by Anthology
"There!" I thought.
The confusion in the room was indescribable, but noiseless. One realized the restraint which nearness to a great presence imposed upon the exasperated guards. The stakes and the dice-boxes had rolled in one direction, the copper cups, in the other.
Two of the Tuareg, doubled up with pain, were rubbing their ribs with low oaths.
I need not say that I profited by this silent confusion to glide into the room. I was now flattened against the wall of the second corridor, down which King Hiram had just disappeared.
At that moment a clear gong echoed in the silence. The trembling which seized the Tuareg assured me that I had chosen the right way.
One of the six men got up. He passed me and I fell in behind him. I was perfectly calm. My least movement was perfectly calculated.
"All that I risk here now," I said to myself, "is being led back politely to my room."
The Targa lifted a curtain. I followed on his heels into the chamber of Antinea.
The room was huge and at once well lighted and very dark. While the right half, where Antinea was, gleamed under shaded lamps, the left was dim.
Those who have penetrated into a Mussulman home know what a guignol is, a kind of square niche in the wall, four feet from the floor, its opening covered by a curtain. One mounts to it by wooden steps. I noticed such a guignol at my left. I crept into it. My pulses beat in the shadow. But I was calm, quite calm.
There I could see and hear everything.
I was in Antinea's chamber. There was nothing singular about the room, except the great luxury of the hangings. The ceiling was in shadow, but multicolored lanterns cast a vague and gentle light over gleaming stuffs and furs.
Antinea was stretched out on a lion's skin, smoking. A little silver tray and pitcher lay beside her. King Hiram was flattened out at her feet, licking them madly.
The Targa slave stood rigid before her, one hand on his heart, the other on his forehead, saluting.
Antinea spoke in a hard voice, without looking at the man.
"Why did you let the leopard pass? I told you that I wanted to be alone."
"He knocked us over, mistress," said the Targa humbly.
"The doors were not closed, then?"
The slave did not answer.
"Shall I take him away?" he asked.
And his eyes, fastened upon King Hiram who stared at him maliciously, expressed well enough his desire for a negative reply.
"Let him stay since he is here," said Antinea.
She tapped nervously on the little silver tray.
"What is the captain doing?" she asked.
"He dined a while ago and seemed to enjoy his food," the Targa answered.
"Has he said nothing?"
"Yes, he asked to see his companion, the other officer."
Antinea tapped the little tray still more rapidly.
"Did he say nothing else?"
"No, mistress," said the man.
A pallor overspread the Atlantide's little forehead.
"Go get him," she said brusquely.
Bowing, the Targa left the room.
I listened to this dialogue with great anxiety. Was this Morhange? Had he been faithful to me, after all? Had I suspected him unjustly? He had wanted to see me and been unable to!
My eyes never left Antinea's.
She was no longer the haughty, mocking princess of our first interview. She no longer wore the golden circlet on her forehead. Not a bracelet, not a ring. She was dressed only in a full flowing tunic. Her black hair, unbound, lay in masses of ebony over her slight shoulders and her bare arms.
Her beautiful eyes were deep circled. Her divine mouth drooped. I did not know whether I was glad or sorry to see this new quivering Cleopatra.
Flattened at her feet, King Hiram gazed submissively at her.
An immense orichalch mirror with golden reflections was set into the wall at the right. Suddenly she raised herself erect before it. I saw her nude.
A splendid and bitter sight!—A woman who thinks herself alone, standing before her mirror in expectation of the man she wishes to subdue!
The six incense-burners scattered about the room sent up invisible columns of perfume. The balsam spices of Arabia wore floating webs in which my shameless senses were entangled…. And, back toward me, standing straight as a lily, Antinea smiled into her mirror.
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 felt that I never had understood what manner of man Morhange was, never.
He stood erect before Antinea without seeming to notice her gesture inviting him to be seated.
She smiled at him.
"You are surprised, perhaps," she said finally, "that I should send for you at so late an hour."
Morhange did not move an eyelash.
"Have you considered it well?" she demanded.
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. During your captivity, you have expressed only one wish. Do you recall it?"
"I asked your permission to see my friend before I died," said Morhange simply.
I do not know what stirred me more on hearing these words: delight at Morhange's formal tone in speaking to Antinea, or emotion at hearing the one wish he had expressed.
But Antinea continued calmly:
"That is why I sent for you—to tell you that you are going to see him again. And I am going to do something else. You will perhaps scorn me even more when you realize that you had only to oppose me to bend me to your will—I, who have bent all other wills to mine. But, however that may be, it is decided: I give you both your liberty. Tomorrow Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh will lead you past the fifth enclosure. Are you satisfied?"
"I am," said Morhange with a mocking smile.
"That will give me a chance," he continued, "to make better plans for the next trip I intend to make this way. For you need not doubt that I shall feel bound to return to express my gratitude. 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 looked at her with a sort of grave pity.
"I will make you die in the most atrocious agonies," she said finally.
"I am your prisoner," Morhange replied.
"You shall suffer things that you cannot even imagine."
"I am your prisoner," repeated Morhange in the same sad calm.
Antinea paced the room like a beast in a cage. She advanced toward my companion and, no longer mistress of herself, struck him in the face.
He smiled and caught hold of her, drawing her little wrists together with a strange mixture of force and gentleness.
King Hiram growled. I thought he was about to leap. But the cold eyes of Morhange held him fascinated.
"I will have your comrade killed before your eyes," gasped Antinea.
It seemed to me that Morhange paled, but only for a second. I was overcome by the nobility and insight of his reply.
"My companion is brave. He does not fear death. And, in any case, he would prefer death to life purchased at the price you name."
So saying, he let go Antinea's wrists. Her
pallor was terrible. From the expression of her mouth I felt that this would be her last word to him.
"Listen," she said.
How beautiful she was, in her scorned majesty, her beauty powerless for the first time!
"Listen," she continued. "Listen. For the last time. Remember that I hold the gates of this palace, that I have supreme power over your life. Remember that you breathe only at my pleasure. Remember…."
"I have remembered all that," said Morhange.
"A last time," she repeated.
The serenity of Morhange's face was so powerful that I scarcely noticed his opponent. In that transfigured countenance, no trace of worldliness remained.
"A last time," came Antinea's voice, almost breaking.
Morhange was not even looking at her.
"As you will," she said.
Her gong resounded. She had struck the silver disc. The white Targa appeared.
"Leave the room!"
Morhange, his head held high, went out.
Now Antinea is in my arms. This is no haughty, voluptuous woman whom I am pressing to my heart. It is only an unhappy, scorned little girl.
So great was her trouble that she showed no surprise when I stepped out beside her. Her head is on my shoulder. Like the crescent moon in the black clouds, I see her clear little bird-like profile amid her mass of hair. Her warm arms hold me convulsively…. O tremblant coeur humain….
Who could resist such an embrace, amid the soft perfumes, in the langorous night? I feel myself a being without will. Is this my voice, the voice which is murmuring:
"Ask me what you will, and I will do it, I will do it."
My senses are sharpened, tenfold keen. My head rests against a soft, nervous little knee. Clouds of odors whirl about me. Suddenly it seems as if the golden lanterns are waving from the ceiling like giant censers. Is this my voice, the voice repeating in a dream:
"Ask me what you will, and I will do it. I will do it."
Antinea's face is almost touching mine. A strange light flickers in her great eyes.
Beyond, I see the gleaming eyes of King Hiram. Beside him, there is a little table of Kairouan, blue and gold. On that table I see the gong with which Antinea summons the slaves. I see the hammer with which she struck it just now, a hammer with a long ebony handle, a heavy silver head … the hammer with which little Lieutenant Kaine dealt death….
I see nothing more….
XVII
THE MAIDENS OF THE ROCKS
I awakened in my room. The sun, already at its zenith, filled the place with unbearable light and heat.
The first thing I saw, on opening my eyes, was the shade, ripped down, lying in the middle of the floor. Then, confusedly, the night's events began to come back to me.
My head felt stupid and heavy. My mind wandered. My memory seemed blocked. "I went out with the leopard, that is certain. That red mark on my forefinger shows how he strained at the leash. My knees are still dusty. I remember creeping along the wall in the room where the white Tuareg were playing at dice. That was the minute after King Hiram had leapt past them. After that … oh, Morhange and Antinea…. And then?"
I recalled nothing more. I recalled nothing more. But something must have happened, something which I could not remember.
I was uneasy. I wanted to go back, yet it seemed as if I were afraid to go. I have never felt anything more painful than those conflicting emotions.
"It is a long way from here to Antinea's apartments. I must have been very sound asleep not to have noticed when they brought me back—for they have brought me back."
I stopped trying to think it out. My head ached too much.
"I must have air," I murmured. "I am roasting here; it will drive me mad."
I had to see someone, no matter whom. Mechanically, I walked toward the library.
I found M. Le Mesge in a transport of delirious joy. The Professor was engaged in opening an enormous bale, carefully sewed in a brown blanket.
"You come at a good time, sir," he cried, on seeing me enter. "The magazines have just arrived."
He dashed about in feverish haste. Presently a stream of pamphlets and magazines, blue, green, yellow and salmon, was bursting from an opening in the bale.
"Splendid, splendid!" he cried, dancing with joy. "Not too late, either; here are the numbers for October fifteenth. We must give a vote of thanks to good Ameur."
His good spirits were contagious.
"There is a good Turkish merchant who subscribes to all the interesting magazines of the two continents. He sends them on by Rhadamès to a destination which he little suspects. Ah, here are the French ones."
M. Le Mesge ran feverishly over, the tables of contents.
"Internal politics: articles by Francis Charmes, Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu, d'Haussonville on the Czar's trip to Paris. Look, a study by Avenel of wages in the Middle Ages. And verse, verses of the young poets, Fernand Gregh, Edmond Haraucourt. Ah, the resumé of a book by Henry de Castries on Islam. That may be interesting…. Take what you please."
Joy makes people amiable and M. Le Mesge was really delirious with it.
A puff of breeze came from the window. I went to the balustrade and, resting my elbows on it, began to run through a number of the Revue des Deux Mondes.
I did not read, but flipped over the pages, my eyes now on the lines of swarming little black characters, now on the rocky basin which lay shivering, pale pink, under the declining sun.
Suddenly my attention became fixed. There was a strange coincidence between the text and the landscape.
"In the sky overhead were only light shreds of cloud, like bits of white ash floating up from burnt-out logs. The sun fell over a circle of rocky peaks, silhouetting their severe lines against the azure sky. From on high, a great sadness and gentleness poured down into the lonely enclosure, like a magic drink into a deep cup…."[17]
[Footnote 17: Gabrielle d'Annunzio: Les Vierges aux Rochers. Cf. The Revue des Deux Mondes of October 15, 1896; page 867.]
I turned the pages feverishly. My mind seemed to be clearing.
Behind me, M. Le Mesge, deep in an article, voiced his opinions in indignant growls.
I continued reading:
"On all sides a magnificent view spread out before us in the raw light. The chain of rocks, clearly visible in their barren desolation which stretched to the very summit, lay stretched out like some great heap of gigantic, unformed things left by some primordial race of Titans to stupefy human beings. Overturned towers…."
"It is shameful, downright shameful," the Professor was repeating.
"Overturned towers, crumbling citadels, cupolas fallen in, broken pillars, mutilated colossi, prows of vessels, thighs of monsters, bones of titans,—this mass, impassable with its ridges and gullies, seemed the embodiment of everything huge and tragic. So clear were the distances…."
"Downright shameful," M. Le Mesge kept on saying in exasperation, thumping his fist on the table.
"So clear were the distances that I could see, as if I had it under my eyes, infinitely enlarged, every contour of the rock which Violante had shown me through the window with the gesture of a creator…."
Trembling, I closed the magazine. At my feet, now red, I saw the rock which Antinea had pointed out to me the day of our first interview, huge, steep, overhanging the reddish brown garden.
"That is my horizon," she had said.
M. Le Mesge's excitement had passed all bounds.
"It is worse than shameful; it is infamous."
I almost wanted to strangle him into silence. He seized my arm.
"Read that, sir; and, although you don't know a great deal about the subject, you will see that this article on Roman Africa is a miracle of misinformation, a monument of ignorance. And it is signed … do you know by whom it is signed?"
"Leave me alone," I said brutally.
"Well, it is signed Gaston Boissier. Yes, sir! Gaston Boissier, grand officer of the Legion of Honor, lecturer at the Ecole Normale
Supérieure, permanent secretary of the French Academy, member of the Academy of Inscriptions and Literature, one of those who once ruled out the subject of my thesis … one of those … ah, poor university, ah, poor France!"
I was no longer listening. I had begun to read again. My forehead was covered with sweat. But it seemed as if my head had been cleared like a room when a window is opened; memories were beginning to come back like doves winging their way home to the dovecote.
"At that moment, an irrepressible tremor shook her whole body; her eyes dilated as if some terrible sight had filled them with horror.
"'Antonello,' she murmured.
"And for seconds, she was unable to say another word.
"I looked at her in mute anguish and the suffering which drew her dear lips together seemed also to clutch at my heart. The vision which was in her eyes passed into mine, and I saw again the thin white face of Antonello, and the quick quivering of his eyelids, the waves of agony which seized his long worn body and shook it like a reed."
I threw the magazine upon the table.
"That is it," I said.
To cut the pages, I had used the knife with which M. Le Mesge had cut the cords of the bale, a short ebony-handled dagger, one of those daggers that the Tuareg wear in a bracelet sheath against the upper left arm.
I slipped it into the big pocket of my flannel dolman and walked toward the door.
I was about to cross the threshold when I heard M. Le Mesge call me.
"Monsieur de Saint Avit! Monsieur de Saint Avit!
"I want to ask you something, please."
"What is it?"
"Nothing important. You know that I have to mark the labels for the red marble hall…."
I walked toward the table.
"Well, I forgot to ask M. Morhange, at the beginning, the date and place of his birth. After that, I had no chance. I did not see him again. So I am forced to turn to you. Perhaps you can tell me?"
"I can," I said very calmly.
He took a large white card from a box which contained several and dipped his pen.
"Number 54 … Captain?"
