a fortress where he was to be guarded by a company of warriors, the fiercest in the kingdom, incorruptible mountain fighters commanded by an officer who knew only his duty. The poor king understood nothing of what had happened to him. Shut up in a narrow cell where he hardly had room to lie down, he was only allowed to walk for two hours each night, chained to his gaolers. A hole in the wall allowed him to glimpse a tiny square of sky and a mountain peak, which he saw covered in snow three times before the vizir, deciding that it was another unnecessary expense to keep under such heavy guard a deposed king who was too lazy to escape, dismissed the warriors and ordered their commanding officer to escort him to his tribe. That officer, Abderrahman al Saadi, which means the Avenger of the Just, was my ancestor. He knew only his orders and that, as he had been told, the king was responsible for the country’s great misery. He treated him like a slave and made him clean his weapons, forcing him to carry out tasks that normally were only done by women. The king humbly accepted his lot. The years of captivity had matured his spirit and he recognised his error – a capital error for a sovereign – in having surrounded himself with double-dealers, toadies and grasping officials. He never complained, suffering his ill-treatment with resignation. Then one day it happened that Abderrahman al Saadi discovered that his prisoner, even though he was famished himself, was sharing his miserable rations with a hunting dog that had been wounded during a chase and could not compete with the other dogs for its supper. He was astonished that such a vile being, whose cruelty and rapacity had been so vividly described to him, could have any such impulse. He had him brought to his tent, and the two men talked all night. Abderrahman al Saadi understood the injustice of which he had been made the instrument. He prostrated himself before Allah and swore to deserve his name of Avenger of the Just, and then went to the king to beg his pardon for having so insulted him. Within a few weeks Abderrahman had raised an army of fighters, every man among them as fierce and as courageous as could be. This small army represented less than a tenth of the vizir’s army, but on its side it had faith and the desire to avenge a king too easily abused. Instead of confronting the regular army head on, Abderrahman decided to act by stealth. He invited Haroun to a great celebration at the gates of the capital. His best horsemen were to compete against each other at a game of skill that would later be called polo. Flattered and pleased to be entertained without it costing him a penny, the vizir accepted, and a great camp was set up in a field. Abderrahman insisted that Haroun come with his personal guards, who would be massed around the main stand. These were all black warriors of two metres in height, chosen for their colossal strength and skill with a spear. On the appointed day Haroun arrived at the celebration and watched the game and then the races until nightfall, when Abderrahman announced an archery competition. Mounted on galloping horses and led by a masked rider, the competitors were to fire their hundred arrows at a target in the middle of the hippodrome, held by an impassive warrior. Filled with enthusiasm for their skill, the vizir asked for the crack bowmen to be introduced to him. Led by the masked rider, the archers formed up in a line in front of the vizir’s stand.
‘“Who are you?” Haroun asked.
‘“Do you truly want to know?”
‘“It’s an order. Who are you?”
‘“Your king!” cried the rider, tearing off his mask and firing an arrow straight at the heart of Haroun, who collapsed dying as the hundred horsemen took aim at the vizir’s guard and planted a hundred arrows in their bronze breastplates. Night was falling, and the crowd’s cries of terror turned to panic as they saw that the city was burning. Abderrahman’s spies, making the most of the dignitaries’ absence, had set fire to the palace and the barracks. The zeal of the incendiaries was doubtless somewhat excessive because, in the space of a day and a night, the whole capital burnt down. Salah el Mahdi, having regained his throne but without a palace, decided to live in the mountains with the warriors who had given him back his kingdom. He built himself a fortress and entrusted the country’s administration to my ancestor, whom he made a prince so that the word “vizir” would never again be heard in the country. There you are, Jean Arnaud. That’s how you become a prince.’
‘Goodness, it’s not easy!’
‘No, you’re right about that, and one must also admit that there are fewer opportunities today than there once were to become a prince.’
‘Yes, that’s sad!’ Jean said, thinking of Chantal de Malemort, who would not hesitate to marry him if he suddenly became a prince.
There was a tap at the glass, misted by the rain, and Jean made out the blurred face of the chauffeur, who was laughing. His passenger wound down the window, and the black man took off his cap.
‘Monseigneur, the mechanic is here. He is completing the job. We’ll be able to get on our way.’
The window rose again.
‘This is thanks to you, Jean. I’m very grateful to you.’
He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out a wallet, from which he withdrew two thousand-franc notes.
‘I hope that you have a money box.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then put these two notes in it, and write your name and address in my notebook. I’ll send you a souvenir when I remember.’
‘I can’t accept them. What will my father say?’
‘He won’t say anything.’
‘He’ll never believe I met a prince at the side of the road. Things like that don’t happen.’
‘Sometimes the most unlikely things are the most easily believed.’
He slid the notes into Jean’s cape pocket. ‘
There you are, it’s done. Let’s say no more about it. Goodbye, Jean.’
He seemed very tired, ready to close his eyes and go to sleep. The mechanic was tightening the bolts of the spare wheel with a few last turns while the chauffeur watched him with a superior expression. Jean picked up his bicycle and climbed the rest of the way up the hill as fast as he could, though not fast enough to stay ahead of the Hispano-Suiza, which caught up and then overtook him. To his great surprise, he found it stopped again outside the gates of La Sauveté. The chauffeur waited by the passenger door, umbrella in hand. A young woman in a fur coat dashed out of the house and through the rain and threw herself into the car, which drove away immediately.
‘You took your time!’ Jeanne said when he came in, having shaken out his cape in the hall. ‘It’s too bad that you missed Mademoiselle Geneviève. I told her about you, and she very much wanted to meet you.’
‘Was it her who was leaving as I arrived?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I talked to her husband.’
‘Her husband?’ Jeanne said.
‘Yes, the monseigneur.’
‘What are you talking about? She hasn’t married a bishop.’
‘No, another monseigneur. A real one. A prince. He gave me this!’
He took one of the thousand-franc notes out of his pocket, a reflex that he only understood later holding him back from producing both.
‘A thousand francs!’ Jeanne cried. ‘But he’s completely mad!’
‘I lent him my bike.’
‘You
