I dismounted at the office of the Intelligence Department. In the archway a number of burnous-clad men waited to be admitted into the office, where the interpreter, M. Grosset-Grange, and Lieutenant Donau were at work.
My eyes roved over the crowd of waiting men, who hailed from far and near. They were fine types, all wrapped in white or grey cloaks. Then I started, for on the stone bench sat—yes, by Jove!—two stalwart figures, with black kerchiefs wound round about their faces, so that only their fine eyes were visible, most of the nose and a little of the forehead being covered. Their light brown complexions surprised me.
Below their white garments appeared bare legs and sandalled feet, and, if I am not mistaken, they wore light blue trousers. A tuft of black hair protruded above the dark head-covering. They were evidently Tuareg.
Lieutenant Donau came out to receive me. Pointing to the two men, I ejaculated, “Tuareg?”
“Yes, certainly,” he said with a smile.
I seated myself on a bench opposite to them, while Donau fetched the interpreter, so that between them they might interrogate the Tuareg. At first I could not realise that I indeed sat peacefully face to face with the dreaded sons of the desert, and that I should have the luck to take home for our National Museum their costume and equipment. It seemed too good to be true.
A TUAREG.
“Do you think I shall be able to buy their clothes?” I asked the interpreter.
“It will be very difficult to manage,” he replied. “The Tuareg are suspicious, and will not understand that anyone would sooner buy their old rags than fine clothes, such as you wear. Besides, similar costumes are not to be had here, and they will not like to return home in ordinary Arab dress.”