All the valleys were by this time filled with a white vapor, which rose slowly, like the steam from the flanks of an ox, and on the chain of mountains that bordered the horizon, on the outskirts of the desert of Sahara, the sky was in flames.  Long streaks of gold alternated with streaks of blood—­blood again!  Blood and gold, the whole of human history—­and sometimes between the two there was a small opening in the greenish azure, far away like a dream.

How far away I was from all those persons and things with which one occupies oneself on the boulevards, far from myself also, for I had become a kind of wandering being, without thought or consciousness, far from any road, of which I was not even thinking, for as night came on, I found that I had lost my way.

The shades of night were falling onto the earth like a shower of darkness, and I saw nothing before me but the mountains, in the far distance.  Presently, I saw some tents in the valley, into which I descended, and tried to make the first Arab I met understand in which direction I wanted to go.  I do not know whether he understood me, but he gave me a long answer, which I did not in the least understand.  In despair, I was about to make up my mind to pass the night wrapped up in a rug near the encampment, when among the strange words he uttered, I fancied that I heard the name, Bordj-Ebbaba, and so I repeated: 

“Bordj-Ebbaba.”

“Yes, yes.”

I showed him two francs that were a fortune to him, and he started off, while I followed him.  Ah!  I followed that pale phantom which strode on before me bare-footed along stony paths, on which I stumbled continually, for a long time, and then suddenly I saw a light, and we soon reached the door of a white house, a kind of fortress with straight walls, and without any outside windows.  When I knocked, dogs began to bark inside, and a voice asked in French: 

“Who is there?”

“Does Monsieur Auballe live here?” I asked.

“Yes.”

The door was opened for me, and I found myself face to face with Monsieur Auballe himself, a tall man in slippers, with a pipe in his mouth and the looks of a jolly Hercules.

As soon as I mentioned my name, he put out both his hands and said: 

“Consider yourself at home here, Monsieur.”

A quarter of an hour later I was dining ravenously, opposite to my host, who went on smoking.

I knew his history.  After having wasted a great amount of money on women, he had invested the remnants of his fortune in Algerian landed property and taken to money-making.  It turned out prosperously; he was happy, and had the calm look of a happy and contented man.  I could not understand how this fast Parisian could have grown accustomed to that monstrous life in such a lonely spot, and I asked him about it.

“How long have you been here?” I asked him.

“For nine years.”