The Figure In The Mirage | Page 3

said Tahar. 'The mirage is always there.'
"They rode forward. That night they camped near Sidi-Okba. At dinner, while the stars came out, they talked of the mirage, and mademoiselle still insisted that it was a mirage of a horseman bearing something before him on his saddle-bow, and riding as if for life. And Tahar said again:
"'Mademoiselle dreams!'
"As he spoke he looked at her with a mysterious intentness, which she noticed. That night, in her little camp-bed, round which the desert winds blew mildly, she did indeed dream. And her dream was of the magic forms that ride on magic horses through mirage.
"The next day, at dawn, the caravan of the Parisians went on its way, winding farther into the desert. In leaving Sidi-Okba they left behind them the last traces of civilisation--the French man and woman who keep the auberge in the orange garden there. To-day, as they journeyed, a sense of deep mystery flowed upon the heart of mademoiselle. She felt that she was a little cockle-shell of a boat which, accustomed hitherto only to the Seine, now set sail upon a mighty ocean. The fear of the Sahara came upon her."
My companion paused. His face was grave, almost stern.
"And her relations?" I asked. "Did they feel----"
"Haven't an idea what they felt," he answered curtly.
"But how do you know that mademoiselle
"You'll understand at the end of the story. As they journeyed in the sun across the endless flats--for the mountains had vanished now, and nothing broke the level of the sand--mademoiselle's gaiety went from her. Silent was the lively, chattering tongue that knew the jargon of cities, the gossip of the Plage. She was oppressed. Tahar rode close at her side. He seemed to have taken her under his special protection. Far before them rode the attendants, chanting deep love songs in the sun. The sound of those songs seemed like the sound of the great desert singing of its wild and savage love to the heart of mademoiselle. At first her brother-in-law and sister bantered her on her silence, but Tahar stopped them, with a curious authority.
"'The desert speaks to mademoiselle,' he said in her hearing. 'Let her listen.'
"He watched her continually with his huge eyes, and she did not mind his glance, though she began to feel irritated and restless under the observation of her relations.
"Towards noon Tahar again described mirage. As he pointed it out he stared fixedly at mademoiselle.
"The two other Parisians exclaimed that they saw forest trees, a running stream, a veritable oasis, where they longed to rest and eat their déjeuner.
"'And mademoiselle?' said Tahar. 'What does she see?'
"She was gazing into the distance. Her face was very pale, and for a moment she did not answer. Then she said:
"'I see again the Arab bearing the burden before him on the saddle. He is much clearer than yesterday. I can almost see his face----'
"She paused. She was trembling.
"'But I cannot see what he carries. It seems to float on the wind, like a robe, or a woman's dress. Ah! mon Dieu! how fast he rides!'
"She stared before her as if fascinated, and following with her eyes some rapidly-moving object. Suddenly she shut her eyes.
"'He's gone!' she said.
"'And now--mademoiselle sees?' said Tahar.
"She opened her eyes.
"'Nothing.'
"'Yet the mirage is still there,' he said.
"'Valérie,' cried her sister, 'are you mad that you see what no one else can see, and cannot see what all else see?"
"'Am I mad, Tahar?' she said gravely, almost timidly, to the dragoman.
"And the fear of the Sahara came again upon her.
"'Mademoiselle sees what she must,' he answered. 'The desert speaks to the heart of mademoiselle.'
"That night there was moon. Mademoiselle could not sleep. She lay in her narrow bed and thought of the figure in the mirage, while the moonbeams stole in between the tent pegs to keep her company. She thought of second sight, of phantoms, and of wraiths. Was this riding Arab, whom she alone could see, a phantom of the Sahara, mysteriously accompanying the caravan, and revealing himself to her through the medium of the mirage as if in a magic mirror? She turned restlessly upon her pillow, saw the naughty moonbeams, got up, and went softly to the tent door. All the desert was bathed in light. She gazed out as a mariner gazes out over the sea. She heard jackals yelping in the distance, peevish in their insomnia, and fancied their voices were the voices of desert demons. As she stood there she thought of the figure in the mirage, and wondered if mirage ever rises at night--if, by chance, she might see it now. And, while she stood wondering, far away across the sand there floated up a silvery haze, like a veil of spangled tissue--exquisite for a ball robe, she said long after!--and in this