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 veritable
earthly paradise hemmed in on all sides by mountains that formed a
continuous and impassable wall about it. A garden lay spread out down
there. The palm trees gently swayed their great fronds. At their feet
was a tangle of the smaller trees which grow in an oasis under their
protection: almonds, lemons, oranges, and many others which I could
not distinguish from that height. A broad blue stream, fed by a
waterfall, emptied into a charming lake, the waters of which had the
marvellous transparency which comes in high altitudes. Great birds
flew in circles over this green hollow; I could see in the lake the
red flash of a flamingo.
The peaks of the mountains which towered on all sides were completely
covered 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 an
impression of beauty, of purity, that my poor human strength could no
longer stand the sight of it. I laid my forehead on the balustrade,
which, too, was covered with that heavenly snow, and began to cry like
a baby.
Morhange was behaving like another child. But he had awakened before I
had, and doubtless had had time to grasp, one by one, all these
details whose fantastic _ensemble_ staggered me.
He laid his hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me back into the
room.
"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 forgive
me--in the European fashion. There were indeed, here and there, round
leather Tuareg cushions, brightly colored blankets from Gafsa, rugs
from Kairouan, and Caramani hangings which, at that moment, I should
have dreaded to draw aside. But a half-open panel in the wall showed a
bookcase crowded with books. A whole row of photographs of
masterpieces of ancient art were hung on the walls. Finally there was
a table almost hidden under its heap of papers, pamphlets, books. I
thought 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 laugh
seized us and doubled us up for a good minute.
"I do not know," Morhange finally managed to say, "whether or not we
shall regret some day our little excursion into Ahaggar. But admit, in
the meantime, that it promises to be rich in unexpected adventures.
That unforgettable guide who puts us to sleep just to distract us
from the unpleasantness of caravan life and who lets me experience, in
the best of good faith, the far-famed delights of hasheesh: that
fantastic night ride, and, to cap the climax, this cave of a Nureddin
who must have received the education of the Athenian Bersot at the
French _Ecole Normale_--all this is enough, on my word, to upset the
wits of the best balanced."
"What do I think, my poor friend? Why, just what you yourself think. I
don't understand it at all, not at all. What you politely call my
learning 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 in
caves, seven days' march southwest of the country of the Amantes, and
twelve days to the westward of the great Syrte. Herodotus says also
that the Garamentes used to go out in their chariots to hunt the
cave-dwelling Ethopians. But here we are in Ahaggar, in the midst of
the Targa country, and the best authorities tell us that the Tuareg
never have been willing to live in caves. Duveyrier is precise on that
point. 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 the
walls? I tell you that it is enough to drive you mad."
And Morhange threw himself on a couch and began to roar with laughter
again.
"See," I said, "this is Latin."
I had picked up several scattered papers from the work-table in the
middle of the room. Morhange took them from my hands and devoured them
greedily. His face expressed unbounded stupefaction.
"Stranger and stranger, my boy. Someone here is composing, with much
citation of texts, a dissertation on the Gorgon Islands: _de Gorgonum
insulis_. Medusa, according to him, was a Libyan savage who lived near
Lake Triton, our present Chott Melhrir, and it is there that Perseus
... Ah!"
Morhange's words choked in his throat. A sharp, shrill voice pierced
the immense room.
"Gentlemen, I beg you, let my papers alone."