“Andre!”

Now he was looking maliciously at the wall, at the little portrait the replica of which I had just subjected to this painful scene.

“There, there, I say, you aren’t angry, are you?  But between ourselves you will admit, will you not, that she is a little thin?”

And before I could find time to answer him, he had removed himself, humming the shameful refrain of the previous night: 

“A la Bastille, a la Bastille,
 On aime bien, on aime bien,
       Nini, Peau de Chien.”

For three days neither of us spoke to the other.  My exasperation was too deep for words.  Was I, then, to be held responsible for his avatars!  Was it my fault if, between two phrases, one seemed always some allusion—­

“The situation is intolerable,” I said to myself.  “It cannot last longer.”

It was to cease very soon.

One week after the scene of the photograph the courier arrived.  I had scarcely glanced at the index of the Zeitschrift, the German review of which I have already spoken, when I started with uncontrollable amazement.  I had just read:  "Reise und Entdeckungen zwei fronzosischer offiziere, Rittmeisters Morhange und Oberleutnants de Saint-Avit, in westlichen Sahara."

At the same time I heard my comrade’s voice.

“Anything interesting in this number?”

“No,” I answered carelessly.

“Let’s see.”

I obeyed; what else was there to do?

It seemed to me that he grew paler as he ran over the index.  However, his tone was altogether natural when he said: 

“You will let me borrow it, of course?”

And he went out, casting me one defiant glance.

* * * * *

The day passed slowly.  I did not see him again until evening.  He was gay, very gay, and his gaiety hurt me.

When we had finished dinner, we went out and leaned on the balustrade of the terrace.  From there out swept the desert, which the darkness was already encroaching upon from the east.

Andre broke the silence.

“By the way, I have returned your review to you.  You were right, it is not interesting.”

His expression was one of supreme amusement.

“What is it, what is the matter with you, anyway?”

“Nothing,” I answered, my throat aching.

“Nothing?  Shall I tell you what is the matter with you?”

I looked at him with an expression of supplication.

“Idiot,” he found it necessary to repeat once more.

Night fell quickly.  Only the southern slope of Wadi Mia was still yellow.  Among the boulders a little jackal was running about, yapping sharply.

“The dib is making a fuss about nothing, bad business,” said Saint-Avit.

He continued pitilessly: 

“Then you aren’t willing to say anything?”

I made a great effort, to produce the following pitiful phrase: