One of the Caramani curtains was drawn aside, and the most unexpected
of persons came in. Resigned as we were to unexpected events, the
improbability of this sight exceeded anything our imaginations could
have devised.
On the threshold stood a little bald-headed man with a pointed sallow
face half hidden by an enormous pair of green spectacles and a pepper
and salt beard. No shirt was visible, but an impressive broad red
cravat. He wore white trousers. Red leather slippers furnished the
only Oriental suggestion of his costume.
He wore, not without pride, the rosette of an officer of the
Department of Education.
He collected the papers which Morhange had dropped in his amazement,
counted them, arranged them; then, casting a peevish glance at us, he
struck a copper gong.
The portiére was raised again. A huge white Targa entered. I seemed to
recognize 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, the
serfs wear white robes, hence their name of "white Tuareg." See, in
this connection, Duveyrier: _les Tuareg du Nord_, page 292. (Note by
M. Leroux.)]
"Ferradji," angrily demanded the little officer of the Department of
Education, "why were these gentlemen brought into the library?"
The Targa bowed respectfully.
"Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh came back sooner than we expected," he replied,
"and last night the embalmers had not yet finished. They brought them
here 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 and
spoke 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 the
papers feverishly.
I do not know why, but a mad feeling of exasperation seized me. I
walked toward him.
"Sir," I said, "my friend and I do not know where we are nor who you
are. We can see only that you are French, since you are wearing one of
the highest honorary decorations of our country. You may have made the
same observation on your part," I added, indicating the slender red
ribbon 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 of
Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh, the name of a brigand, a bandit, one of the
assassins 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 to
Morhange, "I call you to witness the strange manners of your
companion. 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 are
hot-headed, you know. And besides, you can understand why both of us
are not as calm as might be desired."
I was furious and on the point of disavowing these strangely humble
words of Morhange. But a glance showed me that there was as much irony
as surprise in his expression.
"I know indeed that most officers are brutes," grumbled the little old
man. "But that is no reason...."
"I am only an officer myself," Morhange went on, in an even humbler
tone, "and if ever I have been sensible to the intellectual
inferiority of that class, I assure you that it was now in glancing--I
beg your pardon for having taken the liberty to do so--in glancing
over the learned pages which you devote to the passionate story of
Medusa, 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 continued
imperturbably, "that we are not in possession of the curious
dissertation devoted to this burning question by Statius Sebosus, a
work 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 with
the decoration.
"I have had that honor," replied Morhange, very coldly.
"But, but, sir, then you have heard mentioned, you are familiar with
the question, the problem of Atlantis?"
"Indeed I am not unacquainted with the works of Lagneau, Ploix, Arbois
de 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 portiére was raised. Ferradji appeared again.
"Sir, they want me to tell you that unless you come, they will begin
without you."
"I am coming, I am coming. Say, Ferradji, that we will be there in a
moment. Why, sir, if I had foreseen ... It is extraordinary ... to
find an officer who knows Procles of Carthage and Arbois de
Jubainville. Again ... But I must introduce myself. I am Etienne Le
Mesge, Fellow of the University."
"Captain Morhange," said my companion.