"The idea! With me, sir? It is with the Tuareg that he plays. He
teaches them every game imaginable. There, that is he who is striking
the gong to hurry us up. It is half past nine, and the _Salle de
Trente et Quarante_ opens at ten o'clock. Let us hurry. I suppose that
anyway 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 frequent
steps. The passage was dark. But at intervals rose-colored night
lights and incense burners were placed in niches cut into the solid
rock. The passionate Oriental scents perfumed the darkness and
contrasted strangely with the cold air of the snowy peaks.
From time to time, a white Targa, mute and expressionless as a
phantom, would pass us and we would hear the clatter of his slippers
die away behind us.
M. Le Mesge stopped before a heavy door covered with the same pale
metal which I had noticed on the walls of the library. He opened it
and stood aside to let us pass.
Although the dining room which we entered had little in common with
European dining rooms, I have known many which might have envied its
comfort. Like the library, it was lighted by a great window. But I
noticed that it had an outside exposure, while that of the library
overlooked the garden in the center of the crown of mountains.
No center table and none of those barbaric pieces of furniture that we
call chairs. But a great number of buffet tables of gilded wood, like
those of Venice, heavy hangings of dull and subdued colors, and
cushions, Tuareg or Tunisian. In the center was a huge mat on which a
feast was placed in finely woven baskets among silver pitchers and
copper basins filled with perfumed water. The sight of it filled me
with childish satisfaction.
M. Le Mesge stepped forward and introduced us to the two persons who
already had taken their places on the mat.
"Mr. Spardek," he said; and by that simple phrase I understood how far
our host placed himself above vain human titles.
The Reverend Mr. Spardek, of Manchester, bowed reservedly and asked
our 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 second
guest.
"Count Casimir Bielowsky, Hetman of Jitomir," the latter corrected
with perfect good humor as he stood up to shake hands.
I felt at once a certain liking for the Hetman of Jitomir who was a
perfect example of an old beau. His chocolate-colored hair was parted
in the center (later I found out that the Hetman dyed it with a
concoction of _khol_). He had magnificent whiskers, also
chocolate-colored, in the style of the Emperor Francis Joseph. His
nose was undeniably a little red, but so fine, so aristocratic. His
hands were marvelous. It took some thought to place the date of the
style of the count's costume, bottle green with yellow facings,
ornamented with a huge seal of silver and enamel. The recollection of
a portrait of the Duke de Morny made me decide on 1860 or 1862; and
the 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 was
to demand if I ever cut fives.[9]
[Footnote 9: _Tirer à cinq_, a card game played only for very high
stakes.]
"That depends on how I feel," I replied.
"Well said. I have not done so since 1866. I swore off. A row. The
devil of a party. One day at Walewski's. I cut fives. Naturally I
wasn't worrying any. The other had a four. 'Idiot!' cried the little
Baron de Chaux Gisseux who was laying staggering sums on my table. I
hurled a bottle of champagne at his head. He ducked. It was Marshal
Baillant who got the bottle. A scene! The matter was fixed up because
we were both Free Masons. The Emperor made me promise not to cut fives
again. I have kept my promise not to cut fives again. I have kept my
promise. 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 of
the vine. The vine of the palm trees is very good when it is properly
fermented, but it gets insipid in the long run."
It was powerful, that Ahaggar 1880. We sipped it from large silver
goblets. It was fresh as Rhine wine, dry as the wine of the Hermitage.
And then, suddenly, it brought back recollections of the burning wines
of 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 of
cakes, pancakes served with honey, fragrant fritters, cheese-cakes of
sour milk and dates. And everywhere, in great enamel platters or
wicker jars, fruit, masses of fruit, figs, dates, pistachios, jujubes,
pomegranates, apricots, huge bunches of grapes, larger than those
which bent the shoulders of the Hebrews in the land of Canaan, heavy
watermelons cut in two, showing their moist, red pulp and their rows
of black seeds.
I had scarcely finished one of these beautiful iced fruits, when M. Le
Mesge rose.
"Gentlemen, if you are ready," he said to Morhange and me.
"Get away from that old dotard as soon as you can," whispered the
Hetman of Jitomir to me. "The party of _Trente et Quarante_ will begin
soon. You shall see. You shall see. We go it even harder than at Cora
Pearl'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 had
it not been for your friend, whose knowledge enables him to appreciate
better than you the value of the revelations I am about to make to
you."
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 a
woman. This woman, the sultaness, the queen, the absolute sovereign of
Ahaggar, is called Antinea. Don't start, M. Morhange, you will soon
understand."
He opened the book and read this sentence:
"'I must warn you before I take up the subject matter: do not be
surprised 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, with
an extraordinary expression of triumph, "is the greatest, the most
beautiful, the most secret, of the dialogues of Plato; it is the
Critias of Atlantis."
"The Critias? But it is unfinished," murmured Morhange.
"It is unfinished in France, in Europe, everywhere else," said M. Le
Mesge, "but it is finished here. Look for yourself at this copy."
"But what connection," repeated Morhange, while his eyes traveled
avidly over the pages, "what connection can there be between this
dialogue, complete,--yes, it seems to me complete--what connection
with this woman, Antinea? Why should it be in her possession?"
"Because," replied the little man imperturbably, "this book is her
patent of nobility, her _Almanach de Gotha_, in a sense, do you
understand? Because it established her prodigious genealogy: because
she is...."
"Because she is?" repeated Morhange.
"Because she is the grand daughter of Neptune, the last descendant of
the Atlantides."