"Sir," I said, "my friend and I do not know where we are nor who you
are. We can see only that you are French, since you are wearing one of
the highest honorary decorations of our country. You may have made the
same observation on your part," I added, indicating the slender red
ribbon which I wore on my vest.
He looked at me in contemptuous surprise.
"Well, sir?"
"Well, sir, the Negro who just went out pronounced the name of
Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh, the name of a brigand, a bandit, one of the
assassins of Colonel Flatters. Are you acquainted with that detail,
sir?"
The little man surveyed me coldly and shrugged his shoulders.
"Certainly. But what difference do you suppose that makes to me?"
"What!" I cried, beside myself with rage. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Sir," said the little old man with comical dignity, turning to
Morhange, "I call you to witness the strange manners of your
companion. I am here in my own house and I do not allow...."
"You must excuse my comrade, sir," said Morhange, stepping forward.
"He is not a man of letters, as you are. These young lieutenants are
hot-headed, you know. And besides, you can understand why both of us
are not as calm as might be desired."
I was furious and on the point of disavowing these strangely humble
words of Morhange. But a glance showed me that there was as much irony
as surprise in his expression.
"I know indeed that most officers are brutes," grumbled the little old
man. "But that is no reason...."
"I am only an officer myself," Morhange went on, in an even humbler
tone, "and if ever I have been sensible to the intellectual
inferiority of that class, I assure you that it was now in glancing--I
beg your pardon for having taken the liberty to do so--in glancing
over the learned pages which you devote to the passionate story of
Medusa, according to Procles of Carthage, cited by Pausanias."
A laughable surprise spread over the features of the little old man.
He hastily wiped his spectacles.
"What!" he finally cried.
"It is indeed unfortunate, in this matter," Morhange continued
imperturbably, "that we are not in possession of the curious
dissertation devoted to this burning question by Statius Sebosus, a
work which we know only through Pliny and which...."
"You know Statius Sebosus?"
"And which, my master, the geographer Berlioux...."
"You knew Berlioux--you were his pupil?" stammered the little man with
the decoration.
"I have had that honor," replied Morhange, very coldly.
"But, but, sir, then you have heard mentioned, you are familiar with
the question, the problem of Atlantis?"