His mocking nervous laughter began anew.

"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.

He looked at me, squarely in the face.

"To where?" he said with good humor.

I did not answer.