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Updated: May 4, 2025
"Long live the Pope!" he cried, filling the glasses all around. "I assure you that this Bambara worries me," Spardek went on with great dignity. "Do you know what he has come to? He denies transubstantiation. He is within an inch of the heresy of Zwingli and Oecolampades. Koukou denies transubstantiation." "Sir," said Le Mesge, very much excited, "cooks should be left in peace.
She is the first sovereign who has never been made the slave of passion, even for a moment. She has never been obliged to regain her self-mastery, for she never has lost it. She is the only woman who has been able to disassociate those two inextricable things, love and voluptuousness." M. Le Mesge paused a moment and then went on. "Once every day, she comes to this vault.
M. Le Mesge stopped and looked at us to mark his satisfaction. I admit that I forgot my dignity and I forgot the affectation he had steadily assumed of talking only to Morhange. "You will pardon me, sir, if your discourse interests me more than I had anticipated. But you know very well that I lack the fundamental instruction necessary to understand you. You speak of the dynasty of Neptune.
Supporting myself against the red marble wall, I read: "Number 52. Captain Laurent Deligne. Born at Paris, July 22, 1861. Died at Ahaggar, October 30, 1896." "Captain Deligne!" murmured Morhange. "He left Colomb-Béchar in 1895 for Timmimoun and no more has been heard of him since then." "Exactly," said M. Le Mesge, with a little nod of approval. "Number 51," read Morhange with chattering teeth.
I looked at Morhange. His astonishment was without bounds. The Berber prefix ti had literally stunned him. "Have you had occasion, sir, to verify this very ingenious etymology?" he was finally able to gasp out. "You have only to glance over these few books," said M. Le Mesge disdainfully. He opened successively five, ten, twenty cupboards. An enormous library was spread out to our view.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Le Mesge, nudging me with his elbow. "Antinea has respect for the hierarchic order." The Reverend Spardek smiled modestly. "Ha, ha!" laughed Le Mesge again. My glass was empty. For a moment I was tempted to hurl it at the head of the Fellow in History. But what of it? I filled it and emptied it again.
I heard the muffled voice of Morhange speaking to the Professor: "Sir, this has lasted long enough. Let us make an end of it." "He wanted to know," said M. Le Mesge. "What am I to do?" I went up to him and seized his shoulders. "What happened to him? What did he die of?"
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.
You have the appearance, sir, of being sufficiently at home in this house to be able to enlighten us upon this point, which I must confess, I weakly consider of the first importance." M. Le Mesge looked at me. A rather malevolent smile twitched the corners of his mouth. He opened his lips.... A gong sounded impatiently. "In good time, gentlemen, I will tell you.
We had before us, stretched out upon the ground, a statue of pale bronze, wrapped in a kind of white veil, a statue like those all around us, upright in their niches. It seemed to fix us with an impenetrable gaze. "Sir Archibald Russell," murmured M. Le Mesge slowly. Morhange approached, speechless, but strong enough to lift up the white veil.
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