He touched a spring in the side of the wall. A cupboard appeared,
stuffed with books. He took one.
"You are both of you," continued M. Le Mesge, "in the power of a
woman. This woman, the sultaness, the queen, the absolute sovereign of
Ahaggar, is called Antinea. Don't start, M. Morhange, you will soon
understand."
He opened the book and read this sentence: "'I must warn you before I take up the subject matter: do not be
surprised to hear me call the barbarians by Greek names.'"
"What is that book?" stammered Morhange, whose pallor terrified me.
"This book," M. Le Mesge replied very slowly, weighing his words, with
an extraordinary expression of triumph, "is the greatest, the most
beautiful, the most secret, of the dialogues of Plato; it is the
Critias of Atlantis."
"The Critias? But it is unfinished," murmured Morhange.
"It is unfinished in France, in Europe, everywhere else," said M. Le
Mesge, "but it is finished here. Look for yourself at this copy."
"But what connection," repeated Morhange, while his eyes traveled
avidly over the pages, "what connection can there be between this
dialogue, complete,--yes, it seems to me complete--what connection
with this woman, Antinea? Why should it be in her possession?"
"Because," replied the little man imperturbably, "this book is her
patent of nobility, her Almanach de Gotha, in a sense, do you
understand? Because it established her prodigious genealogy: because
she is...."
"Because she is?" repeated Morhange.
"Because she is the grand daughter of Neptune, the last descendant of
the Atlantides."