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Updated: May 4, 2025
We settled ourselves comfortably. M. Le Mesge sat down before the desk, shot his cuffs, and commenced as follows: "However much, gentlemen, I prize complete objectivity in matters of erudition, I cannot utterly detach my own history from that of the last descendant of Clito and Neptune. "I am the creation of my own efforts.
Imagine my surprise, when I arrived here and found that they were employing a method I supposed known only to the civilized world." M. Le Mesge struck a light tap with his finger on the forehead of Sir Archibald Russell. It rang like metal. "It is bronze," I said. "That is not a human forehead: it is bronze." M. Le Mesge shrugged his shoulders.
And he added in a very low, very grave voice: "Now you know." Gently and with a tact which we should hardly have suspected in him, M. Le Mesge drew us away from the statues. A moment later, Morhange and I found ourselves again seated, or rather sunk among the cushions in the center of the room. The invisible fountain murmured its plaint at our feet. Le Mesge sat between us.
But you were the pupil of Berlioux, and I owe so much to the memory of that great man that it seems to me I may do him homage by imparting to one of his disciples the unique results of my private research." He struck the bell. Ferradji appeared. "Coffee for these gentlemen," ordered M. Le Mesge. He handed us a box, gorgeously decorated in the most flaming colors, full of Egyptian cigarettes.
"Morhange will miss this delicious roast of mutton," said the Professor, more and more hilarious, as he awarded himself a thick slice of meat. "He won't regret it," said the Hetman crossly. "This is not roast; it is ram's horn. Really Koukou is beginning to make fun of us." "Blame it on the Reverend," the shrill voice of Le Mesge cut in.
I think there is a bit of Renan in her but she is cleverer than that master of sensualism." "Gentlemen," said Le Mesge, suddenly entering the room, "why are you so late? They are waiting dinner for you." The little Professor was in a particularly good humor that evening. He wore a new violet rosette. "Well?" he said, in a mocking tone, "you have seen her?" Neither Morhange nor I replied.
Paris, 1890. M. Le Mesge waved his arm. The black slaves seized the body. In a few seconds, they slid the orichalch ghost into its painted wooden sheath. That was set on end and slid into its niche, beside the niche where an exactly similar sheath was labelled "Number 52." Upon finishing their task, they retired without a word.
"I will not keep you longer in suspense," said M. Le Mesge. "The word, Antinea, is composed as follows: ti is nothing but a Tifinar addition to an essentially Greek name. Ti is the Berber feminine article. We have several examples of this combination. Take Tipasa, the North African town. "And the prefix, an?" queried Morhang.
"Everything?" asked Morhange in a calm voice. "Everything," Le Mesge insisted emphatically. "You will forget all, you will renounce all." From outside, a faint sound came to us. Le Mesge consulted his watch. "In any case, you will see." The door opened. A tall white Targa, the tallest we had yet seen in this remarkable abode, entered and came toward us.
"Two strange fellows, gentlemen, with whom, doubtless, you will care to have 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, an old 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.
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