VIII
AWAKENING AT AHAGGAR
It was broad daylight when I opened my eyes. I thought at once ofMorhange. I could not see him, but I heard him, close by, givinglittle grunts of surprise.
I called to him. He ran to me.
"Then they didn't tie you up?" I asked.
"I beg your pardon. They did. But they did it badly; I managed to getfree."
"You might have untied me, too," I remarked crossly.
"What good would it have done? I should only have waked you up. And Ithought that your first word would be to call me. There, that's done."
I reeled as I tried to stand on my feet.
Morhange smiled.
"We might have spent the whole night smoking and drinking and not beenin a worse state," he said. "Anyhow, that Eg-Anteouen with hishasheesh is a fine rascal."
"Cegheir-ben-Cheikh," I corrected.
I rubbed my hand over my forehead.
"Where are we?"
"My dear boy," Morhange replied, "since I awakened from theextraordinary nightmare which is mixed up with the smoky cave and thelamp-lit stairway of the Arabian Nights, I have been going fromsurprise to surprise, from confusion to confusion. Just look aroundyou."
I rubbed my eyes and stared. Then I seized my friend's hand.
"Morhange," I begged, "tell me if we are still dreaming."
We were in a round room, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, and of aboutthe same height, lighted by a great window opening on a sky of intenseblue.
Swallows flew back and forth, outside, giving quick, joyous cries.
The floor, the incurving walls and the ceiling were of a kind ofveined marble like porphyry, panelled with a strange metal, paler thangold, darker than silver, clouded just then by the early morning mistthat came in through the window in great puffs.
I staggered toward this window, drawn by the freshness of the breezeand the sunlight which was chasing away my dreams, and I leaned myelbows on the balustrade.
I could not restrain a cry of delight.
I was standing on a kind of balcony, cut into the flank of a mountain,overhanging an abyss. Above me, blue sky; below appeared a veritableearthly paradise hemmed in on all sides by mountains that formed acontinuous and impassable wall about it. A garden lay spread out downthere. The palm trees gently swayed their great fronds. At their feetwas a tangle of the smaller trees which grow in an oasis under theirprotection: almonds, lemons, oranges, and many others which I couldnot distinguish from that height. A broad blue stream, fed by awaterfall, emptied into a charming lake, the waters of which had themarvellous transparency which comes in high altitudes. Great birdsflew in circles over this green hollow; I could see in the lake thered flash of a flamingo.
The peaks of the mountains which towered on all sides were completelycovered with snow.
The blue stream, the green palms, the golden fruit, and above it all,the miraculous snow, all this bathed in that limpid air, gave such animpression of beauty, of purity, that my poor human strength could nolonger stand the sight of it. I laid my forehead on the balustrade,which, too, was covered with that heavenly snow, and began to cry likea baby.
Morhange was behaving like another child. But he had awakened before Ihad, and doubtless had had time to grasp, one by one, all thesedetails whose fantastic _ensemble_ staggered me.
He laid his hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me back into theroom.
"You haven't seen anything yet," he said. "Look! Look!"
"Morhange!"
"Well, old man, what do you want me to do about it? Look!"
I had just realized that the strange room was furnished--God forgiveme--in the European fashion. There were indeed, here and there, roundleather Tuareg cushions, brightly colored blankets from Gafsa, rugsfrom Kairouan, and Caramani hangings which, at that moment, I shouldhave dreaded to draw aside. But a half-open panel in the wall showed abookcase crowded with books. A whole row of photographs ofmasterpieces of ancient art were hung on the walls. Finally there wasa table almost hidden under its heap of papers, pamphlets, books. Ithought I should collapse at seeing a recent number of the_Archaeological Review_.
I looked at Morhange. He was looking at me, and suddenly a mad laughseized us and doubled us up for a good minute.
"I do not know," Morhange finally managed to say, "whether or not weshall regret some day our little excursion into Ahaggar. But admit, inthe meantime, that it promises to be rich in unexpected adventures.That unforgettable guide who puts us to sleep just to distract usfrom the unpleasantness of caravan life and who lets me experience, inthe best of good faith, the far-famed delights of hasheesh: thatfantastic night ride, and, to cap the climax, this cave of a Nureddinwho must have received the education of the Athenian Bersot at theFrench _Ecole Normale_--all this is enough, on my word, to upset thewits of the best balanced."
"What do I think, my poor friend? Why, just what you yourself think. Idon't understand it at all, not at all. What you politely call mylearning is not worth a cent. And why shouldn't I be all mixed up?This living in caves amazes me. Pliny speaks of the natives living incaves, seven days' march southwest of the country of the Amantes, andtwelve days to the westward of the great Syrte. Herodotus says alsothat the Garamentes used to go out in their chariots to hunt thecave-dwelling Ethopians. But here we are in Ahaggar, in the midst ofthe Targa country, and the best authorities tell us that the Tuaregnever have been willing to live in caves. Duveyrier is precise on thatpoint. And what is this, I ask you, but a cave turned into a workroom,with pictures of the Venus de Medici and the Apollo Sauroctone on thewalls? I tell you that it is enough to drive you mad."
And Morhange threw himself on a couch and began to roar with laughteragain.
"See," I said, "this is Latin."
I had picked up several scattered papers from the work-table in themiddle of the room. Morhange took them from my hands and devoured themgreedily. His face expressed unbounded stupefaction.
"Stranger and stranger, my boy. Someone here is composing, with muchcitation of texts, a dissertation on the Gorgon Islands: _de Gorgonuminsulis_. Medusa, according to him, was a Libyan savage who lived nearLake Triton, our present Chott Melhrir, and it is there that Perseus... Ah!"
Morhange's words choked in his throat. A sharp, shrill voice piercedthe immense room.
"Gentlemen, I beg you, let my papers alone."
I turned toward the newcomer.
One of the Caramani curtains was drawn aside, and the most unexpectedof persons came in. Resigned as we were to unexpected events, theimprobability of this sight exceeded anything our imaginations couldhave devised.
On the threshold stood a little bald-headed man with a pointed sallowface half hidden by an enormous pair of green spectacles and a pepperand salt beard. No shirt was visible, but an impressive broad redcravat. He wore white trousers. Red leather slippers furnished theonly Oriental suggestion of his costume.
He wore, not without pride, the rosette of an officer of theDepartment of Education.
He collected the papers which Morhange had dropped in his amazement,counted them, arranged them; then, casting a peevish glance at us, hestruck a copper gong.
The portiere was raised again. A huge white Targa entered. I seemed torecognize him as one of the genii of the cave.[8]
[Footnote 8: The Negro serfs among the Tuareg are generally called"white Tuareg." While the nobles are clad in blue cotton robes, theserfs wear white robes, hence their name of "white Tuareg." See, inthis connection, Duveyrier: _les Tuareg du Nord_, page 292. (Note byM. Leroux.)]
"Ferradji," angrily demanded the little officer of the Department ofEducation, "why were these gentlemen brought into the library?"
The Targa bowed respectfully.
"Cegheir-ben-Cheikh came back sooner than we expected," he replied,"and last night the embalmers had not yet finished. They brought themhere in the meantime," and he pointed to us.
"Very well, you may go," snapped the little man.
Ferradji
backed toward the door. On the threshold, he stopped andspoke again:
"I was to remind you, sir, that dinner is served."
"All right. Go along."
And the little man seated himself at the desk and began to finger thepapers feverishly.
I do not know why, but a mad feeling of exasperation seized me. Iwalked toward him.
"Sir," I said, "my friend and I do not know where we are nor who youare. We can see only that you are French, since you are wearing one ofthe highest honorary decorations of our country. You may have made thesame observation on your part," I added, indicating the slender redribbon which I wore on my vest.
He looked at me in contemptuous surprise.
"Well, sir?"
"Well, sir, the Negro who just went out pronounced the name ofCegheir-ben-Cheikh, the name of a brigand, a bandit, one of theassassins of Colonel Flatters. Are you acquainted with that detail,sir?"
The little man surveyed me coldly and shrugged his shoulders.
"Certainly. But what difference do you suppose that makes to me?"
"What!" I cried, beside myself with rage. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Sir," said the little old man with comical dignity, turning toMorhange, "I call you to witness the strange manners of yourcompanion. I am here in my own house and I do not allow...."
"You must excuse my comrade, sir," said Morhange, stepping forward."He is not a man of letters, as you are. These young lieutenants arehot-headed, you know. And besides, you can understand why both of usare not as calm as might be desired."
I was furious and on the point of disavowing these strangely humblewords of Morhange. But a glance showed me that there was as much ironyas surprise in his expression.
"I know indeed that most officers are brutes," grumbled the little oldman. "But that is no reason...."
"I am only an officer myself," Morhange went on, in an even humblertone, "and if ever I have been sensible to the intellectualinferiority of that class, I assure you that it was now in glancing--Ibeg your pardon for having taken the liberty to do so--in glancingover the learned pages which you devote to the passionate story ofMedusa, according to Procles of Carthage, cited by Pausanias."
A laughable surprise spread over the features of the little old man.He hastily wiped his spectacles.
"What!" he finally cried.
"It is indeed unfortunate, in this matter," Morhange continuedimperturbably, "that we are not in possession of the curiousdissertation devoted to this burning question by Statius Sebosus, awork which we know only through Pliny and which...."
"You know Statius Sebosus?"
"And which, my master, the geographer Berlioux...."
"You knew Berlioux--you were his pupil?" stammered the little man withthe decoration.
"I have had that honor," replied Morhange, very coldly.
"But, but, sir, then you have heard mentioned, you are familiar withthe question, the problem of Atlantis?"
"Indeed I am not unacquainted with the works of Lagneau, Ploix, Arboisde Jubainville," said Morhange frigidly.
"My God!" The little man was going through extraordinary contortions."Sir--Captain, how happy I am, how many excuses...."
Just then, the portiere was raised. Ferradji appeared again.
"Sir, they want me to tell you that unless you come, they will beginwithout you."
"I am coming, I am coming. Say, Ferradji, that we will be there in amoment. Why, sir, if I had foreseen ... It is extraordinary ... tofind an officer who knows Procles of Carthage and Arbois deJubainville. Again ... But I must introduce myself. I am Etienne LeMesge, Fellow of the University."
"Captain Morhange," said my companion.
I stepped forward in my turn.
"Lieutenant de Saint-Avit. It is a fact, sir, that I am very likely toconfuse Arbois of Carthage with Procles de Jubainville. Later, I shallhave to see about filling up those gaps. But just now, I should liketo know where we are, if we are free, and if not, what occult powerholds us. You have the appearance, sir, of being sufficiently at homein this house to be able to enlighten us upon this point, which I mustconfess, I weakly consider of the first importance."
M. Le Mesge looked at me. A rather malevolent smile twitched thecorners of his mouth. He opened his lips....
A gong sounded impatiently.
"In good time, gentlemen, I will tell you. I will explaineverything.... But now you see that we must hurry. It is time forlunch and our fellow diners will get tired of waiting."
"Our fellow diners?"
"There are two of them," M. Le Mesge explained. "We three constitutethe European personnel of the house, that is, the fixed personnel," heseemed to feel obliged to add, with his disquieting smile. "Twostrange fellows, gentlemen, with whom, doubtless, you will care tohave as little to do as possible. One is a churchman, narrow-minded,though a Protestant. The other is a man of the world gone astray, anold fool."
"Pardon," I said, "but it must have been he whom I heard last night.He was gambling: with you and the minister, doubtless?"
M. Le Mesge made a gesture of offended dignity.
"The idea! With me, sir? It is with the Tuareg that he plays. Heteaches them every game imaginable. There, that is he who is strikingthe gong to hurry us up. It is half past nine, and the _Salle deTrente et Quarante_ opens at ten o'clock. Let us hurry. I suppose thatanyway you will not be averse to a little refreshment."
"Indeed we shall not refuse," Morhange replied.
We followed M. Le Mesge along a long winding corridor with frequentsteps. The passage was dark. But at intervals rose-colored nightlights and incense burners were placed in niches cut into the solidrock. The passionate Oriental scents perfumed the darkness andcontrasted strangely with the cold air of the snowy peaks.
From time to time, a white Targa, mute and expressionless as aphantom, would pass us and we would hear the clatter of his slippersdie away behind us.
M. Le Mesge stopped before a heavy door covered with the same palemetal which I had noticed on the walls of the library. He opened itand stood aside to let us pass.
Although the dining room which we entered had little in common withEuropean dining rooms, I have known many which might have envied itscomfort. Like the library, it was lighted by a great window. But Inoticed that it had an outside exposure, while that of the libraryoverlooked the garden in the center of the crown of mountains.
No center table and none of those barbaric pieces of furniture that wecall chairs. But a great number of buffet tables of gilded wood, likethose of Venice, heavy hangings of dull and subdued colors, andcushions, Tuareg or Tunisian. In the center was a huge mat on which afeast was placed in finely woven baskets among silver pitchers andcopper basins filled with perfumed water. The sight of it filled mewith childish satisfaction.
M. Le Mesge stepped forward and introduced us to the two persons whoalready had taken their places on the mat.
"Mr. Spardek," he said; and by that simple phrase I understood how farour host placed himself above vain human titles.
The Reverend Mr. Spardek, of Manchester, bowed reservedly and askedour permission to keep on his tall, wide-brimmed hat. He was a dry,cold man, tall and thin. He ate in pious sadness, enormously.
"Monsieur Bielowsky," said M. Le Mesge, introducing us to the secondguest.
"Count Casimir Bielowsky, Hetman of Jitomir," the latter correctedwith perfect good humor as he stood up to shake hands.
I felt at once a certain liking for the Hetman of Jitomir who was aperfect example of an old beau. His chocolate-colored hair was partedin the center (later I found out that the Hetman dyed it with aconcoction of _khol_). He had magnificent whiskers, alsochocolate-colored, in the style of the Emperor Francis Joseph. Hisnose was undeniably a little red, but so fine, so aristocratic. Hishands were marvelous. It took some thought to place the date of thestyle of the count's costume, bottle green with yellow facings,ornamented with a huge seal of silver and enamel. The recollection ofa portrait of the Duke de Morny made me decide on 1860
or 1862; andthe further chapters of this story will show that I was not far wrong.
The count made me sit down beside him. One of his first questions wasto demand if I ever cut fives.[9]
[Footnote 9: _Tirer a cinq_, a card game played only for very highstakes.]
"That depends on how I feel," I replied.
"Well said. I have not done so since 1866. I swore off. A row. Thedevil of a party. One day at Walewski's. I cut fives. Naturally Iwasn't worrying any. The other had a four. 'Idiot!' cried the littleBaron de Chaux Gisseux who was laying staggering sums on my table. Ihurled a bottle of champagne at his head. He ducked. It was MarshalBaillant who got the bottle. A scene! The matter was fixed up becausewe were both Free Masons. The Emperor made me promise not to cut fivesagain. I have kept my promise not to cut fives again. I have kept mypromise. But there are moments when it is hard...."
He added in a voice steeped in melancholy:
"Try a little of this Ahaggar 1880. Excellent vintage. It is I,Lieutenant, who instructed these people in the uses of the juice ofthe vine. The vine of the palm trees is very good when it is properlyfermented, but it gets insipid in the long run."
It was powerful, that Ahaggar 1880. We sipped it from large silvergoblets. It was fresh as Rhine wine, dry as the wine of the Hermitage.And then, suddenly, it brought back recollections of the burning winesof Portugal; it seemed sweet, fruity, an admirable wine, I tell you.
That wine crowned the most perfect of luncheons. There were few meats,to be sure; but those few were remarkably seasoned. Profusion ofcakes, pancakes served with honey, fragrant fritters, cheese-cakes ofsour milk and dates. And everywhere, in great enamel platters orwicker jars, fruit, masses of fruit, figs, dates, pistachios, jujubes,pomegranates, apricots, huge bunches of grapes, larger than thosewhich bent the shoulders of the Hebrews in the land of Canaan, heavywatermelons cut in two, showing their moist, red pulp and their rowsof black seeds.
I had scarcely finished one of these beautiful iced fruits, when M. LeMesge rose.
"Gentlemen, if you are ready," he said to Morhange and me.
"Get away from that old dotard as soon as you can," whispered theHetman of Jitomir to me. "The party of _Trente et Quarante_ will beginsoon. You shall see. You shall see. We go it even harder than at CoraPearl's."
"Gentlemen," repeated M. Le Mesge in his dry tone.
We followed him. When the three of us were back again in the library,he said, addressing me:
"You, sir, asked a little while ago what occult power holds you here.Your manner was threatening, and I should have refused to comply hadit not been for your friend, whose knowledge enables him to appreciatebetter than you the value of the revelations I am about to make toyou."
He touched a spring in the side of the wall. A cupboard appeared,stuffed with books. He took one.
"You are both of you," continued M. Le Mesge, "in the power of awoman. This woman, the sultaness, the queen, the absolute sovereign ofAhaggar, is called Antinea. Don't start, M. Morhange, you will soonunderstand."
He opened the book and read this sentence:
"'I must warn you before I take up the subject matter: do not besurprised to hear me call the barbarians by Greek names.'"
"What is that book?" stammered Morhange, whose pallor terrified me.
"This book," M. Le Mesge replied very slowly, weighing his words, withan extraordinary expression of triumph, "is the greatest, the mostbeautiful, the most secret, of the dialogues of Plato; it is theCritias of Atlantis."
"The Critias? But it is unfinished," murmured Morhange.
"It is unfinished in France, in Europe, everywhere else," said M. LeMesge, "but it is finished here. Look for yourself at this copy."
"But what connection," repeated Morhange, while his eyes traveledavidly over the pages, "what connection can there be between thisdialogue, complete,--yes, it seems to me complete--what connectionwith this woman, Antinea? Why should it be in her possession?"
"Because," replied the little man imperturbably, "this book is herpatent of nobility, her _Almanach de Gotha_, in a sense, do youunderstand? Because it established her prodigious genealogy: becauseshe is...."
"Because she is?" repeated Morhange.
"Because she is the grand daughter of Neptune, the last descendant ofthe Atlantides."