The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  There was also another man whose mind, in spite of his apparent gaiety, was preoccupied with somewhat disagreeable thoughts; this was Prince Kaido, who was still thinking about the annoying oracle and ardently desirous of seeing the prediction fulfilled, in order that he might be tranquil thereafter.

  It was with a veritable chagrin that Prince Kaido learned, the following morning, that his new commander-in-chief, Fa-ran-doul, had set out in the middle of the night for Fatzouma, with the aim of dispersing the last bands of rebels still campaigning in the environs of that city. The prince did not hesitate, and dispatched one of his officers in a carriage to beg Farandoul not to risk a life that was vital to the good fortune of the province of Miko in this needless fashion.

  A funny country! thought Mandibul, who had no suspicion of the prince’s hidden motives. Yesterday, he wanted to fry us in a pan like simple potatoes, and today he watches over us with maternal solicitude. Strange! But I like this better.

  The mere announcement of the arrival of the general had, of course, sufficed to make the final rebels revert to their allegiance. The province of Miko was entirely pacified. On his return, Farandoul was received with the greatest honor. The prince increased his salary, conferred a few new titles on him, and promoted all his mariners by several ranks in the Japanese hierarchy.

  Farandoul and his men were about to return to their lodgings, after having received the prince’s thanks, when the latter stopped them.

  “Wait, General Fa-ran-doul; I want to give you a confidential mission. Do you know the Temple of the 33,333 spirits in Tocoto?”

  “No,” said the astonished Farandoul.

  “Then you don’t know that, in addition to the statues of the 33,333 spirits and the innumerable ones of the auxiliary gods, the Kwamon, the Bosatz and the Dsizoo, the chapels of Raiden, god of thunder, and the dragon Tatsumaki, that famous temple now offers to the venerations of the faithful an emanation of Buddha himself: a sacred elephant of the most dazzling whiteness!”

  “The white elephant!” cried the interpreter.

  What is he getting at? Farandoul wondered.

  “This is the mission with which I’m entrusting you: my wife Yamida and her 50 maids of honor are going on a pilgrimage to the Temple of the 33,333 spirits. I want you to escort them.”

  Farandoul and the interpreter exchanged glances; Mandibul seemed extraordinarily surprised.

  What an unexpected stroke of luck! thought Farandoul. Yamida and the white elephant!

  “Yes,” the prince continued, with an enigmatic smile. “I’m counting on you.” And Kaido went off at top speed, while Farandoul, still stunned by this double stroke of luck, went to get the princess’s orders.

  After the terrible events that had occurred, Farandoul had many things to say to Yamida; the latter, for her part, seemed to have a few things to confide to him—but as the interpreter was not there, they had to content themselves with the eloquent, but slightly obscure, language of the eyes.

  A mere hour sufficed to prepare for the departure.

  The 50 maids of honor followed the princess in their finest dresses, all as young and charming as her. Fifty open and brilliantly decorated norimons came forward. The ladies arranged themselves gracefully in the palanquins. In response to a signal from Farandoul, the porters lifted up their delicate burdens and departed at a rhythmic pace.

  What a delightful excursion through the charming countryside of Miko! They crossed several rivers by wading or swimming. The sight of the 50 gaudily-painted palanquins floating like enchanted boats over the smooth surfaces of the rivers in the wake of their porters, swimming like fish, was perfectly charming.

  They arrived at dusk at a way-station, a pleasant little village in which they were to spend the night. A large tea-house accommodated the entire caravan. Everything was ready there for the evening meal and the night’s rest. The 50 maids of honor supped by the joyous light of lanterns in the tea-house garden; Yamida ate her meal on an upper terrace, and did not neglect to invite Farandoul to share it with her.

  The terrace occupied by Yamida and Farandoul was delightfully garlanded with flowers and branches. Immense colored windows illuminated them with yellow, red and blue light; at the rear, 12 large vases, veritable monuments, were arranged in front of the balustrades, standing out on a deck bathed with blue light by courtesy of the full Moon.

  After a Franco-Japanese conversation in which both of them were heard without being understood, Farandoul and Yamida came to rest their elbows on the balustrade in order to contemplate the beauty of the marvelous location.

  Whether or not it was an illusion, it seemed to Farandoul that the large vase on which he was leaning trembled when he spoke to Yamida in a passionate tone. Our friend paid no heed to it, however; he took Yamida’s charming hand in his own.

  “Oh, Yamida, Yamida!” he said, in an emotional voice.

  “Oh Fa-ran-doul!” the young woman replied, having learned his name and seemingly taking pleasure in pronouncing its three syllables.

  Farandoul deposited an ardent kiss one the hand that had been surrendered to him.

  “Oh, Fa-ran-doul!” repeated Yamida.

  A frightful noise cut their conversation short. The 12 huge vases had just shattered noisily on the floor of the terrace. Twelve men stood up amid the debris and threw themselves on Farandoul, knocking him down before he could draw a single one of his three swords and burying him beneath their mass.

  “Deceived! I am deceived!” cried the triumphant Prince Kaido. “The oracle is satisfied! Finally, my reign can be fortunate!”

  The fearful Yamida had thrown herself at his feet.

  “Get up, Madame,” said the prince, “and deign to accept my arm as far as your norimon. Be calm, Japan is watching us!”

  The route so joyfully undertaken by day, capering around the princess’s norimon, Farandoul retraced that same night in a sadder situation. Locked up in a narrow and unpadded norimon, he was able to count all the bumps in the road and all the jolts to which the brutal porters, launched at a running pace, submitted his ambulant prison.

  As soon as he arrived at the palace of Miko, Farandoul was extracted from his box, somewhat the worse for wear, and locked in a narrow, dark dungeon in which sad reflections came once more to assail him. What cruel blows of destiny! What sudden changes of fortune! Bah! All hope was not lost. Mandibul and the mariners were free; they would be able to get him out of here.

  Kaido came back exceedingly cheerful, ready to experience the good life at last. His first concern as soon as he had taken off his boots was to summon the council of ministers and the great functionaries of the crown.

  These noble persons came running, slightly surprised by such an urgent summons, wondering whether some new revolt had broken out in the province. The prince’s sprightly attitude reassured them as soon as they came into the council chamber.

  “Noble daimios!” cried the prince, as soon as they were all assembled, “a cruel burden of anxiety has been lifted from your prince. The principality of Miko can henceforth be happy; nothing is any longer opposed to its felicity!”

  “Nothing!” cried the ministers, overcome with emotion.

  “Absolutely nothing! The oracle is fulfilled! The condition imposed by destiny has been met; the prince has sacrificed himself for the welfare of his people!”

  “And the guilty party?” asked the Minister of Justice and Executions, “in a severe tone.”

  “The guilty party is awaiting sentence—but here are the bonzes and the savants I summoned; we shall see whether they too are satisfied.”

  The old doctors of astrology and the learned bonzes were coming into the room. The prince received them with the greatest respect and explained the situation to them in an emotional voice.

  “Praise be to Buddha!” they cried, after having heard him. “The principality of Miko is saved; its prince has been deceived by his wife!”

  VIII.

  In the afternoon of that memorable day, which w
as marked by great rejoicing among the population, informed of Prince Kaido’s sacrifice, Farandoul was extracted from his cell and taken, dragging his chains, before a tribunal composed of the most powerful lords of the principality.

  The procedure did not take long. Kaido exposed the facts and the tribunal decided, with one voice, on the death penalty. The discussion of the kind of torture to inflict on the guilty party lasted much longer. The assembly wanted something solemn and worthy of both the offended prince and the high status of the convicted felon.

  As the conference threatened to go on indefinitely, a minister had an idea. “But we’re exerting ourselves needlessly to find an imposing means of death. Has not the guilty Fa-ran-doul already been sentenced to the torture of boiling fat? We have only to revert to that idea—we won’t find a better one.”

  “Bravo!” cried all the daimios. “It’s perfect; all that remains is to write up the sentence.”

  “Stop!” shouted Kaido, all of a sudden. “Not boiling fat; I forbid it. It shall not be said that, under my reign, a man to whom Japan owes so much—for, let’s not forget, it is to him that our fatherland owes its good fortune—should perish in such an ignominious fashion! Pooh! Boiling fat! No, it’s by the sword that he ought to perish, as a true knight and a courageous warrior! With a firm hand he shall slit his belly, with two crosswise incisions—flick flick!—and that’s that.

  The galvanized judges did not hesitate any longer. The sentence written by a scribe was proudly signed by each of them and read out to the unfortunate Farandoul. As he had not had the time, in so few days, to learn the sweet and beautiful Japanese tongue, our friend did not understand much of the sentence and would have remained in uncertainty for a long time if the obliging Kaido had not explained to him, by means of pantomime and repeated flick flicks, of the dolorous operation he would be called upon to perform on himself.

  The judges and the prince, famished after the long session, were reunited at a banquet. The prince, being in a good mood, invited the condemned man and was insistent on having him at his right hand all evening.

  Farandoul, rather badly nourished in his prison, did not refuse this favor and outdid the most enthusiastic saki-drinkers on the council of ministers. There is no company so good that it cannot end, through; at about 11 p.m., the unfortunate condemned man had to return to his cell. Scarcely had he gone back in than he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to ask the prince what date had been fixed for his execution. It was too late to repair the omission, and he had to remain in uncertainty.

  There was no news of anyone on the following day. No one but the jailer visited the condemned man. The day seemed long to Farandoul. The following morning, however, the Minister of Justice and Executions had the cell opened and came in to read Farandoul a thick wad of papers.

  A mere judiciary formality, our friend thought, unable to understand a single word—but the Minister of Justice, seeing his distracted air, began speaking in more-or-less intelligible French.

  “What luck!” cried Farandoul. “You speak French—you can inform me. When will the little ceremony of the sword take place?”

  “But that’s what I’m here to tell you—it’s this evening.”

  “This evening! Already! I thought I’d have more time.”

  “If it’s inconvenient for you, perhaps we can postpone it for a few days…you can say that you’re indisposed. But that would be annoying, because the populace has been alerted. The…event has to take place in great solemnity, on a private esplanade at the Gate of Nippon. The posters have gone up….”

  “The posters, you say?”

  “Yes, to advertise your passing to the population, for you’ll be led processionally to the esplanade.”

  Good, thought Farandoul. If there are posters, if everyone knows about it, Mandibul knows about it; he must have everything in hand to get me out of the situation—let’s not change his plans! “Well,” he continued, aloud, “since the posters have gone up, I don’t want to spoil the ceremony. I accept your time—until this evening, then, and thank you for your kindness.”

  That day passed more rapidly than the previous one. As dusk fell, Farandoul was taken out of his cell and led into the central courtyard of the palace. A crowd of officials was waiting to salute him. At their head, the Minister of Justice and Executions greeted Farandoul and handed him a red lacquer box one and a half meters long, covered with charming designs.

  “What’s this?” asked Farandoul, astonished.

  “Open it!” replied the Minister of Justice.

  Farandoul undid a few silk ribbons, lifted the lid and stopped, amazed. The box contained a superb sword with a tempered and damascened blade and a splendid, diamond-enriched hilt.

  “This is…the instrument?” our hero asked.

  “This is the fatal instrument. Prince Kaido begs you to accept it in memory of him and to make good use of it—you know, two incisions crosswise, flick! flick! It’s the best method.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Farandoul replied, modestly. “I’d like to be relieved of these uncomfortable chains, though.”

  “I would not grant that favor to a vulgar criminal, but to you I can refuse nothing—your chains will be removed!”

  The entire population of Miko, overexcited by so many emotions in the previous week, filled the streets that the procession was to follow. The women wept openly for the young hero marching to execution; the men, more serious, bowed to the condemned man as he passed by. All eyes were fixed on the sword destined to play such a great role in the final ceremony.

  Farandoul was all eyes and ears; at every street corner he expected to see Mandibul and the matelots hurl themselves on the procession, and prepared himself to make valiant use of the sword of honor provided by the prince—but nothing happened. He did not see anyone or hear any signal—and the fatal esplanade as getting closer.

  A vast quantity of lanterns was visible some distance away, around a brilliantly-illuminated central point. That must be the place reserved for the drama. As if to remove the final doubt, the Minister of Justice turned round just then and pointed out the illuminations with a graceful gesture. “There it is,” he said. “We’ve arrived!”

  They had, indeed, arrived. And Mandibul had not put in an appearance!

  Uh oh! thought Farandoul. Things are going awry.

  A superb podium had been prepared, raised two meters above the ground, flanked by multicolored masts and garnished with numerous lanterns of every color. Fifteen warriors, all armed with naked swords, stood on the podium’s wide stairway. The Minister of Justice seemed surprised by their presence; while the other troops formed a circle around the scaffold and restrained the crowd, the minister approached these warriors and asked them whether the prince had sent them.

  “It was the prince!” replied a voice that made Farandoul shiver, for it strangely resembled that of the Siamese interpreter. He attempted to peer beneath the helmets of the somber warriors, and finally recognized beneath one of them the steadfast eyes of Mandibul. “Ah!” he said, as he went up on to the podium, looking for the least well-guarded side. “The prince’s sword will do its work!”

  A significant clicking of swords informed him that Mandibul and his men were ready.

  Farandoul stopped.

  “The crosswise incision!” the Minister of Justice and Executions called out to him. “Flick! Fli…!”

  He did not finish. An abrupt shove from Mandibul had just precipitated him to the base of the podium—and the mysterious warriors, releasing loud hurrahs, threw themselves on the circle of real soldiers on guard around the scaffold. Farandoul had taken the lead; his sword of honor flashed like lighting and sent the yacounines’ weapons flying into the distance. The circle had broken; a few brave men were still fighting, but a few lunges from the mariners quickly made them see reason.

  Farandoul was saved, for the moment, but it was necessary to flee as quickly as possible, for the guards from the Gate of Nippon, seeing the disorder, were
already running forward, brandishing rifles and spears.

  “Charge!” cried Mandibul. “Let’s get out of here now!”

  Alert as tigers, the mariners set off along a tranquil street, to the great alarm of a few male and female residents. Behind them, the running soldiers of the guard-unit were further reinforced with every passing minute.

  “Bagasse!” cried Tournesol, turning the corner of the street. “It’s a dead end!”

  Fatality! Our friends were crowded together at the rear of the dead end by the number of their pursuers. The mariners had already turned to face the enemy.

  “No, No!” cried Farandoul. “Break through the houses. You know full well that in Japan, the walls are made of cardboard and the partitions of paper—we can get through! Heads down, let’s go!” And with a single sweep of his sword he made a hole in a wall through which they all rushed, heads down.

  The tenants of the house, terrified by this sudden invasion of furious warriors, leapt out of the windows or fainted in corners.

  “Charge!” cried Farandoul, hurling himself through the partition-walls, cleaving the most resistant with his sword and passing from one house to the next with as much ease as a circus rider jumping through paper-covered hoops. Mandibul, the interpreter and the 15 sailors ran behind him, their swords cutting large openings in the partitions and gashes in the intermediate walls. What damage they did! A great deal of repair-work would, alas, have to be undertaken by the landlords of the immovable properties they went through!

  These offences against property made Farandoul’s heart bleed, but he had a legal defense in this instance: the lives of 18 men were in danger! And what breaches of privacy! Sometimes they threw themselves through a shredded wall into the mist of a family meal; the dishes were knocked over, the facing partition wall was caved in, and they fell into a bedroom; sometimes, as they cut through walls with all the discretion of a cannonball, they wound up in a boudoir or a dressing-room, just in time to witness a lady having a little lie-down!