"Villefranche."
"Villefranche, Rhône. What date?"
"The fourteenth of October, 1859."
"The fourteenth of October, 1859. Good. Died at Ahaggar, the fifth of
January, 1897.... There, that is done. A thousand thanks, sir, for
your kindness."
"You are welcome."
I left M. Le Mesge.
My mind, thenceforth, was well made up; and, as I said, I was
perfectly calm. Nevertheless, when I had taken leave of M. Le Mesge, I
felt the need of waiting a few minutes before executing my decision.
First I wandered through the corridors; then, finding myself near my
room, I went to it. It was still intolerably hot. I sat down on my
divan and began to think.
The dagger in my pocket bothered me. I took it out and laid it on the
floor.
It was a good dagger, with a diamond-shaped blade, and with a collar
of orange leather between the blade and the handle.
The sight of it recalled the silver hammer. I remembered how easily it
fitted into my hand when I struck....
Every detail of the scene came back to me with incomparable vividness.
But I did not even shiver. It seemed as if my determination to kill
the instigator of the murder permitted me peacefully to evoke its
brutal details.
If I reflected over my deed, it was to be surprised at it, not to
condemn myself.
"Well," I said to myself, "I have killed this Morhange, who was once a
baby, who, like all the others, cost his mother so much trouble with
his baby sicknesses. I have put an end to his life, I have reduced to
nothingness the monument of love, of tears, of trials overcome and
pitfalls escaped, which constitutes a human existence. What an
extraordinary adventure!"
That was all. No fear, no remorse, none of that Shakespearean horror
after the murder, which, today, sceptic though I am and blasé and
utterly, utterly disillusioned, sets me shuddering whenever I am alone
in a dark room.
"Come," I thought. "It's time. Time to finish it up."
I picked up the dagger. Before putting it in my pocket, I went through
the motion of striking. All was well. The dagger fitted into my hand.
I had been through Antinea's apartment only when guided, the first
time by the white Targa, the second time, by the leopard. Yet I found
the way again without trouble. Just before coming to the door with the
rose window, I met a Targa.
"Let me pass," I ordered. "Your mistress has sent for me." The man
obeyed, stepping back.
Soon a dim melody came to my ears. I recognized the sound of a
rebaza, the violin with a single string, played by the Tuareg women.
It was Aguida playing, squatting as usual at the feet of her mistress.
The three other women were also squatted about her. Tanit-Zerga was
not there.