, you will have the right to violate your little\ntupenny virgin.\n\n\"I think that is all I have to tell you. No, there is still one thing\nmore. I told you a while ago about the red marble hall. South of\nCherchell, to the west of the Mazafran river, on a hill which in the\nearly morning, emerges from the mists of the Mitidja, there is a\nmysterious stone pyramid. The natives call it, 'The Tomb of the\nChristian.' That is where the body of Antinea's ancestress, that\nCleopatra Selene, daughter of Mark Antony and Cleopatra, was laid to\nrest. Though it is placed in the path of invasions, this tomb has kept\nits treasure. No one has ever been able to discover the painted room\nwhere the beautiful body reposes in a glass casket. All that the\nancestress has been able to do, the descendant will be able to surpass\nin grim magnificence. In the center of the red marble hall, on the\nrock whence comes the plaint of the gloomy fountain, a platform is\nreserved. It is there, on an orichalch throne, with the Egyptian\nhead-dress and the golden serpent on her brow and the trident of\nNeptune in her hand, that the marvelous woman I have told you about\nwill be ensconced on that day when the hundred and twenty niches,\nhollowed out in a circle around her throne, shall each have received\nits willing prey.\n\n\"When I left Ahaggar, you remember that it was niche number 55 that\nwas to be mine. Since then, I have never stopped calculating and I\nconclude that it is in number 80 or 85 that I shall repose. But any\ncalculations based upon so fragile a foundation as a woman's whim may\nbe erroneous. That is why I am getting more and more nervous. 'I must\nhurry,' I tell myself. 'I must hurry.'\n\n\"I must hurry,\" I repeated, as if I were in a dream.\n\nHe raised his head with an indefinable expression of joy. His hand\ntrembled with happiness when he shook mine.\n\n\"You will see,\" he repeated excitedly, \"you will see.\"\n\nEcstatically, he took me in his arms and held me there a long moment.\n\nAn extraordinary happiness swept over both of us, while, alternately\nlaughing and crying like children, we kept repeating:\n\n\"We must hurry. We must hurry.\"\n\nSuddenly there sprang up a slight breeze that made the tufts of thatch\nin the roof rustle. The sky, pale lilac, grew paler still, and,\nsuddenly, a great yellow rent tore it in the east. Dawn broke over the\nempty desert. From within the stockade came dull noises, a bugle call,\nthe rattle of chains. The post was waking up.\n\nFor several seconds we stood there silent, our eyes fixed on the\nsouthern route by which one reaches Temassinin, Egu\u00e9r\u00e9 and Ahaggar.\n\nA rap on the dining-room door behind us made us start.\n\n\"Come in,\" said Andr\u00e9 de Saint-Avit in a voice which had become\nsuddenly hard.\n\nThe Quartermaster, Chatelain, stood before us.\n\n\"What do you want of me at this hour?\" Saint-Avit asked brusquely.\n\nThe non-com stood at attention.\n\n\"Excuse me, Captain. But a native was discovered near the post, last\nnight, by the patrol. He was not trying to hide. As soon as he had\nbeen brought here, he asked to be led before the commanding officer.\nIt was midnight and I didn't want to disturb you.\"\n\n\"Who is this native?\"\n\n\"A Targa, Captain.\"\n\n\"A Targa? Go get him.\"\n\nChatelain stepped aside. Escorted by one of our native soldiers, the\nman stood behind him.\n\nThey came out on the terrace.\n\nThe new arrival, six feet tall, was indeed a Targa. The light of dawn\nfell upon his blue-black cotton robes. One could see his great dark\neyes flashing.\n\nWhen he was opposite my companion, I saw a tremor, immediately\nsuppressed, run through both men.\n\nThey looked at each other for an instant in silence.\n\nThen, bowing, and in a very calm voice, the Targa spoke:\n\n\"Peace be with you, Lieutenant de Saint-Avit.\"\n\nIn the same calm voice, Andr\u00e9 answered him:\n\n\"Peace be with you, Cegh\u00e9ir-ben-Cheikh.\"\n\n[Transcriber's Notes:\n1.In the original books, there were handwritten characters for the\nGreek words used in the discussion of the Tifinar engravings; the\napproximate Greek transliterations have been substituted.\n2. Another inscription was hand-drawn in the book, and the center\nsymbol looks like a capital W, rotated 90 degrees counter-clockwise. I\nplaced notes to that effect where the symbol appears.]","title":"Atlantida","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":63544}