The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  The painters consulted one another. Their fatal love had played havoc with their faces. For five weeks the same scenes had been re-enacted every day and all their attempts to get closer to the queens had been futile.

  “Come on, one more time,” the tenacious Coriolan resumed. “Charming white queens and delightful black majesties, you have no friends more devoted, more affectionate, more…believe me! And since your Farandoul, by some inexplicable misfortune that I deplore as much as you do, has disappeared forever, accept our arms and our…”

  Coriolan did not finish. A shadow had just loomed up in the midst of the stones. “Good evening, Monsieur Coriolan,” said the shadow, calmly, coming to stand in front of the painter. “Do you recognize me?”

  “Farandoul!” cried the painters and the queens with one voice. “Farandoul!”

  And within a second, our hero was surrounded, embraced, clasped in his friends’ arms. Niam-Niam leapt up, howling with joy; Désolant shook him by the hand; the white queens and the black queens recounted their anguish in tearful voices.

  As for the painters, they seemed stunned. Coriolan rubbed his eyes; the others tore out handfuls of hair. “Take the trouble to sit down, Messieurs,” Farandoul said to them, “we need to have a chat. I haven’t yet been able to thank you for the delicious punch you served the other day, my dear Monsieur Coriolan—as you know, circumstances beyond my control have prevented me from doing so, but I shall try to express my gratitude for your charming hospitality….”

  Farandoul’s experienced ears had perceived slight sounds in the ruins; it was doubtless the Marabout bringing the Arabs. A whistle-blast brought them abruptly into the encampment.

  The painters had stood up.

  “My conversation seems to be boring these gentlemen…tie them up!” said Farandoul, with an authoritative gesture.

  The Arabs raced forward. Before the painters could react, they were lying in the sand with their wrists and feet bound.

  “It’s done, lord,” said the Marabout, bowing to Farandoul. “Shall we cut off their heads?”

  “We’ll see,” said Farandoul, negligently. “Now that we’re assured of their company, we have plenty of time.”

  And without paying any more attention to the painters, Farandoul turned to his friends, who were overwhelming him with questions. We shall pass silently over their transports of joy, their outbursts of gaiety and their flashes of anger. The painters maintained a sullen silence. At the end of the soirée, deliberation was opened as to what punishment to inflict on them. Farandoul, having hastened from Scotland with a terrible thirst for vengeance, was considerably mollified by finding his queens in good health and saved from the snare. He therefore rejected Niam-Niam’s proposal that the painters should be thrown into the Nile, and adopted an alternative.

  The remainder of the might was devoted to rest. The painters could not close their yes, though, tortured by the reproaches of their conscience and the hardness of the pebbles on which they were lying.

  When day broke, Farandoul’s dromedaries were brought to the tent. The Arabs then began strange preparations under Farandoul’s direction. With the aid of a large ladder they had fabricated, they climbed to the top of an intact column whose capital was 12 meters above a mass of debris originating from a collapsed entablature. On the capital, they erected a sort of makeshift block-and-tackle and awaited Farandoul’s orders.

  The painters had gone pale watching these preparations; doubtless they were to be hanged.

  “The honor is yours, Monsieur Coriolan.”

  The Arabs had passed a thick rope around his body and had already dragged him to the column. Within a minute he was lifted up swinging in the air and received at the top of the capital by an Arab who cut his bonds and put his painter’s parasol into his hands. The other painters had shut their eyes in order not to see his torture. One of them reopened his eyes on feeling himself lifted up by the Arabs. It was his turn!

  Soon, Coriolan’s three pupils, crestfallen and embarrassed, were placed on the capitals of three other columns, divested of their shackles and furnished with their parasols.

  The clear and sonorous laughter of the queens at the sight of their faces opened painful wounds in the painters’ hearts.

  Farandoul came forward, hat in hand, and raised his head toward the unfortunates.

  “Messieurs,” he said, “we’re leaving. I hope that won’t annoy you too much; you may take it for granted that these ladies and I will conserve an excellent memory of our relations. One simple piece of advice before leaving you: if, by chance, you grow bored in your new aerial existence, take out your sketch-pads—I presume you have them on you—and make a sketch of Simon Stylites from nature! No one has ever been better placed than you to do justice to such a subject! Until I have the pleasure of seeing you again, Messieurs!”

  Farandoul’s servants had already gathered up all the luggage; the kneeling dromedaries were only waiting for the travelers. Two of the dromedaries, prepared for the queens, were each equipped with a magnificent attatouch,75 or palanquin in the form of an awning of cotton cloth decorated with red and white stripes, terminating in a long stem, at the top of which a plume of ostrich-feathers was swaying.

  The caravan was finally about to leave the inhospitable ruins of Thebes when the noise of several galloping horses resounded on the stones and brought about a further delay in the departure.

  Farandoul went forward to greet the newcomers. He was greatly astonished to see the strange caravan. Three Europeans, two of whom were women, accompanied by two female Arab servants, came to a halt in front of him—and these Europeans were none other than Duncan MacKlaknavor, his wife Rosemonde and his daughter Flora, all three of them as red as ever.

  “So you’ve come back to Egypt,” Farandoul was about to say—but milord did not give him time.

  “Sir,” he said, “should a gentleman, after having compromised a young woman of high birth, remove himself and disappear, as you have done? The MacKlaknavors have keen claymores, sir, and we have said: he will marry her, or…”

  “Compromised? Marry? Who?” asked Farandoul, amazed.

  “You know very well—for you can’t deny it; it’s all too clear; she’s compromised! Let’s take things from the beginning. Two months ago, you met us in a sorry situation; your gentlemanly heart was moved, you got us out of a sticky situation. All well and good, so far. But then, doubtless powerfully moved by her beauty, carried away by your passion, you arranged to enter more profoundly into relations with us. As there had not been any sort of introduction, you resorted to a stratagem…”

  “Bah!”

  “Yes, the caves of Samoun—that was cleverly planned. In that fashion you almost became part of the family; you entered the home of the Klaknavors! We took you in without any suspicion, we brought together our friends, and crack! At the very moment when she found herself irredeemably compromised, by your fault, you changed your mind and you fled! And what about her, the poor child? Did you think of her?”

  “But who is this her?”

  “Who? Miss Flora, of course—the last of the Klaknavors—who is expecting reparation!”

  Farandoul’s anger exploded at this speech. “What! Worthy MacKlaknavor, can you possibly imagine that I was waiting for you at Samoun, in my mummy-case, to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  “Don’t deny it—it’s the truth! After your inexplicable departure from Klaknavor Castle, we took the train—my wife, my daughter and myself—we picked up your trail in Paris, then at Marseille; we almost caught up with you in Cairo, and finally, thanks to the speed of the yacht of one of our friends who had just come down the Nile, we have rejoined you here!”

  “Well, milord, think whatever you like about me, but the charm of your company cannot retain me any longer in Thebes. Stay here as long as you like; as for me, I’m leaving.”

  “What about our reparation? We’ll follow you. Is it necessary to draw the Klaknavor claymore, Flora?”

&nbs
p; “Not yet, Papa! Follow him!”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” cried Farandoul, furiously. “Well, we shall see.” And the Arabs ranged around him received an order that they greeted with bursts of laughter.

  Within a minute, without any respect for the Klaknavors, they were lifted from their saddles and dragged to the colonnade on which the painters were already perched. It took three-quarters of an hour to hoist the family up on three columns of the same height, facing the painters.

  Five minutes later, the caravan quit the ruins of Thebes of the Hundred Gates for the last time. Farandoul had left a few Arabs and the Marabout behind, with orders to get the painters and the Klaknavors down from their uncomfortable perches at mid-day.

  The Marabout, full of respect for Farandoul, wondered what he ought to do. “I had the intention,” he said to himself, “of leaving the master in the caves of Samoun for 30 years; that was wrong, so I must make reparation. Should I let his enemies stay on their columns for 30 years? That would be very advantageous; it would save us the bother of getting them down, and he’d be better avenged. But no—his power is great and he’d know…I’ll carry out his orders.”

  Farandoul and his queens were galloping in the direction of Cairo, giving no further thought to their enemies. Happy to be reunited, thinking themselves safe from any new peril, they were traveling placidly, even spending a few days of idleness beneath the palm-trees of oases.

  Farandoul was now thinking about Mandibul and his sailors, launched on his search into the African wilderness. Where were they? What were they doing? He had had no news of them since his unexpected encounter with the rhinoceros-letter. While he waited for some clue, Farandoul decided not to leave Africa and to stay in Cairo.

  Meanwhile, the Klaknavors and the painters, brought down from their columns at the agreed hour, immediately headed for Cairo aboard milord’s friend’s yacht. The hope of a fine vengeance caused them to accelerate the little vessel’s progress. On their arrival in Cairo, a complaint was made at the British embassy. The city was turned upside down by the English ambassador, who demanded full satisfaction, and requisitioned armed forces to keep watch on all arrivals. The Klaknavor claymore quivered in its scabbard, although the timid Flora was still hoping to come to an arrangement.

  Finally, one fine morning, the watchmen signaled the long-awaited arrival of the Farandoul caravan.

  The unsuspecting travelers were advancing placidly; the queens, leaning out of their palanquin, were admiring the panorama of Cairo spread out before them, with its domes and its hundreds of minarets bathing in the pure gold of a magnificent Sun.

  Niam-Niam ran ahead, executing a frenetic fantasy on his zebra; the white queens—who, you will remember, had once lived in Cairo—were pointing out the principal landmarks to the wonderstruck black queens.

  Farandoul, wanting to put off until the next day the search for suitable lodgings for the queens, decided to camp outside the walls, under the palm trees surrounding the magnificent mosque of Ibrahim. On his orders, without paying any heed to a few Arnautes76 of rascally appearance who seemed to be watching them from a distance, the members of the caravan dismounted in the shadow of the palms, and the Arab servants prepared the tents.

  The delightful hour of kif beneath the palm-trees!77 Our friends relaxed, some savoring the delights of a cup of pure mocha, others drowsing. Farandoul was thinking about Mandibul when Niam-Niam suddenly came into the tent, fearfully.

  “Master, Master!” he cried. “It’s them again!”

  Farandoul was jerked out of his reverie and ran outside. A horde of Arnautes, with ferocious expressions, long moustaches and tall hats garnished with frayed tassels and sequins, were running toward the tent with swords in their hands. Behind them, Farandoul saw Lord Klaknavor giving orders, accompanied by an Egyptian officer.

  There was no means of escape; there were more than 300 men between the caravan members and their dromedaries; Farandoul saw that in an eye-blink. “To the mosque,” he shouted to his companions, “or we’re done for!”

  They all raced into the courtyard of the mosque. The Arnautes were so close behind them that they could not close the door. Farandoul, revolver in hand, held the assailants at bay for a minute, and eventually succeeded in getting the queens into the minaret of the mosque. The Arnautes could not restrain themselves any longer, and rifles were fired in Farandoul’s direction.

  Seven or eight shots rang out, but the solid door of the minaret was closed and the besieged group reinforced it with everything they could find. As the furious Arnautes tried to break it down, Farandoul and Désolant made the queens climb up to the summit of the minaret and combined their efforts to demolish the foot of the staircase. An hour of hard work—during which Niam-Niam, installed at a window, exchanged fire with the Arnautes—sufficed for our friends to make part of the stairway collapse. Soon, the entire ground floor was strewn with debris and the door, thus barricaded, was able to withstand all the efforts of the besiegers.

  “Let’s climb up now,” said Farandoul. “We’re safe, for the moment.”

  Having reached the summit of the minaret, they found the queens occupied in arranging everything to sustain a siege with honor. Stones were ready to be hurled down on the heads of the enemy; the munitions were in a safe place, as were the provisions—for the forward-thinking Niam-Niam had saved all the food they had from the disaster. He had even succeeded in stealing a sack of rice that probably belonged to the mosque’s muezzin, which he had hoisted up on to the highest balcony.

  On seeing all this, Farandoul could not help smiling.

  “No need for so many preparations,” he said. “Do you think we can stand off the entire Egyptian army? No, we have to find some way of getting out of this mess.”

  The fiery red Sun was setting behind an accumulation of violet clouds, with bloody reflections. The heat was stifling and the gathering darkness was bringing about an increase in warmth rather than a cooling; the very breeze was burning, its ardent breath raising eddies of sand in the distance.

  “A storm’s gathering,” murmured Farandoul. “So much the better! Perhaps we’ll be able to take advantage of it to escape. Let’s stay alert!”

  Three hours have gone by. A profound darkness envelops the mosque, not permitting the refugees to make out anything happening beneath them. Farandoul leaves his friends on the balcony and goes down to the final landing to watch the surroundings through a window. The storm has arrived; the thunder is rolling incessantly, scarcely leaving an interval between consecutive explosions.

  Had the Arnautes gone away or are they on watch around the mosque? Farandoul takes advantage of every flash of lightning to look out as far as he can, but nothing suspicious appears. What should they do? Should they risk an escape? Should they wait longer? Finally, he makes up his mind, instructs his friends to remain as calm as possible, and takes them down with him. A few sheets torn into long strips serves to make a rope with which they can get down from the narrow window.

  The four queens, Farandoul, Niam-Niam and Désolant prepare to flee; the storm is rumbling more violently than ever; the atmosphere is charged with electricity; the gusts of a furious and scorching wind are making the minaret tremble on its foundations.

  Suddenly, a shadow interposes itself between the little window and the sky, hectically furrowed with bluish streaks of lightning. It is a dull and slender shadow; the hellish furnace illuminated by the lightning is blotted out and no one can see anything any longer…they are about to risk everything.

  Farandoul clambers out of the window; another series of fulgurant lightning-flashes bursts forth and the shadow reappears momentarily. Farandoul throws himself backwards; it is a ladder. Leaning out, he has seen more of them raised up alongside. The Arnautes are there, silent but active. They are counting on climbing up, unnoticed, to a beautiful gallery opening a little higher up and taking the besieged group by surprise.

  “Quickly—to the gallery!” cries Farandoul, climbing back up p
recipitately.

  They are just in time; the Arnautes are already coming over the delicately-sculpted balustrades.

  The thunder rumbles on without a second’s respite; it is now no more than a single detonation prolonged to infinity, in the midst of which the flashes of lightning have no more effect than the striking of a match.

  The air is stifling and oppressive. The wind is whistling and howling as if it were opposed by an unknown force.

  The Arnautes invading the balcony have driven back the besieged group. Farandoul and his companions beat a retreat and climb backwards up the stairway. Suddenly, it seems that the minaret, which has been shaking more than ever for some minutes, is subjected to a more terrible shock. A frightful cracking sound is heard…

  The minaret tilts. Farandoul and the queens, caught on the stairway, are bowled over. A terrible scream emerges from their throats. The minaret crumbles, and they all expect to be crushed in its fall….

  But the fall goes on and on…

  What can it mean? The minaret has quit the vertical position; it is now horizontal, but no impact has occurred! Each of the refugees is conscious of this extraordinary fact. They have been falling for five minutes, but have not hit the ground!

  All of them, beginning to get up, are still awaiting the impact that has not occurred. Farandoul finally rises to his feet and, moving cautiously, goes to a window…

  An exclamation escapes him. He leaps backwards. What has he seen? Nothing but the most intense darkness and—at an already-frightful distance—the Earth, disappearing in the distance!

  The minaret, torn away by some unknown commotion, has been carried away into the clouds by some unknown force. Farandoul wants to hide the situation from his friends, but they, frightened by his expression, have gone to the window and are watching with horror as the Earth draws away from them, as red now as a gigantic Moon.

  They are all standing up straight, bewildered. Farandoul remains silent and collects his thoughts. The Earth has evidently experienced some dreadful catastrophe, perhaps an encounter with an errant star or a comet, some lost child of sidereal space. The savant Désolant has the same idea, and the idea is soon confirmed by the sight of a third heavenly body traveling through the clouds in a direction opposite to that of the Earth.