"You speak French well," I said.
She gave a little nervous laugh.
"I have to. And German, too, and Italian, and English and Spanish. My
way of living has made me a great polygot. But I prefer French, even
to Tuareg and Arabian. It seems as if I had always known it. And I am
not saying that to please you."
There was a pause. I thought of her grandmother, of whom Plutarch
said: "There were few races with which she needed an interpreter.
Cleopatra spoke their own language to the Ethiopians, to the
Troglodytes, the Hebrews, the Arabs, the Medes and the Persians."
"Do not stand rooted in the middle of the room. You worry me. Come
sit here, beside me. Move over, King Hiram."
The leopard obeyed with good temper.
Beside her was an onyx bowl. She took from it a perfectly plain ring
of orichalch and slipped it on my left ring-finger. I saw that she
wore one like it.
"Tanit-Zerga, give Monsieur de Saint-Avit a rose sherbet."
The dark girl in red silk obeyed.
"My private secretary," said Antinea, introducing her. "Mademoiselle
Tanit-Zerga, of Gâo, on the Niger. Her family is almost as ancient as
mine."
As she spoke, she looked at me. Her green eyes seemed to be appraising
me.
"And your comrade, the Captain?" she asked in a dreamy tone. "I have
not yet seen him. What is he like? Does he resemble you?"
For the first time since I had entered, I thought of Morhange. I did
not answer.
Antinea smiled.
She stretched herself out full length on the lion skin. Her bare right
knee slipped out from under her tunic.
"It is time to go find him," she said languidly. "You will soon
receive my orders. Tanit-Zerga, show him the way. First take him to
his room. He cannot have seen it."
I rose and lifted her hand to my lips. She struck me with it so
sharply as to make my lips bleed, as if to brand me as her possession.
* * * * *
I was in the dark corridor again. The young girl in the red silk tunic
walked ahead of me.
"Here is your room," she said. "If you wish, I will take you to the
dining-room. The others are about to meet there for dinner."
She spoke an adorable lisping French.
"No, Tanit-Zerga, I would rather stay here this evening. I am not
hungry. I am tired."
"You remember my name?" she said.
She seemed proud of it. I felt that in her I had an ally in case of
need.
"I remember your name, Tanit-Zerga, because it is beautiful."[12] [Footnote 12: In Berber, Tanit means a spring; zerga is the feminine of
the adjective azreg, blue. (Note by M. Leroux.)] Then I added: "Now, leave me, little one. I want to be alone."