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Updated: May 4, 2025
I stopped trying to think it out. My head ached too much. "I must have air," I murmured. "I am roasting here; it will drive me mad." I had to see someone, no matter whom. Mechanically, I walked toward the library. I found M. Le Mesge in a transport of delirious joy. The Professor was engaged in opening an enormous bale, carefully sewed in a brown blanket.
"Everything, everything it is all here," murmured Morhange, with an astonishing inflection of terror and admiration. "Everything that is worth consulting, at any rate," said M. Le Mesge. "All the great books, whose loss the so-called learned world deplores to-day." "And how has it happened?" "Sir, you distress me. I thought you familiar with certain events.
At first, he made mistakes. That is how, on his first trips, he brought back old Le Mesge and marabout Spardek. "'What did Antinea say when she saw them? "'Antinea? She laughed so hard that she spared them. Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh was vexed to see her laugh so. Since then, he has never made a mistake. "'He has never made a mistake? "'No.
"Colonel von Wittman, born at Jena in 1855. Died at Ahaggar, May 1, 1896.... Colonel Wittman, the explorer of Kanem, who disappeared off Agadès." "Exactly," said M. Le Mesge again. "Number 50," I read in my turn, steadying myself against the wall, so as not to fall. "Marquis Alonzo d'Oliveira, born at Cadiz, February 21, 1868. Died at Ahaggar, February 1, 1896. Oliveira, who was going to Araouan."
The sun fell over a circle of rocky peaks, silhouetting their severe lines against the azure sky. From on high, a great sadness and gentleness poured down into the lonely enclosure, like a magic drink into a deep cup...." Cf. I turned the pages feverishly. My mind seemed to be clearing. Behind me, M. Le Mesge, deep in an article, voiced his opinions in indignant growls.
Unbroken silence. The Negro was as speechless as he was hilarious. "After all, I am making a fool of myself," I said, giving up the case. "Such as he is, he is more agreeable than Le Mesge with his nightmarish erudition. But, on my word, what a recruit he would be for Hamman on the rue des Mathurins!" "Cigarette, sidi?"
M. Le Mesge broke off his reading. "Does this arrangement recall nothing to you?" he queried. "Morhange, Morhange!" I stammered. "You remember our route yesterday, our abduction, the two corridors that we had to cross before arriving at this mountain?... The girdles of earth and of water?... Two tunnels, two enclosures of earth?" "Ha! Ha!" chuckled M. Le Mesge. He smiled as he looked at me.
The Reverend Spardek and the Hetmari of Jitomir already had begun eating when we arrived. The setting sun threw raspberry lights on the cream-colored mat. "Be seated, gentlemen," said Le Mesge noisily. "Lieutenant de Saint-Avit, you were not with us last evening. You are about to taste the cooking of Koukou, our Bambara chef, for the first time. You must give me your opinion of it."
M. Le Mesge put his hand on my arm. "In good time," he murmured in the same low voice, "all in good time." The Professor was watching the door by which we had entered the hall, and from behind which we could hear the sound of footsteps becoming more and more distinct. It opened quietly to admit three Tuareg slaves.
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.
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