Up to that time I had let him enjoy his exaltations without interruption. I understood too late the error that I had made in pronouncing that unfortunate sentence.
"Ah! Indeed, at Tidi-Kelt? I beg you, old man, in your own interest, if you don't want to make an ass of yourself, avoid that species of reminiscence. Honestly, you make me think of Fromentin, or that poor Maupassant, who talked of the desert because he had been to Djelfa, two days' journey from the street of Bab-Azound and the Government buildings, four days from the Avenue de l'Opera;--and who, because he saw a poor devil of a camel dying near Bou-Saada, believed himself in the heart of the desert, on the old route of the caravans.... Tidi-Kelt, the desert!"
"It seems to me, however, that In-Salah--" I said, a little vexed.
"In-Salah? Tidi-Kelt! But, my poor friend, the last time that I passed that way there were as many old newspapers and empty sardine boxes as if it had been Sunday in the Wood of Vincennes."
Such a determined, such an evident desire to annoy me made me forget my reserve.
"Evidently," I replied resentfully, "I have never been to--"
I stopped myself, but it was already too late.
And, as I remained strangled in my muteness:
It was on the east bank of Wadi Tarhit, a hundred and twenty kilometers from Timissao, at 25.5 degrees north latitude, according to the official report, that Captain Morhange was buried.
"André," I cried stupidly, "I swear to you--"
"To speak of Wadi Tarhit? Why? Why should you not speak to me of Wadi Tarhit?"
In answer to my supplicating silence, he merely shrugged his shoulders.
And he left me before I could think of even one word to say.
So much humility on my part had, however, not disarmed him. I had the proof of it the next day, and the way he showed his humor was even marked by an exhibition of wretchedly poor taste.
I was just out of bed when he came into my room.
"Can you tell me what is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
He had in his hand one of the official registers. In his nervous crises he always began sorting them over, in the hope of finding some pretext for making himself militarily insupportable.
He opened the register. I blushed violently at seeing the poor proof of a photograph that I knew well.