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Updated: June 10, 2025
Already the blue smoke of the fire on which Bou-Djema was cooking dinner rose through the motionless air. Not a sound, not a breath. The smoke mounted straight, straight and slowly up the pale steps of the firmament. "Have you ever heard of the Atlas of Christianity?" asked Morhange. "I think so.
"Yes, he got back," replied my comrade, "but only after he had been lost. Without water or food, he came so near dying of hunger and thirst that he had to open a vein and drink his own blood. The prospect is not particularly attractive." I shrugged my shoulders. After all, it was not my fault that we were there. Morhange understood my gesture and thought it necessary to make excuses.
Low steps sounded in the corridor. Antinea immediately fell back into the nonchalant pose in which I had first seen her. One had to see such a transformation to believe it possible. Morhange entered the room, preceded by a white Targa. He, too, seemed rather pale. But I was most struck by the expression of serene peace on that face which I thought I knew so well.
I seized the Targa's arm as he was starting to intone his refrain for the third time. "When will we reach this cave with the inscriptions?" I asked brusquely. He looked at me and replied with his usual calm: "We are there." "We are there? Then why don't you show it to us?" "You did not ask me," he replied, not without a touch of insolence. Morhange had jumped to his feet. "The cave is here?"
The door had opened. A white Targa entered. The diners stopped talking. The veiled man walked slowly toward Morhange and touched his right arm. "Very well," said Morhange. He got up and followed the messenger. The pitcher of Ahaggar, 1879, stood between me and Count Bielowsky. I filled my goblet a goblet which held a pint, and gulped it down. The Hetman looked at me sympathetically.
Only, next time, to render so great a queen the honors due her, I shall ask my government to furnish me with two or three hundred European soldiers and several cannon." Antinea was standing up, very pale. "What are you saying?" "I am saying," said Morhange coldly, "that I foresaw this. First threats, then promises." Antinea stepped toward him. He had folded his arms.
He collected the papers which Morhange had dropped in his amazement, counted them, arranged them; then, casting a peevish glance at us, he struck a copper gong. The portiére was raised again. A huge white Targa entered. I seemed to recognize him as one of the genii of the cave. While the nobles are clad in blue cotton robes, the serfs wear white robes, hence their name of "white Tuareg."
Morhange smiled gravely, but did not reply. I could read in Antinea's face the effort it cost her to continue smiling; I admired the self-control of these two beings. "I sent for you," she continued. "You do not guess why?... Well, it is to tell you something that you do not expect. It will be no surprise to you if I say that I never met a man like you.
He had just seen the poor embossed bowl which the Arab had held an instant before between his knees, and which now lay overturned upon the ground. He picked it up, looked quickly at one after another of the leaves of lettuce remaining in it, and then gave a hoarse exclamation. "So," said Morhange, "it's his turn now; he is going to go mad."
And he added, with an accent of inexpressible pity: "Is it really possible that you have never made the acquaintance of the introduction to the Critias?" He placed on the table the book by which Morhange had been so strangely moved. He adjusted his spectacles and began to read. It seemed as if the magic of Plato vibrated through and transfigured this ridiculous little old man.
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