He looked at me in contemptuous surprise.

“Well, sir?”

“Well, sir, the Negro who just went out pronounced the name of Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, the name of a brigand, a bandit, one of the assassins of Colonel Flatters.  Are you acquainted with that detail, sir?”

The little man surveyed me coldly and shrugged his shoulders.

“Certainly.  But what difference do you suppose that makes to me?”

“What!” I cried, beside myself with rage.  “Who are you, anyway?”

“Sir,” said the little old man with comical dignity, turning to Morhange, “I call you to witness the strange manners of your companion.  I am here in my own house and I do not allow....”

“You must excuse my comrade, sir,” said Morhange, stepping forward.  “He is not a man of letters, as you are.  These young lieutenants are hot-headed, you know.  And besides, you can understand why both of us are not as calm as might be desired.”

I was furious and on the point of disavowing these strangely humble words of Morhange.  But a glance showed me that there was as much irony as surprise in his expression.

“I know indeed that most officers are brutes,” grumbled the little old man.  “But that is no reason....”

“I am only an officer myself,” Morhange went on, in an even humbler tone, “and if ever I have been sensible to the intellectual inferiority of that class, I assure you that it was now in glancing—­I beg your pardon for having taken the liberty to do so—­in glancing over the learned pages which you devote to the passionate story of Medusa, according to Procles of Carthage, cited by Pausanias.”

A laughable surprise spread over the features of the little old man.  He hastily wiped his spectacles.

“What!” he finally cried.

“It is indeed unfortunate, in this matter,” Morhange continued imperturbably, “that we are not in possession of the curious dissertation devoted to this burning question by Statius Sebosus, a work which we know only through Pliny and which....”

“You know Statius Sebosus?”

“And which, my master, the geographer Berlioux....”

“You knew Berlioux—­you were his pupil?” stammered the little man with the decoration.

“I have had that honor,” replied Morhange, very coldly.

“But, but, sir, then you have heard mentioned, you are familiar with the question, the problem of Atlantis?”

“Indeed I am not unacquainted with the works of Lagneau, Ploix, Arbois de Jubainville,” said Morhange frigidly.

“My God!” The little man was going through extraordinary contortions.  “Sir—­Captain, how happy I am, how many excuses....”

Just then, the portiere was raised.  Ferradji appeared again.

“Sir, they want me to tell you that unless you come, they will begin without you.”

“I am coming, I am coming.  Say, Ferradji, that we will be there in a moment.  Why, sir, if I had foreseen ...  It is extraordinary ... to find an officer who knows Procles of Carthage and Arbois de Jubainville.  Again ...  But I must introduce myself.  I am Etienne Le Mesge, Fellow of the University.”