Atlantida

It was at night that Saint-Avit liked to tell me a little of his

enthralling history. He gave it to me in short installments, exact and

chronological, never anticipating the episodes of a drama whose tragic

outcome I knew already. Not that he wished to obtain more effect that

way--I felt that he was far removed from any calculation of that sort!

Simply from the extraordinary nervousness into which he was thrown by

recalling such memories.

One evening, the mail from France had just arrived. The letters that

Chatelain had handed us lay upon the little table, not yet opened. By

the light of the lamp, a pale halo in the midst of the great black

desert, we were able to recognize the writing of the addresses. Oh!

the victorious smile of Saint-Avit when, pushing aside all those

letters, I said to him in a trembling voice: "Go on."

He acquiesced without further words.

"Nothing can give you any idea of the fever I was in from the day when

the Hetman of Jitomir told me of his adventures to the day when I

found myself in the presence of Antinea. The strangest part was that

the thought that I was, in a way, condemned to death, did not enter

into this fever. On the contrary, it was stimulated by my desire for

the event which would be the signal of my downfall, the summons from

Antinea. But this summons was not speedy in coming. And from this

delay, arose my unhealthy exasperation.

"Did I have any lucid moments in the course of these hours? I do not

think so. I do not recall having even said to myself, 'What, aren't

you ashamed? Captive in an unheard of situation, you not only are not

trying to escape, but you even bless your servitude and look forward

to your ruin.' I did not even color my desire to remain there, to

enjoy the next step in the adventure, by the pretext I might have

given--unwillingness to escape without Morhange. If I felt a vague

uneasiness at not seeing him again, it was not because of a desire to

know that he was well and safe.

"Well and safe, I knew him to be, moreover. The Tuareg slaves of

Antinea's household were certainly not very communicative. The women

were hardly more loquacious. I heard, it is true, from Sydya and

Aguida, that my companion liked pomegranates or that he could not

endure kouskous of bananas. But if I asked for a different kind of

information, they fled, in fright, down the long corridors. With

Tanit-Zerga, it was different. This child seemed to have a distaste

for mentioning before me anything bearing in any way upon Antinea.

Nevertheless, I knew that she was devoted to her mistress with a

doglike fidelity. But she maintained an obstinate silence if I

pronounced her name or, persisting, the name of Morhange.