The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  A frightful prospect! But Farandoul was not thinking about it—he was asleep! Fifty million mummies were sleeping their eternal slumber with him. How dark it was in the somber galleries, domains of silence and death! What tranquility for the mummies, relics of vanished worlds, heaped up pell-mell in the darkness! No longer friends, no longer enemies, no longer mothers, no longer brothers, no longer fierce soldiers, no longer proud aristocrats, no longer superb courtesans! Nothing any longer but a society packed away forever in the immense luggage-room of eternity!

  The caves of Samoun are rarely visited; only a handful of travelers dare to venture there every year. Farandoul had been resting there for a week when the silence of the necropolis was disturbed by the arrival of a few of these bold tourists.

  If Farandoul had been able to see them, he would have recognized the visitors as Lord Klaknavor, his wife Rosemonde and his daughter Flora, dressed in new clothes and perhaps even redder since their adventure with the locusts.

  Lord Klaknavor, who was about to leave for Europe, had come to Samoun in search of a beautiful and authentic mummy-case to take back to the museum in Killiecrankie, the small town near to his manor house. Accompanied by his guides, Lord Klaknavor went through the somber galleries without being able to fix his choice on a sufficiently luxurious mummy; it was difficult, and the noble lord wanted a mummy of the first rank, in an elegantly-painted case enriched with learned hieroglyphs. Many mummies had been picked out, extracted from the mass and then rejected as unworthy of the situation he was offering to them.

  Passing from gallery to gallery, the Klaknavor clan had arrived in the room where Farandoul lay in his case. Klaknavor hesitated between a young lady of 6800 years and a well-preserved gentleman of 7000. Miss Klaknavor was inclined toward the young lady, but Lady Rosemonde rejected her as having perhaps been a trifle too lax in her morals. Then Klaknavor fell ecstatically upon Farandoul’s case. The latter presented all the requisite qualities: richness of ornamentation, purity of illustration, profusion of hieroglyphs. There was no hesitation! It was heavy, too, and so well-sealed! Its contents were undoubtedly in a perfect state; it would be opened with great ceremony at Killiecrankie.

  Lord Klaknavor made a sign; the Arabs approached, lifted the mummy, and took it back into the daylight with them.

  A week later, the Klaknavor clan embarked with the carefully-packaged mummy on the Sesostris, a French mailboat, which disembarked them all at Marseille. The Klaknavors and their luggage took the express, stayed the night in Paris, took the express again, disembarked in London and set off for Scotland without delay, still with the precious case containing the mummy of an aristocrat of the fourth dynasty.

  The day after their arrival, the Klaknavors sent invitations to the high society of Perthshire—the MacGregors, the MacKinbors, the MacRonalds, etc., etc.—all the scientists of Edinburgh and all the notabilities of the Scottish press.

  The mummy, laid on the large dining-room table, awaited the guests. Beside it were forceps and a silver hammer, which the patrician hands of Lord Klaknavor himself would use to open the box. The room filled up rapidly with the expected high society. The most ardent curiosity was painted on all those noble faces, the gracious ladies thinking that they were about to be confronted with a gentleman of a noble family who was 8000 years old.

  Finally, Lord Klaknavor took hold of his instruments. All the MacGregors and MacKinbors held their breath.

  The Marabout had done a good job; it took half an hour to unfasten the lid and begin unwrapping the mummy.

  A cry of astonishment sprang from the throats of the MacGregors. Lord Klaknavor, his wife and daughter fell back with shock.

  “How well-preserved it is!” the MacGregors and MacKinbors finally cried, with one voice.

  “What fine people these Egyptians were!”

  “What embalmers!”

  “He’s called Phta-Amne-Nophis, son of…” pronounced an Egyptologist who had taken possession of the lid and was reading it slowly.

  “How he resembles…” cried Flora MacKlaknavor.

  “Oh! Flora! How shocking!” observed Lady Rosemonde—but a loud cry emitted by the entire audience froze further observations on Lady Rosemonde’s lips.

  Phta-Amne-Nophis had just sat up abruptly, breathing in deeply. Sitting in his case on the table in Lord Klaknavor’s dining-room, he gazed at the noble audience with the utmost astonishment.

  No one breathed a word. Lady Rosemonde and a certain number of Ladies MacGregor and MacKinbor fainted into one another’s arms. The male MacGregors and MacKinbors only took three steps back.

  It was Ptha-Amne-Nophis—or, rather, Farandoul—who broke the silence. “Oof!” he said. “Your punch, Monsieur Coriolan, was a little too strong! Oof—what a terrible headache…but where are you, Coriolan? But… Why all these bandages? But…but… What the Devil have you… Where the Devil are… What’s the meaning of all this? I don’t know anyone here…ah! There’s Lord Klaknavor! Well, milord, delighted to see you again in Thebes. Especially delighted to see you more comfortably dressed—and milady too! But you’re very numerous. Are you holding a party in evening dress in the ruins of Thebes?”

  “Thebes! Thebes!” cried Lord Klaknavor, suddenly finding his voice. “You’re mad, sir! You’re in Killiecrankie, near Edinburgh, Scotland.”

  “Killie…near Edinburgh?” cried Farandoul, rubbing his head. “But… What about the four queens! Where are the four queens?”

  As the fearful old Egyptologist tried to put the lid back over his head and shut him in the case again, the furious Farandoul threw him backwards, along with his lid, ripped off his bandages and leapt into the midst of the assembly, landing next to a few frightened MacGregors, who released further exclamations.

  Farandoul grabbed Lord Klaknavor by the shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “I helped you out. When I met you out there at the oasis after the locusts, you were deprived of all your clothing. Milady Klaknavor was…”

  “Shocking, shocking,” articulated Lady Rosemonde, feebly, as she fainted again.

  “…was deprived of every item of clothing! And Miss Klaknavor too! I saved you then! I covered you up. I gave you the means to return to the civilized world, if not with elegance, at least without offending decency—for, if not for me, you’d all have been forced to offend decency until you arrived in some town or other! I am, therefore, your benefactor! Well, I demand a rapid clarification from you. Where am I, really?”

  “In Killiecrankie!”

  “And the four queens?”

  “What queens? I only know Her Majesty the…”

  “No, no—the queens of the Makalolos!”

  “No idea.”

  “And Niam-Niam?”

  “No idea.”

  “Then I’m alone here! How did I get here?”

  “In that mummy-case! I bought you, sir, and very dear!”

  “Where? In Thebes?”

  “No, in the caves of Samoun, near Asyut.”

  “In the Egyptian necropolis! But how did I get there when I remember going to sleep in Thebes?”

  “At the end of the day, all that I can tell you, my dear sir, is that, desiring to bring back an authentic mummy in good condition for the museum at Killiecrankie, I concluded my trip to Egypt with a visit to the caves at Samoun. I found myself among thousands of mummies; I discovered your case; you pleased me and I brought you away. I thought I was able to attribute to you an age of 7000 to 9000 years, but I see that you’re much younger!”

  “But how did I get there?”

  “It was only 7000 years ago that you were deposited,” the Egyptologist observed, coming forward. “Don’t you remember, Mr. Ptha-Amne-Nophis?”

  “I’m not talking to you, Monsieur,” roared Farandoul, angrily. Addressing himself to Lord Klaknavor, he went on: “Let’s see—how long have I been in your possession?”

  “Only three weeks.”

  “Only…but what about my four queens!” Suddenly, Farandoul started; an idea had j
ust struck him. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “It’s Coriolan’s doing…it was the punch! Infamy! What time is the train to London, milord?”

  As Lord Klaknavor was in no hurry to reply, Farandoul seized a hat at random, elbowed his way through the audience and ran to a window.

  Five minutes later, a man left Klaknavor Manor, still running, knocked over the doorman and two domestics who barred his way, and headed for Killiecrankie station. He encountered the railway line on the way, just as a train was passing. Farandoul ran on to the line, caught hold of the last wagon, and hauled himself up into the guard’s van.

  Three-quarters of an hour later he was in Edinburgh. As he had no ticket, he had to jump off before the train went into the station and climb over a few barriers.

  The first thing he did in the city was to buy a newspaper. He forgot to pay for it, for two reasons: terrible preoccupation and lack of money. The newspaper’s date informed him that 28 days had passed since the painter Coriolan’s fateful soirée in the ruins of Thebes.

  Horror! The queens abandoned to the mercy of painters! Farandoul felt his hair stand up on his head. And he had no money to travel! Suddenly, his hand, which was rummaging in his pocket mechanically, brought out a small packet. Farandoul opened it hastily. It was the diamond recovered at the oasis!

  The first jeweler he found saw a feverish man enter his shop who offered him a magnificent diamond. The jeweler offered him 1000 pounds, paid up and pocketed the diamond, certain that he would be able to sell it for double that price.

  Farandoul ran to the station with his 25,000 francs in his pocket. The London express was just leaving. He leapt into a compartment and sat down unceremoniously, elbowing a few passengers aside. At the first station he ran to the engine and leapt up next to the stupefied driver. “A hundred pounds if you can gain two hours!” he said.

  “Impossible, sir!”

  “Well, stay here then!” And Farandoul grabbed the driver and threw him out on to the platform. The stoker, who had got down to change a signal-lantern, ran to help his superior, but Farandoul had had thrown himself at the controls furiously. The locomotive, releasing a frightful volley of whistle-blasts, got under way again, leaving the driver and stoker in the station. Cries of terror emerged from all the wagons, but Farandoul had no time to think about that and started shoveling coal recklessly.

  The drain devoured distance at 40 leagues an hour! Fortunately, the telegraph had sent an alarm call all along the track, and the thunderbolt train, finding the way open and free, arrived without incident in London seven hours early. Farandoul stopped the train on the track shortly before entering the city; before anyone dared to launch themselves in pursuit, he had reached the city, jumped into a cab and raced to the Thames.

  There is no need to describe the annoyance of the travelers taken on that vertiginous journey by Farandoul. Two notaries that happened to be on the train collected an infinite number of witness-statements from the bewildered passengers. The most incredible fuss was kicked up in the carriages; they believed that they had been abducted by a madman, but the truth soon came to light. Farandoul had been recognized!

  By whom? In the first place, by our old acquaintance from Australia, the monkey Makako—the one betrayed by love—who, to his great humiliation, was in a second-class compartment with two other domestics from Cardigan Castle. Makako rolled his eyes furiously at the sight of his former leader, but he could not reveal his name to his neighbors. That was left to another of our former acquaintances—the very woman whose fatal beauty had occasioned Makako’s treason—Lady Arabella Cardigan who, returning to London for the season, recognized Farandoul as he kept on to the locomotive! On seeing him, she had no doubt at all that he intended to exact his revenge on her by derailing the train; she closed her eyes and did not open them again until the breathless train stopped just outside London.

  The English newspapers were full of this unprecedented adventure for a week. England, expecting its former enemy to pop up anywhere, did not draw breath until the telegraph signaled Farandoul’s arrival in Alexandria.

  There was a dispute in Killiecrankie. All the MacGregors and MacKinbors reproached Klaknavor for having invited them to be elbowed aside by a false Phta-Amne-Nophis. A terrible war was on the point of breaking out between their clans and that of Lord Klaknavor, but the ladies finally succeeded in having the claymores returned to their sheaths.

  Miss Flora Klaknavor, even redder than usual—a quite natural effect of emotion—threw herself into her mother’s arms, saying: “Oh, dear Mama, I can no longer marry anyone but him! I understood him, in spite of all his reticence. It’s for me that he came!”

  “By the sword of Klaknavor, he shall marry you, my daughter!”

  And that same evening, an express train carried the Klaknavors away, launched in pursuit of Farandoul on the road to Thebes.

  As he passed through Paris, Farandoul took time out to buy two revolvers and run to Coriolan Rigobert’s address. The painter’s studio was closed; he was believed to be still in Egypt. Farandoul headed for the land of the Pharaohs.

  At the French consulate in Cairo, our hero learned, to his joy, that the illustrious painter had not been seen in the city and that, in all probability, he was still to be found in Thebes.

  Without losing a minute, Farandoul bought six dromedaries in a suburb and hired a few Arabs. An hour after leaving the consulate, a large cloud of dust was galloping across the sands in a southerly direction. That cloud was Farandoul and his men, urging their camels on by every means possible.

  VII.

  It took six days to reach Thebes. On the evening of the sixth day the ruins appeared, framing the nascent Moon between two broken columns.

  “Halt!” commanded Farandoul.

  The Arabs and the camels stopped. The master had accustomed them en route to passive obedience.

  “Make camp there, at the entrance to that village, and await my orders. I’m going over there, to Thebes.”

  As he said these words, Farandoul had made his dromedary kneel and he leapt to earth in the midst of a circle of fellahs who had emerged from the miserable hovels of the village.

  Suddenly, an old Arab released a scream of terror and fell down in front of him, head in the dust. “Allah! Allah!” he cried. “Are you a djinn, a spirit? Is it your shade that I see? How have you arisen from the sleep of the dead? How have you quit the somber caves of Samoun, where I buried you myself?”

  “Ah!” cried Farandoul. “It’s you! I recognize you, too—you’re the accomplice of the painter of ruins. Tremble! I have quit the sleep of the dead avid for vengeance!”

  “Mercy! Mercy!” howled the Marabout. “I would not have abandoned you. You are mentioned in my will, and my sons were to deliver you.”

  “Answer me and serve me; I’ll decide then what I ought to do. Now, are the painters still over there?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And the queens?”

  “The young women are there too.”

  “Very good. Now follow me.”

  And the two men walked rapidly toward the ruins. The Marabout had difficulty keeping up with Farandoul; from time to time, he reached out and touched his clothing, as if to see whether he was dealing with an actual living being or some somber spirit of darkness.

  The dark blue curtain of night had completely fallen when they arrived at the ruins. Without pausing to admire the fantastic and colossal silhouettes, the gaps in the colonnades or the somber masses of temples, they glided noiselessly in the direction of a little blinking light in the center of the principal mass.

  It was there that Farandoul had camped five weeks earlier. As he approached it he recognized the tent made with blankets, and the shadows of his friend Désolant and Niam-Niam. Finally, with his heartbeat accelerating terribly, he saw the four queens, by the light of a miserable paper lantern illuminating the whole scene. They were sitting on the ground in an attitude of sadness. Several shadows were standing in front of them. They seeme
d to be arguing animatedly in front of a fire on which a meager dinner was cooking.

  “Go back to the village and fetch my men,” Farandoul whispered to the Marabout. “Hide among the stones and don’t show yourselves until I call.”

  The Marabout disappeared silently. Farandoul approached the group, with his ears pricked.

  It was Désolant who was speaking. “Yes,” he said, “I repeat one more time, Messieurs, that the queens absolutely refuse the dinner that you offer them. They remember only too well that it was after a meal offered by you that the inexplicable disappearance of our unfortunate friend occurred! Your conduct in that circumstance does not appear to them entirely honest, and I must say that I share their suspicions.” Here, Niam-Niam, lying down to the left of the queens, let out a groan. “As does Niam-Niam,” the god Désolant went on. “And the young savage has a good nose! Anyway, we’re staying here in the vague hope of discovering some clue or trace that will inform us as to the fate of our friend—but we refuse to enter more amply into relations with you. Take that as read and stay in your camp.”

  “Damn the chamberlain!” howled one of the painters. “Stay here is you want to, but let the ladies answer our invitation!”

  “Come on, charming crow’s-wing queen,” cried Coriolan himself, addressing Kalunda. “Don’t be so surly—we’re friends and, as you know very well, passionate worshipers! Leave your rather unpleasant guardian here and….”

  Coriolan rounded his arm, but Kalunda suddenly leapt to her feet and prevented him from advancing any further. She caught the light with the blade of her sword and extended its point towards the audacious member of the Institut. “Back, bandit, pirate, vile hippopotamus, or I’ll cut off your head! You’re the traitor, I’m sure of it! Crocodile!”

  The white queens burst out laughing. “Well, Monsieur Coriolan,” said Caroline, “do you need a translation of our friend’s speech? You know that she called you an old crocodile.”