Only Spifame and Vignet kept up their manly composure on the makeshift platform on to which they had been deposited. The sergeants-at-arms had little trouble arresting them.

When he was brought before the king, the sight of the real Henri produced such a strong impression on the poor madman that he immediately fell into one of his raging fevers; as in the past, he was unable to decide whether he was indeed Henri or Spifame, despite all his efforts to discover his identity. The king, duly informed of the entire escapade, took pity on the poor gentleman and had him transported to the Louvre, where he was given medical attention and where he became an object of curiosity to the court, occasionally providing its members (it is sad to admit) with considerable entertainment.

Having observed that Spifame’s madness was indeed quite harmless and quite respectful of His Majesty, the king was reluctant to have him sent back to the madhouse, for he found it unseemly that this perfect image of himself should be exposed to humiliating treatment or to the derision of visitors or guards. He therefore gave instructions that Spifame be housed in one of his country castles under the attendance of specially appointed servants, who were to treat him with the true deference due to a monarch and to address him as Your Majesty and Your Highness. Claude Vignet was to be his companion as in former days, and his poems as well as any edicts Spifame chose to issue from his retreat were to be printed and preserved by order of the king.

The collection of edicts and decrees issued by this illustrious madman was printed in toto during the following reign under the title: Dicoearchiae Henrici regis progymnasmata. A copy may be found at the Royal Library under the catalogue number VII 6,412. Volume XXIII of The Proceedings of the Society of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres7 may also be consulted. It is quite remarkable that the majority of the reforms proposed by Raoul Spifame should have since been adopted.

THE TALE OF CALIPH HAKIM

I

Hashish

Some time after the year 1000, that is, in the fourth century of the Hegira, there was a small village inhabited for the most part by members of the Sabean sect.1 It lay on the right bank of the Nile over towards the port of Fostat, site of the ruins of ancient Cairo, not far from the mount of Mokatam, which dominates the new city.

There is a lovely view to be had from the outlying houses along the river; the Nile seems to embrace the isle of Roddah like a basket of flowers clasped in the arms of a slave. Gizeh lies on the other bank, and in the evening, after the sun goes down, one can see the huge triangles of the pyramids slashing through the ribbon of violet mist to the west. The tips of the doum-palms, the sycamores and the Pharaoh’s figs stand etched in black against the light background. Crouched on the plain like a watchdog, the Sphinx seems to be guarding from afar the herds of buffalo filing down to their watering places, and the lights of fishermen prick the dense shadows of the riverbank with golden stars.

The best place in the village of the Sabeans from which to view this scene was a whitewashed okel surrounded by carob trees. Its terrace extended out over the river and every night, as they travelled up or down the Nile, boats could see the flicker of its watch lights floating in pools of oil.

From his cangia in the middle of the river, any curious boatman could have easily looked through the bays of its arcades and espied the various wayfarers and habitués seated at small tables on palmwood stools or divans covered with matting. He would have most certainly been quite astounded by their strange behaviour. The vehemence of their gestures, their lapses into dazed immobility, their peals of mad laughter, the various whoops and yells they now and then let forth – all would have indicated to him that this was one of those establishments where infidels, in defiance of the laws of the land, went to get drunk on wine, bouza (beer) or hashish.

One evening, a cangia skilfully steered by someone evidently familiar with the place dropped off a passenger in the shadows of the terrace, at the foot of a stairway whose lower steps were lapped by the river’s waters. Out stepped a young man of handsome appearance who seemed to be a fisherman. Making his way up the stairs with quick, firm strides, he headed straight for what seemed to be his usual corner seat. Nobody paid attention to his arrival; he was obviously a regular.

At the very same moment, another man entered through the opposite door, that is, from the side of the shore. He was dressed in a tunic of black wool and, contrary to local custom, wore his hair long under a takieh (white cap).

His unexpected appearance caused some astonishment. He took a seat in a dark corner of the room, but as the clientele lapsed back into its collective inebriation, nobody paid him any further mind. Though clad like a pauper, the newly arrived guest did not wear the anxious humility of poverty on his face. His finely chiselled features recalled the severe lineaments of a lion’s head. His eyes, a dark sapphire blue, radiated an unfathomable kind of power: they were at once terrifying and entrancing.

Upon noticing the unusual newcomer, Yousouf (such was the name of the young man who had been set ashore by the cangia) immediately felt a secret sympathy well up in his heart. Not having yet given himself over to the revels, he approached the divan on which the stranger was sitting cross-legged.

‘Brother,’ said Yousouf, ‘you seem tired. Have you travelled far? Would you like some refreshment?’

‘Yes, my journey has been long,’ replied the stranger. ‘I have come to this okel to rest. But what kind of refreshment could I obtain here? All the beverages they serve are forbidden.’

‘You Muslims refuse to let your lips touch anything but pure water. Whereas we Sabeans are allowed by our laws to quench our thirst with the generous blood of the vine or the flaxen liquor of barley.’

‘Yet I see no fermented drink on your table.’

‘Oh, I have long since given up common inebriation,’ said Yousouf, as he motioned to a black servant, who brought over to their table two small glass cups decorated with silver filigree and a little box filled with greenish paste and provided with an ivory spatula. ‘This box contains the paradise promised by your prophet to his believers. Were it not for your misgivings, I could have you in the arms of the houris within an hour – without your even having to cross the bridge of Al-Serat,’2 Yousouf added with a laugh.

‘But if I’m not mistaken, this paste is hashish,’ replied the stranger as he pushed away the cup into which Yousouf had placed a dose of the fantastic mixture, ‘and hashish is forbidden.’

‘Everything that is pleasurable is forbidden,’ said Yousouf, as he swallowed a spoonful.

The stranger fixed his sombre blue eyes on him; his brow furrowed so violently that his hairline followed the folds of its skin; for a moment it seemed as if he might leap out at the carefree young man and tear him to pieces; but he held back, his features softened, and, suddenly changing his mind, he reached out his hand, took the cup and slowly proceeded to ingest the green paste.

After several minutes, the effects of the hashish began to make themselves felt on Yousouf and the stranger; a gentle languor came over their limbs and a vague smile played across their lips. Although they had barely spent half an hour together, it seemed to them as if they had known each other for a thousand years.