"You must not be vexed," said Antinea. "He is always that way with
strangers."
"Then he must often be in bad humor," I said simply.
Those were my first words. They brought a smile to Antinea's lips.
She gave me a long, quiet look.
"Aguida," she said to one of the Targa women, "you will give
twenty-five pounds in gold to Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh."
"You are a lieutenant?" she asked, after a pause.
"Yes."
"Where do you come from?"
"From France."
"I might have guessed that," she said ironically, "but from what part
of France?"
"From what we call the Lot-et-Garonne."
"From what town?"
"From Duras."
She reflected a moment.
"Duras! There is a little river there, the Dropt, and a fine old
château."
"You know Duras?" I murmured, amazed.
"You go there from Bordeaux by a little branch railway," she went
on. "It is a shut-in road, with vine-covered hills crowned by
the feudal ruins. The villages have beautiful names: Monségur,
Sauve-terre-de-Guyenne, la Tresne, Créon, ... Créon, as in Antigone."
"You have been there?"
She looked at me.
"Don't speak so coldly," she said. "Sooner or later we will be
intimate, and you may as well lay aside formality now."
This threatening promise suddenly filled me with great happiness. I
thought of Le Mesge's words: "Don't talk until you have seen her. When
you have seen her, you will renounce everything for her."
"Have I been in Duras?" she went on with a burst of laughter. "You are
joking. Imagine Neptune's granddaughter in the first-class compartment
of a local train!"
She pointed to an enormous white rock which towered above the palm
trees of the garden.
"That is my horizon," she said gravely.
She picked up one of several books which lay scattered about her on
the lion's skin.
"The time table of the _Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest_," she said.
"Admirable reading for one who never budges! Here it is half-past five
in the afternoon. A train, a local, arrived three minutes ago at
Surgères in the Charente-Inférieure. It will start on in six minutes.
In two hours it will reach La Rochelle. How strange it seems to think
of such things here. So far away! So much commotion there! Here,
nothing changes."
"You speak French well," I said.
She gave a little nervous laugh.
"I have to. And German, too, and Italian, and English and Spanish. My
way of living has made me a great polygot. But I prefer French, even
to Tuareg and Arabian. It seems as if I had always known it. And I am
not saying that to please you."
There was a pause. I thought of her grandmother, of whom Plutarch
said: "There were few races with which she needed an interpreter.
Cleopatra spoke their own language to the Ethiopians, to the
Troglodytes, the Hebrews, the Arabs, the Medes and the Persians."
"Do not stand rooted in the middle of the room. You worry me. Come
sit here, beside me. Move over, King Hiram."
The leopard obeyed with good temper.
Beside her was an onyx bowl. She took from it a perfectly plain ring
of orichalch and slipped it on my left ring-finger. I saw that she
wore one like it.
"Tanit-Zerga, give Monsieur de Saint-Avit a rose sherbet."
The dark girl in red silk obeyed.
"My private secretary," said Antinea, introducing her. "Mademoiselle
Tanit-Zerga, of Gâo, on the Niger. Her family is almost as ancient as
mine."
As she spoke, she looked at me. Her green eyes seemed to be appraising
me.
"And your comrade, the Captain?" she asked in a dreamy tone. "I have
not yet seen him. What is he like? Does he resemble you?"
For the first time since I had entered, I thought of Morhange. I did
not answer.
Antinea smiled.
She stretched herself out full length on the lion skin. Her bare right
knee slipped out from under her tunic.
"It is time to go find him," she said languidly. "You will soon
receive my orders. Tanit-Zerga, show him the way. First take him to
his room. He cannot have seen it."
I rose and lifted her hand to my lips. She struck me with it so
sharply as to make my lips bleed, as if to brand me as her possession.
* * * * *
I was in the dark corridor again. The young girl in the red silk tunic
walked ahead of me.
"Here is your room," she said. "If you wish, I will take you to the
dining-room. The others are about to meet there for dinner."
She spoke an adorable lisping French.
"No, Tanit-Zerga, I would rather stay here this evening. I am not
hungry. I am tired."
"You remember my name?" she said.
She seemed proud of it. I felt that in her I had an ally in case of
need.
"I remember your name, Tanit-Zerga, because it is beautiful."[12]
[Footnote 12: In Berber, Tanit means a spring; zerga is the feminine of
the adjective azreg, blue. (Note by M. Leroux.)]
Then I added:
"Now, leave me, little one. I want to be alone."
It seemed as if she would never go. I was touched, but at the same
time vexed. I felt a great need of withdrawing into myself.
"My room is above yours," she said. "There is a copper gong on the
table here. You have only to strike if you want anything. A white
Targa will answer."
For a second, these instructions amused me. I was in a hotel in the
midst of the Sahara. I had only to ring for service.