After having skirted the territories inhabited by the Niam-Niams without incident, having crossed the lands of the Winga, Darming, Dar-Ferit, Takolé and Kordofan, the caravan greeted the sight of the blue waters of the White Nile with cheers.
This was Nubia, a country almost familiar. The time of perils was past. The Niam-Niams would never catch up with their stolen meal, the Makalolos would not get back their four queens and the Karbirkos would never see their gods again! It was only at intervals that they had a few disputes with the natives.
The scientist Désolant, having wanted to study at excessively close range the mores of a population suspected of cannibalism, had nearly ended his days on a skewer, but Farandoul, the queens and Niam-Niam had sacked the village in order to get him back and had freed him in time. The negroes, having recovered from their surprise, had gone to wait for them at the entrance to a gorge, and it had been necessary to clear a path through their massed forces. The queens had been splendid. Kalunda, Dililo, Caroline and Angelina, excited by fury, threw the first ranks into disorder by means of their arrows, then charged furiously, swords in hand. The dangerous pass was soon crossed.
Eight hours after reaching the Nile, as the caravan was relaxing in the delightful shade of an oasis during the hours of the most intense heat, Farandoul’s attention was attracted by a singular phenomenon. An ink-black cloud was advancing across the sky, its shadow already covering part of the sandy desert through which the Nile was snaking. A strange noise was emerging from this cloud: a confused buzz that the travelers soon recognized as the sound of millions of moving wings.
The cloud was a rapidly-advancing army of locusts, interposing itself between the ground and the light of the Sun. It was getting dark; meanwhile, the noise of the locusts became similar to the whistling of a storm-wind and the oasis disappeared beneath the cloud as if it had been enveloped by a black veil.
“Fire, quickly!” cried Farandoul. “Fire all around us to drive them away!”
Fortunately, the fires that had served to cook the travelers’ meal were still throwing off a few sparks. They were rapidly revived and soon formed a circle of flame and smoke around the camp.
The hungry locusts were already devouring the first leaves of the oasis; the fell into the flames in their thousands, but the great mass drew away from the redoubtable place.
Just as the army of locusts had descended, Farandoul had glimpsed other travelers—Nubians and Europeans—trying to reach the shelter of their fires, but they had disappeared into the mass of the locusts.
It took 20 minutes for the cloud to pass over. Gradually, the light returned; their army disappeared westwards. What destruction that devastating cloud had produced! In the entire oasis, not a leaf or stalk of vegetation remained. The stripped trees were reduced to the condition of mere stakes; all their leaves and slender branches had been engulfed.
Farandoul’s eyes searched for the European travelers he had seen. They were not far away, but they were in a pitiful state. Sitting on the bare ground, they maintained a sad silence; the unfortunates were entirely nude! The locusts had passed that way; the millions of hungry insects had devoured every last one the unfortunate travelers’ garments. The Nubians in their escort were already smiling, having not lost much. Seeing the poor travelers sitting there without daring to move, however, the compassionate Farandoul went toward them.
On seeing him, one of the travelers—the oldest—started gesticulating and shouting volubly: “Don’t come any closer! Don’t come any closer, sir, if you have any sense of propriety! There are ladies here! Don’t come any closer!”
And as Farandoul continued to approach, the European travelers called to the Nubians, and made them stand around them in such a way as to hide them completely from the onlooker’s eyes.
“What can I do for you, Monsieur?” asked Farandoul, stopping in front of the group.
A pitiful voice emerged from the middle of the Nubians: “have you got dresses for Miss and Milady? And something for me…”
“Alas, Monsieur, all that I can do for you is to give you three blankets, one for you and two for your ladies. That will suffice to take you as far as the first town.”
“Blankets!” moaned feminine voices. “Oh! Shocking! Shocking!”
“Yes, inconvenant,71 as you French say!” replied the man’s voice.
“No, no—you’ll be all right. I’ll send them to you.”
Returning to his camp, Farandoul dispatched Niam-Niam with three blankets for the unfortunates. Ten minutes later, the group of Nubians opened up and three individuals appeared, dressed as well as could be expected.
At the head walked a tall, gaunt, red-haired, red-bearded and ruddy-complexioned man, a typical Scotsman. Of all his attributes as a civilized man, only a pair of spectacles remained, having been disdained by the locusts. Two ladies followed him, with their eyes lowered and frightened expressions. They were mother and daughter. Milady’s hair was as red as her husband’s, her daughter’s as red as her father’s and mother’s combined.
“Duncan Fergus MacKlaknavor, Laird of Killiecrankie, Perthshire, Scotland, Milady Rosemonde MacKlaknavor and Miss Flora MacKlaknavor,” said the red-haired man in French, proceeding with introductions. “Happy to make the acquaintance of a friendly gentleman…”72
The two hermetically-enveloped ladies bowed and murmured a few words, among which were “eternally grateful… very grateful… gratefully… gratefulness… yes! yes! yes! yes!”
“Och, you’re our savior,” Lord MacKlaknavor went on. “But for you, we’d be obliged to return to Cairo in the costumes the locusts left us…”
“Shocking! Shocking!” exclaimed the ladies, interrupting their chain of gratefuls.
“It’s no trouble, Mesdames—don’t mention it.”
The conversation stopped there. Farandoul was about to propose that the Scottish caravan travel with his own, but he doubted that Milady MacKlaknavor could stand remaining much longer in the company of a gentleman she had met in such a shocking situation, so the two caravans separated. The Scots remounted their horses and took the road to Dongola, a town situated between the third and fourth cataracts of the Nile.
Meanwhile, Farandoul and his friends conferred. Certain difficulties were beginning to make him anxious. Game was becoming very scarce. The birds of the Nile still furnish a few dishes for the caravan’s meals, but the rest it was necessary to buy from the Nubians—and money was in even shorter supply! It was an appeal for funds that Farandoul made to his companions. He emptied his purse on the ground and invited them to put their resources into a common fund.
Désolant had only saved two five-franc coins from the disaster of his expedition, the rest having been stolen from him by the negroes. The four queens and Niam-Niam only had cowries—shells that served as money in the African interior, but which quasi-civilized populations did not rate very highly. The total was meager; it amounted to 225 francs in 100-sou French coins or Turkish piastres and 95 centimes in small change. Not very much!
“And the diamonds from the crown!” exclaimed Angelina, putting her bag of diamonds in the midst of the coins, open. “Were you forgetting those? That’s what will save us. Let’s press on to Cairo and set to sea.”
“It’s still more than 300 kilometers from here to there, you know,” said Farandoul. “I should have sold our three blankets to Lord MacKlaknavor, or borrowed 500 francs from him!”
Farandoul got to his feet to gaze at the Scottish caravan disappearing over the horizon. The queens and Désolant followed his example anxiously. Niam-Niam climbed a tree. The money was still on the ground, as was the bag of diamonds, from which emerged a sparkling gleam.
The four giraffes and the two ostriches, all attached by a simple cord, were sadly searching for some blade of grass overlooked by the locusts. Suddenly, the gleam of the diamonds attracted the attention of the ostriches. In less than a second they dragged the entire group to the treasure, and fell gluttonously upon the bag.
The white queens turned round and uttered a cry of horror!
In two bounds, Farandoul and Désolant hurled themselves upon the voracious ostriches, but the latter, having swallowed the last stone, were attacking the five-franc coins.
There was a hectic fight. Désolant succeeded in saving 15 francs and was kicked to the ground by one of the ostriches. Cudgel-blows fell like hail. The two frightened ostriches broke their leash and took flight into the desert.
The caravan was plunged into despair.
“The rifles!” cried Farandoul. In the struggle, however, the rifles had been thrown to one aside; by the time Farandoul and Kalunda had cocked their carbines, the ostriches were already out of range.
“To the giraffes! To the giraffes—and let’s give chase!” But the giraffes and the zebra, as frightened as the ostriches, had fled in different directions. It took an hour to collect them, and when the poor victims of theft were able to saddle up, the ostriches already had a long start.
Nevertheless, they set out on the search—but at dusk, exhausted by fatigue, furious at the loss they had suffered, they were empty-handed, ten leagues behind the oasis.
The ostriches could not be found. The following day, and the day after that, the hunt was repeated with the same lack of success. The ostriches had literally vanished into the depths of the desert.
Farandoul preached philosophy and detachment from wealth to the white queen Angelina, with the utmost lack of success, for the poor queen was in a state of indescribable despair. To please her, Farandoul devoted another two days to the search, with no more result. Finally, the resigned caravan turned around and resumed the Nile route, with two more zebras captured by lasso to replace the thieving ostriches.
It was now 400 leagues that they had to cover to reach Cairo, and with only 15 francs. At the sight of the oasis where the misfortune had occurred they all bowed their heads sadly—and that was lucky, because Farandoul saw a large diamond that had escape the gluttony of the ostriches gleaming in the debris of the fire. It is unnecessary to describe the care with which that precious resource was gathered up.
Twenty-five days later, the travelers, thinned down by further privations, arrived in Egypt and made camp in the immense and superb ruins of Thebes. The 15 francs saved by Désolant had been used up and they had had to revert to crocodile-egg omelets, a meal too musky for civilized stomachs.
In the ruins of Thebes the caravan had an encounter. Four French painters—Monsieur Coriolan Rigobert, member of the Institut, and three pupils—were busy portraying every aspect of the celebrated ruins. These gentleman welcomed the caravan with all the consideration due to misfortune. They fraternized, and mutual invitations to dinner were issued. The painters came to Farandoul’s camp to savor the unfamiliar delights of a superb meal consisting entirely of crocodile: boiled crocodile-eggs, roasted crocodile and omelets spices with locusts and red ants.
This fatal meal turned out badly for our friends, not because it was not a success, but because the four painters, while dining, felt strange flames ignite in their hearts for the four queens.
The superb beauty of the queens, the distinction of the white ones and the majesty of the black ones, threw the minds of the painters into such turbulence that, from the date of that soirée, the ruined colonnades of Thebes—the hypostyle halls decorated with hieroglyphs, the somber hypogea in which the Pharaohs slept, the obelisks and the mummy-cases enriched with delicate paintings—no longer had any attraction for them.
They exerted all their efforts to retain Farandoul’s caravan in Thebes for an additional day, under the pretext of a nocturnal party in the ruins to be held in honor of the queens.
They spent all day making preparations—nothing but comings and goings, trips to Arab villages to bring back chickens, fruits and so on.
Coriolan Rigobert spent two hours in consultation with an Arab Marabout73 in a village some distance from the ruins. At the end of a long discussion, Farandoul saw him give the old man a large handful of piastres in exchange for a little bottle, but—thinking that he was probably preparing a surprise for the evening—retired discreetly without saying anything.
The party was, indeed, splendid. There were dancing-girls, and then Coriolan Rigobert and his pupils, full of noble ardor, undertook picturesque exercises. They simulated the siege and destruction of Thebes of the Hundred Gates by one of the Cambyses.
Coriolan single-handedly took on the role of the garrison, while his pupils formed the besieging army, divided into three corps. Fireworks were lit; the besiegers’ artillery bombarded the city; 1000 rockets exploded in the sky, illuminating the sculpted pylons and the hieroglyphs on the capitals.
Coriolan redoubled his efforts, replying with the thunder of his large artillery pieces. The assailants were making progress; the shattered walls and debris of the colonnades seemed like newly-opened breaches.
In the end, the governor of Thebes blew himself up rather than surrender. Coriolan assembled all his artillery and blasted the lot.
When the last firework had died away, they ate. The painters seemed triumphant; they exchanged whispered comments from time to time, and Coriolan frequently checked the time on his watch.
A suspicious observer would then have noticed an infernal smile on Coriolan Rigobert’s lips and a reckless gleam in his eyes—and that same infernal smile was reflected on the lips of Rigobert’s three pupils when Farandoul trustingly emptied his glass of punch to the sound of cheers.
When the punch was exhausted, Coriolan skillfully brought the conversation around to the coolness of the atmosphere, the beauty of the ruins by moonlight, and did it so well that it was decided to take a little stroll before going to sleep. Farandoul took the lead himself, and the company was soon wandering amid the ruins.
The excursion was troubled by fantastic apparitions. Désolant thought he saw Arab burnooses behind some of the fallen columns and Niam-Niam glimpsed the shadow of a camel deploying its long legs over the sand. The painters were trying to slow down the pace of the queens, who were beginning to feel anxious. Eventually, when they turned back to the camp in response to a formal demand from the queens, Farandoul and Coriolan had disappeared.
This is what had happened:
As you will have guessed, it was a narcotic that Coriolan Rigobert had poured into Farandoul’s punch. Love engenders cruelty! The painters, led astray by a fatal passion, had sworn to take possession of the four queens at all costs. To do that, it was necessary to do away with Farandoul! That crime horrified them, but, as it was necessary, they did not hesitate. The Arab Marabout he had consulted had sold Coriolan a powerful narcotic that suspended all the functions of life for an unlimited period, on condition that the subject was rigorously deprived of air. Coriolan’s plan was very simple: the sleeping Farandoul was to be delivered to the Marabout, who would keep him sealed up for as long as circumstances required.
Scarcely had Coriolan and Farandoul gone into the ruins than the narcotic took effect. Farandoul suddenly felt his legs grow weak and his head become dizzy. He grabbed hold of Coriolan’s arm and took a few more steps. The latter rapidly dragged him behind a group of columns, to the entrance of a subterranean vault. Once there, Farandoul collapsed completely and the Arab Marabout as just in time to catch him in his arms.
Two Arabs emerged from the vault, seized Farandoul by the hands and feet, and ran to rejoin two dromedaries hidden close at hand. Five minutes later, the Arabs and the sleeping Farandoul were galloping over the plain in the direction of Asyut, where they arrived after a six-hour journey.
The triumphant Coriolan had rejoined the leaderless caravan and took part in our desolate friends’ search, with a satanic smile.
The Arab Marabout had received a large payment, and, as he was a conscientious man, he had decided to carry out Coriolan’s orders conscientiously. As soon as he arrived at Asyut he bought a bolt of cloth and remounted his dromedary, with Farandoul still asleep and well wrapped up. In two hours, the dromedary had crossed the san
dy plain to reach the caves of Samoun, the ancient Egyptian necropolis filled with millions and millions of mummies, representing almost all of the ancient populations of Egypt, generation after generation of which had filled these unknown depths with their cases.74
The Marabout had a great deal of difficulty getting Farandoul’s body down into the first gallery by himself, but, as a conscientious man, he was unsparing with his efforts. Having reached the subterranean halls, he lit a torch and searched among the heaped-up mummies for a well-sealed case that was the right size to accommodate our hero. Once he had found one, he took out the poor devil who was lodged in it—a rich lord, for the case was elaborately decorated and painted—and replaced him with Farandoul.
The bolt of cloth bought in Asyut was cut into strips and served to envelop our friend in a tightly-wound web. With the preparations terminated, the Marabout fastened the lid and pushed the case into a corner of the gallery. Having done that, he rubbed his hands together with a satisfied smile.
“Allah!” he said. “The task is faithfully executed; the Christian lord can be tranquil; his enemy will not appear before the time is convenient. He said one or two years…however, the Christian has paid me well, so perhaps he has the right to a little extra satisfaction. Yes, that’s right. I’ll leave his enemy here for 30 or 40 years. As I’ve always been a good Muslim, I’ll probably be in Mohammed’s paradise by then, but I’ll make sure to instruct my sons in my will to some and set the infidel free.” And the worthy Marabout returned to the light of day with the satisfaction of having done his duty.
The caves of Samoun had fallen into darkness again. Mingled with Egyptian men and women dead for 6000 years—with contemporaries of Joseph and Sesostris, Amenhotep and Cheops, Cleopatra and Mrs. Potiphar—Farandoul was asleep in his case, perhaps for eternity! He was finished! In 30 or 40 years the forgetful children of the Marabout would not take the trouble to carry out their father’s wishes and would delegate the task it in their turn to their descendants.
The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul Page 34