It was powerful, that Ahaggar 1880.  We sipped it from large silver goblets.  It was fresh as Rhine wine, dry as the wine of the Hermitage.  And then, suddenly, it brought back recollections of the burning wines of Portugal; it seemed sweet, fruity, an admirable wine, I tell you.

That wine crowned the most perfect of luncheons.  There were few meats, to be sure; but those few were remarkably seasoned.  Profusion of cakes, pancakes served with honey, fragrant fritters, cheese-cakes of sour milk and dates.  And everywhere, in great enamel platters or wicker jars, fruit, masses of fruit, figs, dates, pistachios, jujubes, pomegranates, apricots, huge bunches of grapes, larger than those which bent the shoulders of the Hebrews in the land of Canaan, heavy watermelons cut in two, showing their moist, red pulp and their rows of black seeds.

I had scarcely finished one of these beautiful iced fruits, when M. Le Mesge rose.

“Gentlemen, if you are ready,” he said to Morhange and me.

“Get away from that old dotard as soon as you can,” whispered the Hetman of Jitomir to me.  “The party of Trente et Quarante will begin soon.  You shall see.  You shall see.  We go it even harder than at Cora Pearl’s.”

“Gentlemen,” repeated M. Le Mesge in his dry tone.

We followed him.  When the three of us were back again in the library, he said, addressing me: 

“You, sir, asked a little while ago what occult power holds you here.  Your manner was threatening, and I should have refused to comply had it not been for your friend, whose knowledge enables him to appreciate better than you the value of the revelations I am about to make to you.”

He touched a spring in the side of the wall.  A cupboard appeared, stuffed with books.  He took one.

“You are both of you,” continued M. Le Mesge, “in the power of a woman.  This woman, the sultaness, the queen, the absolute sovereign of Ahaggar, is called Antinea.  Don’t start, M. Morhange, you will soon understand.”

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?”