Produced by David Widger






THE FIGURE IN THE MIRAGE

By Robert Hichens

Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers

Copyright, 1905


On a windy night of Spring I sat by a great fire that had been built by
Moors on a plain of Morocco under the shadow of a white city, and talked
with a fellow-countryman, stranger to me till that day. We had met in
the morning in a filthy alley of the town, and had forgathered. He was a
wanderer for pleasure like myself, and, learning that he was staying in
a dreary hostelry haunted by fever, I invited him to dine in my camp,
and to pass the night in one of the small peaked tents that served
me and my Moorish attendants as home. He consented gladly. Dinner was
over--no bad one, for Moors can cook, can even make delicious caramel
pudding in desert places--and Mohammed, my stalwart _valet de chambre_,
had given us most excellent coffee. Now we smoked by the great fire,
looked up at the marvellously bright stars, and told, as is the way
of travellers, tales of our wanderings. My companion, whom
I took at first to be a rather ironic, sceptical, and by nature
“unimaginative globe-trotter--he was a hard-looking, iron-grey man of
middle-age--related the usual tiger story, the time-honoured elephant
anecdote, and a couple of snake yarns of no special value, and I was
beginning to fear that I should get little entertainment from so prosaic
a sportsman, when I chanced to mention the desert.

“Ah!” said my guest, taking his pipe from his mouth, “the desert is
the strangest thing in nature, as woman is the strangest thing in human
nature. And when you get them together--desert and woman--by Jove!”

He paused, then he shot a keen glance at me.

“Ever been in the Sahara?” he said.

I replied in the affirmative, but added that I had as yet only seen the
fringe of it.

“Biskra, I suppose,” he rejoined, “and the nearest oasis, Sidi-Okba,
and so on?”

I nodded. I saw I was in for another tale, and anticipated some history
of shooting exploits under the salt mountain of El Outaya.

“Well,” he continued, “I know the Sahara pretty fairly, and about the
oddest thing I ever could believe in I heard of and believed in there.”

“Something about gazelle?” I queried.

“Gazelle? No--a woman!” he replied..

As he spoke a Moor glided out of the windy darkness, and threw an armful
of dry reeds on the fire. The flames flared up vehemently, and I saw
that the face of my companion had changed. The hardness of it was
smoothed away. Some memory, that held its romance, sat with him.

“A woman,” he repeated, knocking the ashes out of his pipe almost
sentimentally--“more than that, a French woman of Paris, with the
nameless charm, the _chic_, the---- But I’ll tell you. Some years ago
three Parisians--a man, his wife, and her unmarried sister, a girl of
eighteen, with an angel and a devil in her dark beauty--came to a great
resolve. They decided that they were tired of the Français, sick of the
Bois, bored to death with the boulevards, that they wanted to see for
themselves the famous French colonies which were for ever being talked
about in the Chamber. They determined to travel. No sooner was
the determination come to than they were off. Hôtel des Colonies,
Marseilles; steamboat, _Le Général Chanzy_; five o’clock on a splendid,
sunny afternoon--Algiers, with its terraces, its white villas, its
palms, trees, and its Spahis!”

“But----” I began.

He foresaw my objection.

“There were Spahis, and that’s a point of my story. Some fête was on
in the town while our Parisians were there. All the African troops were
out--Zouaves, chasseurs, tirailleurs. The Governor went in procession
to perform some ceremony, and in front of his carriage rode sixteen
Spahis--probably got in from that desert camp of theirs near El Outaya.
All this was long before the Tsar visited Paris, and our Parisians had
never before seen the dashing Spahis, had only heard of them, of their
magnificent horses, their turbans and flowing Arab robes, their gorgeous
figures, lustrous eyes, and diabolic horsemanship. You know how they
ride? No cavalry to touch them--not even the Cossacks! Well, our
French friends were struck. The unmarried sister, more especially, was
_bouleversée_ by these glorious demons. As they caracoled beneath the
balcony on which she was leaning she clapped her little hands, in their
white kid gloves, and threw down a shower of roses. The falling flowers
frightened the horses. They pranced, bucked, reared. One Spahi--a great
fellow, eyes like a desert eagle, grand aquiline profile--on whom three
roses had dropped, looked up, saw mademoiselle--call her Valérie--gazing
down with her great, bright eyes--they were deuced fine eyes, by
Jove!----”

“You’ve seen her?” I asked.

“--and flashed a smile at her with his white teeth. It was his last day
in the service. He was in grand spirits. ‘Mem Dieu! Mais quelles dents!’
she sang out. Her people laughed at her. The Spahi looked at her again--
not smiling. She shrank back on the balcony. Then his place was taken by
the Governor--small imperial, _chapeau de forme_, evening dress, landau
and pair. Mademoiselle was _désolée_. Why couldn’t civilised men look
like Spahis? Why were all Parisians commonplace? Why--why? Her sister
and brother-in-law called her the savage worshipper, and took her down
to the café on the terrace to dine. And all through dinner mademoiselle
talked of the _beaux_ Spahis--in the plural, with a secret reservation
in her heart. After Algiers our Parisians went by way of Constantine to
Biskra. Now they saw desert for the first time--the curious iron-grey,
velvety-brown, and rose-pink mountains; the nomadic Arabs camping in
their earth-coloured tents patched with rags; the camels against the
skyline; the everlasting sands, broken here and there by the deep green
shadows of distant oases, where the close-growing palms, seen from far
off, give to the desert almost the effect that clouds give to Cornish
waters. At Biskra mademoiselle--oh! what she must have looked like under
the mimosa-trees before the Hôtel de l’Oasis!------”

“Then you’ve seen her,” I began.

“--mademoiselle became enthusiastic again, and, almost before they knew
it, her sister and brother-in-law were committed to a desert expedition,
were fitted out with a dragoman, tents, mules--the whole show, in
fact--and one blazing hot day found themselves out in that sunshine--you
know it--with Biskra a green shadow on that sea, the mountains behind
the sulphur springs turning from bronze to black-brown in the distance,
and the table flatness of the desert stretching ahead of them to the
limits of the world and the judgment day.”

My companion paused, took a flaming reed from the fire, put it to his
pipe bowl, pulled hard at his pipe--all the time staring straight before
him, as if, among the glowing logs, he saw the caravan of the Parisians
winding onward across the desert sands. Then he turned to me, sighed,
and said:

“You’ve seen mirage?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Have you noticed that in mirage the things one fancies one sees
generally appear in large numbers--buildings crowded as in towns,
trees growing together as in woods, men shoulder to shoulder in large
companies?”

My experience of mirage in the desert was so, and I acknowledged it.

“Have you ever seen in a mirage a solitary figure?” he continued.

I thought for a moment. Then I replied in the negative.

“No more have I,” he said. “And I believe it’s a very rare occurrence.
Now mark the mirage that showed itself to mademoiselle on the first day
of the desert journey of the Parisians. She saw it on the northern verge
of the oasis of Sidi-Okba, late in the afternoon. As they journeyed
Tahar, their dragoman--he had applied for the post, and got it by the
desire of mademoiselle, who admired his lithe bearing and gorgeous
aplomb--Tahar suddenly pulled up his mule, pointed with his brown hand
to the horizon, and said in French:

“‘There is mirage! Look! There is the mirage of the great desert!’

“Our Parisians, filled with excitement, gazed above the pointed ears of
their beasts, over the shimmering waste. There, beyond the palms of the
oasis, wrapped in a mysterious haze, lay the mirage. They looked at it
in silence. Then Mademoiselle cried, in her little bird’s clear voice:

“‘Mirage! But surely he’s real?’

“‘What does mademoiselle see?’ asked Tahar quickly.

“‘Why, a sort of faint landscape, through which a man--an Arab, I
suppose--is riding, towards Sidi--what is it?--Sidi-Okba! He’s got
something in front of him, hanging across his saddle.’

“Her relations looked at her in amazement.

“‘I only see houses standing on the edge of water,’ said her sister.

“‘And I!’ cried the husband.

“‘Houses and water,’ assented Tahar. ‘It is always so in the mirage of
Sidi-Okba.’

“‘I see no houses, no water,’ cried mademoiselle, straining her eyes.
‘The Arab rides fast, like the wind. He is in a hurry. One would think
he was being pursued. Why, now he’s gone!’

“She turned to her companions. They saw still the fairy houses of the
mirage standing in the haze on the edge of the fairy water.

“‘But,’ mademoiselle said impatiently, ‘there’s nothing at all now--only
sand.’

“‘Mademoiselle dreams,’ 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 haze she saw again the
phantom Arab galloping upon his horse. But now he was clear in the moon.
Furiously he rode, like a thing demented in a dream, and as he rode he
looked back over his shoulder, as if he feared pursuit. Mademoiselle
could see his fierce eyes, like the eyes of a desert eagle that stares
unwinking at the glaring African sun. He urged on his fleet horse. She
could hear now the ceaseless thud of its hoofs upon the hard sand as it
drew nearer and nearer. She could see the white foam upon its steaming
flanks, and now at last she knew that the burden which the Arab bore
across his saddle and supported with his arms was a woman. Her robe flew
out upon the wind; her dark, loose hair streamed over the breast of the
horseman; her face was hidden against his heart; but mademoiselle saw
his face, uttered a cry, and shrank back against the canvas of the tent.

“For it was the face of the Spahi who had ridden in the procession of
the Governor--of the Spahi to whom she had thrown the roses from the
balcony of Algiers.

“As she cried out the mirage faded, the Arab vanished, the thud of the
horse’s hoofs died in her ears, and Tahar, the dragoman, glided round
the tent, and stood before her. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight like
ebon jewels.

“‘Hush!’ he whispered, ‘mademoiselle sees the mirage?’

“Mademoiselle could not speak. She stared into the eyes of Tahar, and
hers were dilated with wonder.

“He drew nearer to her.

“‘Mademoiselle has seen again the horseman and his burden.’

“She bowed her head. All things seemed dream-like to her. Tahar’s voice
was low and monotonous, and sounded far away.

“‘It is fate,’ he said. He paused, gazing upon her.

“‘In the tents they all sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Even the watchman sleeps,
for I have given him a powder of hashish, and hashish gives long
dreams--long dreams.’

“From beneath his robe he drew a small box, opened it, and showed to
mademoiselle a dark brown powder, which he shook into a tiny cup of
water.

“‘Mademoiselle shall drink, as the watchman has drunk,’ he said--‘shall
drink and dream.’

“He held the cup to her lips, and she, fascinated by his eyes, as by the
eyes of a mesmerist, could not disobey him. She swallowed the hashish,
swayed, and fell forward into his arms.

“A moment later, across the spaces of the desert, whitened by the moon,
rode the figure mademoiselle had seen in the mirage. Upon his saddle
he bore a dreaming woman. And in the ears of the woman through all the
night beat the thunderous music of a horse’s hoofs spurning the desert
sand. Mademoiselle had taken her place in the vision which she no longer
saw.”

My companion paused. His pipe had gone out. He did not relight it, but
sat looking at me in silence.

“The Spahi?” I asked.

“Had claimed the giver of the roses.”

“And Tahar?”

“The shots he fired after the Spahi missed fire. Yet Tahar was a notable
shot.”

“A strange tale,” I said. “How did you come to hear it?”

“A year ago I penetrated very far into the Sahara on a sporting
expedition. One day I came upon an encampment of nomads. The story was
told me by one of them as we sat in the low doorway of an earth-coloured
tent and watched the sun go down.”

“Told you by an Arab?”

He shook his head.

“By whom, then?”

“By a woman with a clear little bird’s voice, with an angel and a devil
in her dark beauty, a woman with the gesture of Paris--the grace, the
_diablerie_ of Paris.”

Light broke on me.

“By mademoiselle!” I exclaimed.

“Pardon,” he answered; “by madame.”

“She was married?”

“To the figure in the mirage; and she was content.”

“Content!” I cried.

“Content with her two little dark children dancing before her in the
twilight, content when the figure of the mirage galloped at evening
across the plain, shouting an Eastern love song, with a gazelle--instead
of a woman--slung across his saddle-bow. Did I not say that, as the
desert is the strangest thing in nature, so a woman is the strangest
thing in human nature? Which heart is most mysterious?”

“Its heart?” I said.

“Or the heart of mademoiselle?”

“I give the palm to the latter.”

“And I,” he answered, taking off his wide-brimmed hat--“I gave it when
I saluted her as madame before the tent door, out there in the great
desert.”






End of Project Gutenberg’s The Figure In The Mirage, by Robert Hichens