Atlantida

"'It is true,' I murmured. 'I, too, once, in the middle of the desert,

at Tidi-Kelt, I felt that way.'"

Up to that time I had let him enjoy his exaltations without

interruption. I understood too late the error that I had made in

pronouncing that unfortunate sentence.

His mocking nervous laughter began anew.

"Ah! Indeed, at Tidi-Kelt? I beg you, old man, in your own interest,

if you don't want to make an ass of yourself, avoid that species of

reminiscence. Honestly, you make me think of Fromentin, or that poor

Maupassant, who talked of the desert because he had been to Djelfa,

two days' journey from the street of Bab-Azound and the Government

buildings, four days from the Avenue de l'Opera;--and who, because he

saw a poor devil of a camel dying near Bou-Saada, believed himself in

the heart of the desert, on the old route of the caravans....

Tidi-Kelt, the desert!"

"It seems to me, however, that In-Salah--" I said, a little vexed.

"In-Salah? Tidi-Kelt! But, my poor friend, the last time that I passed

that way there were as many old newspapers and empty sardine boxes as

if it had been Sunday in the Wood of Vincennes."

Such a determined, such an evident desire to annoy me made me forget

my reserve.

"Evidently," I replied resentfully, "I have never been to--"

I stopped myself, but it was already too late.

He looked at me, squarely in the face.

"To where?" he said with good humor.

I did not answer.

"To where?" he repeated.

And, as I remained strangled in my muteness: "To Wadi Tarhit, do you mean?"

It was on the east bank of Wadi Tarhit, a hundred and twenty

kilometers from Timissao, at 25.5 degrees north latitude, according to

the official report, that Captain Morhange was buried.

"André," I cried stupidly, "I swear to you--"

"What do you swear to me?"

"That I never meant--"

"To speak of Wadi Tarhit? Why? Why should you not speak to me of Wadi

Tarhit?"

In answer to my supplicating silence, he merely shrugged his

shoulders.

"Idiot," was all he said.

And he left me before I could think of even one word to say.

So much humility on my part had, however, not disarmed him. I had the

proof of it the next day, and the way he showed his humor was even

marked by an exhibition of wretchedly poor taste.

I was just out of bed when he came into my room.

"Can you tell me what is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

He had in his hand one of the official registers. In his nervous

crises he always began sorting them over, in the hope of finding some

pretext for making himself militarily insupportable.