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.