And Morhange threw himself on a couch and began to roar with laughter
again.
"See," I said, "this is Latin."
I had picked up several scattered papers from the work-table in the
middle of the room. Morhange took them from my hands and devoured them
greedily. His face expressed unbounded stupefaction.
"Stranger and stranger, my boy. Someone here is composing, with much
citation of texts, a dissertation on the Gorgon Islands: de Gorgonum
insulis. Medusa, according to him, was a Libyan savage who lived near
Lake Triton, our present Chott Melhrir, and it is there that Perseus
... Ah!"
Morhange's words choked in his throat. A sharp, shrill voice pierced
the immense room.
"Gentlemen, I beg you, let my papers alone."
I turned toward the newcomer.
One of the Caramani curtains was drawn aside, and the most unexpected
of persons came in. Resigned as we were to unexpected events, the
improbability of this sight exceeded anything our imaginations could
have devised.
On the threshold stood a little bald-headed man with a pointed sallow
face half hidden by an enormous pair of green spectacles and a pepper
and salt beard. No shirt was visible, but an impressive broad red
cravat. He wore white trousers. Red leather slippers furnished the
only Oriental suggestion of his costume.
He wore, not without pride, the rosette of an officer of the
Department of Education.
He collected the papers which Morhange had dropped in his amazement,
counted them, arranged them; then, casting a peevish glance at us, he
struck a copper gong.
The portiére was raised again. A huge white Targa entered. I seemed to
recognize him as one of the genii of the cave.[8] [Footnote 8: The Negro serfs among the Tuareg are generally called
"white Tuareg." While the nobles are clad in blue cotton robes, the
serfs wear white robes, hence their name of "white Tuareg." See, in
this connection, Duveyrier: les Tuareg du Nord, page 292. (Note by
M. Leroux.)] "Ferradji," angrily demanded the little officer of the Department of
Education, "why were these gentlemen brought into the library?"
The Targa bowed respectfully.
"Ceghéir-ben-Cheikh came back sooner than we expected," he replied,
"and last night the embalmers had not yet finished. They brought them
here in the meantime," and he pointed to us.
"Very well, you may go," snapped the little man.
Ferradji backed toward the door. On the threshold, he stopped and
spoke again: "I was to remind you, sir, that dinner is served."
"All right. Go along."
And the little man seated himself at the desk and began to finger the
papers feverishly.
I do not know why, but a mad feeling of exasperation seized me. I
walked toward him.