"The fourteenth of October, 1859. Good. Died at Ahaggar, the fifth of January, 1897.... There, that is done. A thousand thanks, sir, for your kindness." "You are welcome." I left M. Le Mesge. My mind, thenceforth, was well made up; and, as I said, I was perfectly calm. Nevertheless, when I had taken leave of M. Le Mesge, I felt the need of waiting a few minutes before executing my decision. First I wandered through the corridors; then, finding myself near my room, I went to it. It was still intolerably hot. I sat down on my divan and began to think. The dagger in my pocket bothered me. I took it out and laid it on the floor. It was a good dagger, with a diamond-shaped blade, and with a collar of orange leather between the blade and the handle. The sight of it recalled the silver hammer. I remembered how easily it fitted into my hand when I struck.... Every detail of the scene came back to me with incomparable vividness. But I did not even shiver. It seemed as if my determination to kill the instigator of the murder permitted me peacefully to evoke its brutal details. If I reflected over my deed, it was to be surprised at it, not to condemn myself. "Well," I said to myself, "I have killed this Morhange, who was once a baby, who, like all the others, cost his mother so much trouble with his baby sicknesses. I have put an end to his life, I have reduced to nothingness the monument of love, of tears, of trials overcome and pitfalls escaped, which constitutes a human existence. What an extraordinary adventure!" That was all. No fear, no remorse, none of that Shakespearean horror after the murder, which, today, sceptic though I am and blasé and utterly, utterly disillusioned, sets me shuddering whenever I am alone in a dark room. "Come," I thought. "It's time. Time to finish it up." I picked up the dagger. Before putting it in my pocket, I went through the motion of striking. All was well. The dagger fitted into my hand. I had been through Antinea's apartment only when guided, the first time by the white Targa, the second time, by the leopard. Yet I found the way again without trouble. Just before coming to the door with the rose window, I met a Targa. "Let me pass," I ordered. "Your mistress has sent for me." The man obeyed, stepping back. Soon a dim melody came to my ears. I recognized the sound of a _rebaza_, the violin with a single string, played by the Tuareg women. It was Aguida playing, squatting as usual at the feet of her mistress. The three other women were also squatted about her. Tanit-Zerga was not there. Oh! Since that was the last time I saw her, let, oh, let me tell you of Antinea, how she looked in that supreme moment.