rstand."

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."

IX

ATLANTIS

M. Le Mesge looked at Morhange triumphantly. It was evident that he
addressed himself exclusively to Morhange, considering him alone
worthy of his confidences.

"There have been many, sir," he said, "both French and foreign
officers who have been brought here at the caprice of our sovereign,
Antinea. You are the first to be honored by my disclosures. But you
were the pupil of Berlioux, and I owe so much to the memory of that
great man that it seems to me I may do him homage by imparting to one
of his disciples the unique results of my private research."

He struck the bell. Ferradji appeared.

"Coffee for these gentlemen," ordered M. Le Mesge.

He handed us a box, gorgeously decorated in the most flaming colors,
full of Egyptian cigarettes.

"I never smoke," he explained. "But Antinea sometimes comes here.
These are her cigarettes. Help yourselves, gentlemen."

I have always had a horror of that pale tobacco which gives a barber
of the Rue de la Michodiere the illusion of oriental voluptuousness.
But, in their way, these musk-scented cigarettes were not bad, and it
was a long time since I had used up my stock of Caporal.

"Here