Book: Atlantida

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"First, I must warn you,
before beginning this work,
not to be surprised to hear
me calling barbarians by
Grecian names."
--PLATO
_Critias_

ATLANTIDA

_Pierre Benoit_

Translated by Mary C. Tongue and Mary Ross

ACE BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036


To Andre Suares


[Illustration]




HASSI-INIFEL, NOVEMBER 8, 1903.


If the following pages are ever to see the light of day it will be
because they have been stolen from me. The delay that I exact before
they shall be disclosed assures me of that.[1]

[Footnote 1: This letter, together with the manuscript which
accompanies it, the latter in a separate sealed envelope, was
entrusted by Lieutenant Ferrieres, of the 3rd Spahis, the day of the
departure of that officer for the Tassili of the Tuareg (Central
Sahara), to Sergeant Chatelain. The sergeant was instructed to deliver
it, on his next leave, to M. Leroux, Honorary Counsel at the Court of
Appeals at Riom, and Lieutenant Ferrieres' nearest relative. As this
magistrate died suddenly before the expiration of the term of ten
years set for the publication of the manuscript here presented,
difficulties arose which have delayed its publication up to the
present date.]

As to this disclosure, let no one distrust my aim when I prepare for
it, when I insist upon it. You may believe me when I maintain that no
pride of authorship binds me to these pages. Already I am too far
removed from all such things. Only it is useless that others should
enter upon the path from which I shall not return.

Four o'clock in the morning. Soon the sun will kindle the hamada with
its pink fire. All about me the bordj is asleep. Through the half-open
door of his room I hear Andre de Saint-Avit breathing quietly, very
quietly.

In two days we shall start, he and I. We shall leave the bordj. We
shall penetrate far down there to the South. The official orders came
this morning.

Now, even if I wished to withdraw, it is too late. Andre and I asked
for this mission. The authorization that I sought, together with him,
has at this moment become an order. The hierarchic channels cleared,
the pressure brought to bear at the Ministry;--and then to be afraid,
to recoil before this adventure!...

To be afraid, I said. I know that I am not afraid! One night in the
Gurara, when I found two of my sentinels slaughtered, with the
shameful cross cut of the Berbers slashed across their stomachs--then
I was afraid. I know what fear is. Just so now, when I gazed into the
black depths, whence suddenly all at once the great red sun will rise,
I know that it is not with fear that I tremble. I feel surging within
me the sacred horror of this mystery, and its irresistible attraction.

Delirious dreams, perhaps. The mad imaginings of a brain surcharged,
and an eye distraught by mirages. The day will come, doubtless, when I
shall reread these pages with an indulgent smile, as a man of fifty is
accustomed to smile when he rereads old letters.

Delirious dreams. Mad imaginings. But these dreams, these imaginings,
are dear to me. "Captain de Saint-Avit and Lieutenant Ferrieres,"
reads the official dispatch, "will proceed to Tassili to determine the
statigraphic relation of Albien sandstone and carboniferous limestone.
They will, in addition, profit by any opportunities of determining the
possible change of attitude of the Axdjers towards our penetration,
etc." If the journey should indeed have to do only with such poor
things I think that I should never undertake it.

So I am longing for what I dread. I shall be dejected if I do not
find myself in the presence of what makes me strangely fearful.

In the depths of the valley of Wadi Mia a jackal is barking. Now and
again, when a beam of moonlight breaks in a silver patch through the
hollows of the heat-swollen clouds, making him think he sees the young
sun, a turtle dove moans among the palm trees.

I hear a step outside. I lean out of the window. A shade clad in
luminous black stuff glides over the hard-packed earth of the terrace
of the fortification. A light shines in the electric blackness. A man
has just lighted a cigarette. He crouches, facing southwards. He is
smoking.

It is Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, our Targa guide, the man who in three days
is to lead us across the unknown plateaus of the mysterious
Imoschaoch, across the hamadas of black stones, the great dried oases,
the stretches of silver salt, the tawny hillocks, the flat gold dunes
that are crested over, when the "alize" blows, with a shimmering haze
of pale sand.

Cegheir-ben-Cheikh! He is the man. There recurs to my mind Duveyrier's
tragic phrase, "At the very moment the Colonel was putting his foot in
the stirrup he was felled by a sabre blow."[2] Cegheir-ben-Cheikh!
There he is, peacefully smoking his cigarette, a cigarette from the
package that I gave him.... May the Lord forgive me for it.

[Footnote 2: H. Duveyrier, "The Disaster of the Flatters Mission."
Bull. Geol. Soc., 1881.]

The lamp casts a yellow light on the paper. Strange fate, which, I
never knew exactly why, decided one day when I was a lad of sixteen
that I should prepare myself for Saint Cyr, and gave me there Andre de
Saint-Avit as classmate. I might have studied law or medicine. Then I
should be today a respectable inhabitant of a town with a church and
running water, instead of this cotton-clad phantom, brooding with an
unspeakable anxiety over this desert which is about to swallow me.

A great insect has flown in through the window. It buzzes, strikes
against the rough cast, rebounds against the globe of the lamp, and
then, helpless, its wings singed by the still burning candle, drops on
the white paper.

It is an African May bug, big, black, with spots of livid gray.

I think of others, its brothers in France, the golden-brown May bugs,
which I have seen on stormy summer evenings projecting themselves like
little particles of the soil of my native countryside. It was there
that as a child I spent my vacations, and later on, my leaves. On my
last leave, through those same meadows, there wandered beside me a
slight form, wearing a thin scarf, because of the evening air, so cool
back there. But now this memory stirs me so slightly that I scarcely
raise my eyes to that dark corner of my room where the light is dimly
reflected by the glass of an indistinct portrait. I realize of how
little consequence has become what had seemed at one time capable of
filling all my life. This plaintive mystery is of no more interest to
me. If the strolling singers of Rolla came to murmur their famous
nostalgic airs under the window of this bordj I know that I should not
listen to them, and if they became insistent I should send them on
their way.

What has been capable of causing this metamorphosis in me? A story, a
legend, perhaps, told, at any rate by one on whom rests the direst of
suspicions.

Cegheir-ben-Cheikh has finished his cigarette. I hear him returning
with slow steps to his mat, in barrack B, to the left of the guard
post.

Our departure being scheduled for the tenth of November, the
manuscript attached to this letter was begun on Sunday, the first, and
finished on Thursday, the fifth of November, 1903.

OLIVIER FERRIERES, Lt. 3rd Spahis.




I

A SOUTHERN ASSIGNMENT


Sunday, the sixth of June, 1903, broke the monotony of the life that
we were leading at the Post of Hassi-Inifel by two events of unequal
importance, the arrival of a letter from Mlle. de C----, and the
latest numbers of the Official Journal of the French Republic.

"I have the Lieutenant's permission?" said Sergeant Chatelain,
beginning to glance through the magazines he had just removed from
their wrappings.

I acquiesced with a nod, already completely absorbed in reading Mlle.
de C----'s letter.

"When this reaches you," was the gist of this charming being's letter,
"mama and I will doubtless have left Paris for the country. If, in
your distant parts, it might be a consolation to imagine me as bored
here as you possibly can be, make the most of it. The Grand Prix is
over. I played the horse you pointed out to me, and naturally, I lost.
Last night we dined with the Martials de la Touche. Elias Chatrian was
there, always amazingly young. I am sending you his last book, which
has made quite a sensation. It seems that the Martials de la Touche
are depicted there without disguise. I will add to it Bourget's last,
and Loti's, and France's, and two or three of the latest music hall
hits. In the political word, they say the law about congregations will
meet with strenuous opposition. Nothing much in the theatres. I have
taken out a summer subscription for _l'Illustration_. Would you care
for it? In the country no one knows what to do. Always the same lot of
idiots ready for tennis. I shall deserve no credit for writing to you
often. Spare me your reflections concerning young Combemale. I am less
than nothing of a feminist, having too much faith in those who tell me
that I am pretty, in yourself in particular. But indeed, I grow wild
at the idea that if I permitted myself half the familiarities with one
of our lads that you have surely with your Ouled-Nails.... Enough of
that, it is too unpleasant an idea."

I had reached this point in the prose of this advanced young woman
when a scandalized exclamation of the Sergeant made me look up.

"Lieutenant!"

"Yes?"

"They are up to something at the Ministry. See for yourself."

He handed me the Official. I read:

"By a decision of the first of May, 1903, Captain de Saint-Avit
(Andre), unattached, is assigned to the Third Spahis, and appointed
Commandant of the Post of Hassi-Inifel."

Chatelain's displeasure became fairly exuberant.

"Captain de Saint-Avit, Commandant of the Post. A post which has never
had a slur upon it. They must take us for a dumping ground."

My surprise was as great as the Sergeant's. But just then I saw the
evil, weasel-like face of Gourrut, the convict we used as clerk. He
had stopped his scrawling and was listening with a sly interest.

"Sergeant, Captain de Saint-Avit is my ranking classmate," I answered
dryly.

Chatelain saluted, and left the room. I followed.

"There, there," I said, clapping him on the back, "no hard feelings.
Remember that in an hour we are starting for the oasis. Have the
cartridges ready. It is of the utmost importance to restock the
larder."

I went back to the office and motioned Gourrut to go. Left alone, I
finished Mlle. de C----'s letter very quickly, and then reread the
decision of the Ministry giving the post a new chief.

It was now five months that I had enjoyed that distinction, and on my
word, I had accepted the responsibility well enough, and been very
well pleased with the independence. I can even affirm, without taking
too much credit for myself, that under my command discipline had been
better maintained than under Captain Dieulivol, Saint-Avit's
predecessor. A brave man, this Captain Dieulivol, a non-commissioned
officer under Dodds and Duchesne, but subject to a terrible propensity
for strong liquors, and too much inclined, when he had drunk, to
confuse his dialects, and to talk to a Houassa in Sakalave. No one was
ever more sparing of the post water supply. One morning when he was
preparing his absinthe in the presence of the Sergeant, Chatelain,
noticing the Captain's glass, saw with amazement that the green liquor
was blanched by a far stronger admixture of water than usual. He
looked up, aware that something abnormal had just occurred. Rigid, the
carafe inverted in his hand, Captain Dieulivol was spilling the water
which was running over on the sugar. He was dead.

For six months, since the disappearance of this sympathetic old
tippler, the Powers had not seemed to interest themselves in finding
his successor. I had even hoped at times that a decision might be
reached investing me with the rights that I was in fact exercising....
And today this surprising appointment.

Captain de Saint-Avit. He was of my class at St. Cyr. I had lost track
of him. Then my attention had been attracted to him by his rapid
advancement, his decoration, the well-deserved recognition of three
particularly daring expeditions of exploration to Tebesti and the Air;
and suddenly, the mysterious drama of his fourth expedition, that
famous mission undertaken with Captain Morhange, from which only one
of the explorers came back. Everything is forgotten quickly in France.
That was at least six years ago. I had not heard Saint-Avit mentioned
since. I had even supposed that he had left the army. And now, I was
to have him as my chief.

"After all, what's the difference," I mused, "he or another! At school
he was charming, and we have had only the most pleasant relationships.
Besides, I haven't enough yearly income to afford the rank of
Captain."

And I left the office, whistling as I went.

* * * * *

We were now, Chatelain and I, our guns resting on the already cooling
earth, beside the pool that forms the center of the meager oasis,
hidden behind a kind of hedge of alfa. The setting sun was reddening
the stagnant ditches which irrigate the poor garden plots of the
sedentary blacks.

Not a word during the approach. Not a word during the shoot. Chatelain
was obviously sulking.

In silence we knocked down, one after the other, several of the
miserable doves which came on dragging wings, heavy with the heat of
the day, to quench their thirst at the thick green water. When a
half-dozen slaughtered little bodies were lined up at our feet I put
my hand on the Sergeant's shoulder.

"Chatelain!"

He trembled.

"Chatelain, I was rude to you a little while ago. Don't be angry. It
was the bad time before the siesta. The bad time of midday."

"The Lieutenant is master here," he answered in a tone that was meant
to be gruff, but which was only strained.

"Chatelain, don't be angry. You have something to say to me. You know
what I mean."

"I don't know really. No, I don't know."

"Chatelain, Chatelain, why not be sensible? Tell me something about
Captain de Saint-Avit."

"I know nothing." He spoke sharply.

"Nothing? Then what were you saying a little while ago?"

"Captain de Saint-Avit is a brave man." He muttered the words with his
head still obstinately bent. "He went alone to Bilma, to the Air,
quite alone to those places where no one had ever been. He is a brave
man."

"He is a brave man, undoubtedly," I answered with great restraint.
"But he murdered his companion, Captain Morhange, did he not?"

The old Sergeant trembled.

"He is a brave man," he persisted.

"Chatelain, you are a child. Are you afraid that I am going to repeat
what you say to your new Captain?"

I had touched him to the quick. He drew himself up.

"Sergeant Chatelain is afraid of no one, Lieutenant. He has been at
Abomey, against the Amazons, in a country where a black arm started
out from every bush to seize your leg, while another cut it off for
you with one blow of a cutlass."

"Then what they say, what you yourself--"

"That is talk."

"Talk which is repeated in France, Chatelain, everywhere."

He bent his head still lower without replying.

"Ass," I burst out, "will you speak?"

"Lieutenant, Lieutenant," he fairly pled, "I swear that what I know,
or nothing--"

"What you know you are going to tell me, and right away. If not, I
give you my word of honor that, for a month, I shall not speak to you
except on official business."

Hassi-Inifel: thirty native Arabs and four Europeans--myself, the
Sergeant, a Corporal, and Gourrut. The threat was terrible. It had its
effect.

"All right, then, Lieutenant," he said with a great sigh. "But
afterwards you must not blame me for having told you things about a
superior which should not be told and come only from the talk I
overheard at mess."

"Tell away."

"It was in 1899. I was then Mess Sergeant at Sfax, with the 4th
Spahis. I had a good record, and besides, as I did not drink, the
Adjutant had assigned me to the officers' mess. It was a soft berth.
The marketing, the accounts, recording the library books which were
borrowed (there weren't many), and the key of the wine cupboard,--for
with that you can't trust orderlies. The Colonel was young and dined
at mess. One evening he came in late, looking perturbed, and, as soon
as he was seated, called for silence:

"'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I have a communication to make to you, and I
shall ask for your advice. Here is the question. Tomorrow morning the
_City of Naples_ lands at Sfax. Aboard her is Captain de Saint-Avit,
recently assigned to Feriana, en route to his post.'

"The Colonel paused. 'Good,' thought I, 'tomorrow's menu is about to
be considered.' For you know the custom, Lieutenant, which has existed
ever since there have been any officers' clubs in Africa. When an
officer is passing by, his comrades go to meet him at the boat and
invite him to remain with them for the length of his stay in port. He
pays his score in news from home. On such occasions everything is of
the best, even for a simple lieutenant. At Sfax an officer on a visit
meant--one extra course, vintage wine and old liqueurs.

"But this time I imagined from the looks the officers exchanged that
perhaps the old stock would stay undisturbed in its cupboard.

"'You have all, I think, heard of Captain de Saint-Avit, gentlemen,
and the rumors about him. It is not for us to inquire into them, and
the promotion he has had, his decoration if you will, permits us to
hope that they are without foundation. But between not suspecting an
officer of being a criminal, and receiving him at our table as a
comrade, there is a gulf that we are not obliged to bridge. That is
the matter on which I ask your advice.'

"There was silence. The officers looked at each other, all of them
suddenly quite grave, even to the merriest of the second lieutenants.
In the corner, where I realized that they had forgotten me, I tried
not to make the least sound that might recall my presence.

"'We thank you, Colonel,' one of the majors finally replied, 'for your
courtesy in consulting us. All my comrades, I imagine, know to what
terrible rumors you refer. If I may venture to say so, in Paris at the
Army Geographical Service, where I was before coming here, most of the
officers of the highest standing had an opinion on this unfortunate
matter which they avoided stating, but which cast no glory upon
Captain de Saint-Avit.'

"'I was at Bammako, at the time of the Morhange-Saint-Avit mission,'
said a Captain. 'The opinion of the officers there, I am sorry to say,
differed very little from what the Major describes. But I must add
that they all admitted that they had nothing but suspicions to go on.
And suspicions are certainly not enough considering the atrocity of
the affair.'

"'They are quite enough, gentlemen,' replied the Colonel, 'to account
for our hesitation. It is not a question of passing judgment; but no
man can sit at our table as a matter of right. It is a privilege based
on fraternal esteem. The only question is whether it is your decision
to accord it to Saint-Avit.'

"So saying, he looked at the officers, as if he were taking a roll
call. One after another they shook their heads.

"'I see that we agree,' he said. 'But our task is unfortunately not
yet over. The _City of Naples_ will be in port tomorrow morning. The
launch which meets the passengers leaves at eight o'clock. It will be
necessary, gentlemen, for one of you to go aboard. Captain de
Saint-Avit might be expecting to come to us. We certainly have no
intention of inflicting upon him the humiliation of refusing him, if
he presented himself in expectation of the customary reception. He
must be prevented from coming. It will be wisest to make him
understand that it is best for him to stay aboard.'

"The Colonel looked at the officers again. They could not but agree.
But how uncomfortable each one looked!

"'I cannot hope to find a volunteer among you for this kind of
mission, so I am compelled to appoint some one. Captain Grandjean,
Captain de Saint-Avit is also a Captain. It is fitting that it be an
officer of his own rank who carries him our message. Besides, you are
the latest comer here. Therefore it is to you that I entrust this
painful interview. I do not need to suggest that you conduct it as
diplomatically as possible.'

"Captain Grandjean bowed, while a sigh of relief escaped from all the
others. As long as the Colonel stayed in the room Grandjean remained
apart, without speaking. It was only after the chief had departed that
he let fall the words: "'There are some things that ought to count a
good deal for promotion.'

"The next day at luncheon everyone was impatient for his return.

"'Well?' demanded the Colonel, briefly.

"Captain Grandjean did not reply immediately. He sat down at the table
where his comrades were mixing their drinks, and he, a man notorious
for sobriety, drank almost at a gulp, without waiting for the sugar to
melt, a full glass of absinthe.

"'Well, Captain?' repeated the Colonel.

"'Well, Colonel, it's done. You can be at ease. He will not set foot on
shore. But, ye gods, what an ordeal!'

"The officers did not dare speak. Only their looks expressed their
anxious curiosity.

"Captain Grandjean poured himself a swallow of water.

"'You see, I had gotten my speech all ready, in the launch. But as I
went up the ladder I knew that I had forgotten it. Saint-Avit was in
the smoking-room, with the Captain of the boat. It seemed to me that I
could never find the strength to tell him, when I saw him all ready to
go ashore. He was in full dress uniform, his sabre lay on the bench
and he was wearing spurs. No one wears spurs on shipboard. I presented
myself and we exchanged several remarks, but I must have seemed
somewhat strained for from the first moment I knew that he sensed
something. Under some pretext he left the Captain, and led me aft near
the great rudder wheel. There, I dared speak. Colonel, what did I say?
How I must have stammered! He did not look at me. Leaning his elbows
on the railing he let his eyes wander far off, smiling slightly. Then,
of a sudden, when I was well tangled up in explanations, he looked at
me coolly and said:

"'I must thank you, my dear fellow, for having given yourself so much
trouble. But it is quite unnecessary. I am out of sorts and have no
intention of going ashore. At least, I have the pleasure of having
made your acquaintance. Since I cannot profit by your hospitality, you
must do me the favor of accepting mine as long as the launch stays by
the vessel.'

"Then we went back to the smoking-room. He himself mixed the
cocktails. He talked to me. We discovered that we had mutual
acquaintances. Never shall I forget that face, that ironic and distant
look, that sad and melodious voice. Ah! Colonel, gentlemen, I don't
know what they may say at the Geographic Office, or in the posts of
the Soudan.... There can be nothing in it but a horrible suspicion.
Such a man, capable of such a crime,--believe me, it is not possible.

"That is all, Lieutenant," finished Chatelain, after a silence. "I
have never seen a sadder meal than that one. The officers hurried
through lunch without a word being spoken, in an atmosphere of
depression against which no one tried to struggle. And in this
complete silence, you could see them always furtively watching the
_City of Naples_, where she was dancing merrily in the breeze, a
league from shore.

"She was still there in the evening when they assembled for dinner,
and it was not until a blast of the whistle, followed by curls of
smoke escaping from the red and black smokestack had announced the
departure of the vessel for Gabes, that conversation was resumed; and
even then, less gaily than usual.

"After that, Lieutenant, at the Officers' Club at Sfax, they avoided
like the plague any subject which risked leading the conversation back
to Captain de Saint-Avit."

Chatelain had spoken almost in a whisper, and the little people of the
desert had not heard this singular history. It was an hour since we
had fired our last cartridge. Around the pool the turtle doves, once
more reassured, were bathing their feathers. Mysterious great birds
were flying under the darkening palm trees. A less warm wind rocked
the trembling black palm branches. We had laid aside our helmets so
that our temples could welcome the touch of the feeble breeze.

"Chatelain," I said, "it is time to go back to the bordj."

Slowly we picked up the dead doves. I felt the Sergeant looking at me
reproachfully, as if regretting that he had spoken. Yet during all the
time that our return trip lasted, I could not find the strength to
break our desolate silence with a single word.

The night had almost fallen when we arrived. The flag which
surmounted the post was still visible, drooping on its standard, but
already its colors were indistinguishable. To the west the sun had
disappeared behind the dunes gashed against the black violet of the
sky.

When we had crossed the gate of the fortifications, Chatelain left me.

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