Pharaoh's Wife Page 18

“And here’s your wife,” added Shakespeare. “As a resemblance, it could be better—but it’s her, all the same.” He bowed respectfully. “Your humble servant, Milady.”

  “Alas, my poor Diana!” stammered the Duke, tearfully. “You remember her, Will—she was a woman of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy, and now she causes me an unimaginable horror. And to think that here are those lips that I’ve kissed, this lovely body that I’ve...”

  “Sacrilege!” clamored a thunderous voice, which vibrated like a gong in the cage of stone. “Sacrilege! What are you doing here?”

  The two profaners turned round. On the threshold of the tomb, two specters were looking at them: the Pharaoh and his wife were barring their way.

  The Duke, terrified, dropped the headlamp, which broke and went out. A double burst of laughter vibrated in the gloom.

  Bewildered, the two drunks groped their way through the darkness. Shakespeare bumped in to the lids thrown on to the floor, and fell; his head slammed into the wall and he lost consciousness.

  “William!” called the Duke, in a tremulous voice. “Answer me, William! Where are you?”

  Deathly silence.

  Rutland raised his hands to his forehead, which was bursting. His drunkenness had dissipated under the shock of fear, as if by enchantment, and he thought he was going mad. It suddenly seemed to him that a blue light had invaded the room, and an acrid odor seized his throat.

  He launched himself in the direction that appeared to him to be that of the door, cannoned into the sarcophagus of the Pharaoh’s wife on the way, and, not finding anything to grab on to, stumbled and fell into the coffin, smashing the mummy as he fell.

  A fine dust rose up, covering him with impalpable ash. That was the last straw! He moaned feebly and lost consciousness, while Shakespeare, recovering from his own faint, sang, unthinkingly:

  “If the dead are crazy, I’m alive and crazy…if the dead are drunk...”

  XXII. Explanations

  This, quite simply, is what had happened: Diana and Ormus had picked up the two lids covering the mummies and had hidden behind them to either side of the door. They had thus witnessed the burlesque entrance of the two friends, and their reflections. Things might have taken an embarrassing turn for the Duchess if the Mage had not interrupted them with his thunderous invective: “Sacrilege! Sacrilege!”

  On seeing the two painted lids standing in front of the door, the drunkards had been deluded, and in his fright, the Duke had dropped the lantern, which had broken. Throwing down the two lids, Diana and Fodor had fled, leaving the intruders to recover from their confusion as best they could.

  One of the lids had fallen on top of the lantern, covering the debris; the wick, not quite extinct, had ignited the spilled gasoline and set fire to the extremely dry lid—hence the blue light that had frightened the Duke so much and the suffocating odor that had invaded the little mortuary chamber.

  The lid continued to burn—slowly and flamelessly, fortunately for the two victims of their untimely curiosity. The airflow drew the smoke into the corridor and from the corridor to the world outside, beneath the impassive stars.

  XXIII. Lovers, Prehistoric and Modern

  Laughing like lunatics and lovers, Ormus and Diana went back to Adsum. They found him at the bottom of the shaft, and their laughter resumed, more heartily.

  “The sight of your mummies, your Doubles, has put you in a merry mood, my children. I confess, to my shame, that the great silence reigning here carried me off into sleep. When I woke up, I found myself in darkness; I was groping around for my lantern and getting ready to go back up.”

  “Then you haven’t seen anyone in the hypogeum?”

  “No. Has someone come in while I was asleep?”

  “Yes—and you’ll laugh like us when you know who. Let’s get out first.”

  When all three of them were outside, the old savant said: “Push back the stone that seals the shaft.”

  “Oh no!” said Diana, swiftly. “They’ve been punished enough. We can’t do that.”

  And in a few words, they explained to the old mage what had happened in the tomb—not all of it, however; merely the final act.

  “Strictly speaking,” Ormus concluded, “we might get the Duke back up, if he hasn’t gone mad. As for Shakespeare, we’d need reinforcements for that obesity. Stay here, Father—we’ll go look for Ahmed and the chauffeur, and we’ll come back.

  Like two schoolchildren on vacation, the two lovers drew away.

  Adsum watched them go, pensively...

  XXIV. The King Amuses Himself

  They found their automobile where they had left it, but its guardians had disappeared.

  “Where are they?” said the Duchess. “This isn’t the kind of place to go for a stroll, though.”

  A burst of high-pitched laughter resounded in the vehicle.

  “That’s too much!” cried Diana. “They’re inside with a woman, making mock of us.”

  Ormus seized the handle brutally and opened the door. What he saw nailed him to the spot.

  There was an agitation inside, and then a man leapt lightly on to the sand. He made a slight gesture of surprise on recognizing the Duchess of Rutland.

  “Truly, Madame, I’m favored by the gods. By what fortunate hazard do I have the joy of meeting you again?”

  The Duchess and the Mage had immediately recognized the sovereign of the two Egypts.

  “I see, Sire, that after having given you passage in my dahabieh, you’re now honoring my motor-caravan with your presence.”

  “While out walking with a friend, I took the liberty, in the absence of the owners, of taking a look at its interior decoration.”

  “Sire, a king in his kingdom is at home everywhere.”

  The king bowed gallantly. During this conversation, young Marcelle had readjusted her clothing. She showed her pretty face in the doorway.

  “Come out, Mademoiselle, so that I can introduce you to our hostess.” He turned to the Duchess. “Marcelle Peticha, the blondest star of the Parisian theaters.”

  “I’ve had the pleasure of applauding Mademoiselle, and I hope she will retain a pleasant memory of my hospitality.”

  The delightful peroxide blonde judged it her duty to enter into conversation with the Duchess. “On a Cook excursion, with my friend the Duke of Rutland...” In response to the signals that the king was making, she stopped short, nonplussed.

  Softly, Diana said to Ormus: “Cuckolded twice on the same day, then? That’s a record!”

  As if to provide a salutary diversion, Ahmed and the chauffeur suddenly appeared.

  “Well,” said the Duchess, “where have you been? Is this how you guard my vehicle?”

  The Reïs started to explain, but the Duchess cut him off: “No need! Will you excuse me, Sire?”

  The king moved away, chatting to Antal Fodor.

  “Let’s hurry, then,” said Ahmed, after having listened to Diana’s explanations. The two unfortunates might have died of fright. There’s a rope in the trunk; I’ll bring it along. In the meantime, try to get rid of the King.”

  “My car is over there,” His Majesty said to Ormus. “I’m on a prospecting expedition with two of my engineers…that seems to surprise you. You don’t suppose that I’ve come here to dig up my ancestors, as my good friends the English are doing? No, Egypt possesses a subsoil as rich in naphtha as in archeological relics. I’m a living and practical Pharaoh. If, one day, I feel the steps of my throne cracking, I’ll seek refuge in Paris; it’s necessary not to arrive there with empty pockets.”

  Antal Fodor, the occultist arriviste, thought him the antithesis of the Pharaohs who represented ancient Egypt, feeling no repulsion at the idea of becoming an oil-merchant. And to whom was he recounting his project? To one of those millenarian Pharaohs, alive!

  The monarch consulted his wristwatch. “Time’s passing too quickly. May I say goodbye to the Duchess of Rutland?” He advanced toward her and kissed her hand. Then he pointed to the
Cook Agency encampment, whose tent could be seen from far away, luminously white in the moonlight.

  “I need to take Mademoiselle back.”

  The actress was wearing a ring on her finger, set with a magnificent emerald carved into the form of a scarab—perhaps a souvenir.

  In an unceremoniously comradely fashion, the King held his hand out to Ormus, who bowed to him.

  XXV. The Resurrection

  A few minutes later, Diana, Adsum, Ormus, Ahmed and the chauffeur were standing beside the opening of the tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amun. While the three rescuers went down, the Duchess told the Father about the royal incident.

  Scarcely were Ormus and his two companions in the long narrow corridor leading to the mortuary chamber than an odor of smoke caught them in the throat. As it was tolerable, though, they went on. At the far end they saw Shakespeare, who was snoring, his head resting on a granite statue of Thoth that had been knocked over in the chaos.

  “He’s snoring, so he’s not dead, just drunk,” said Ahmed. “Let’s hope that the other’s in the same fortunate condition.”

  There was no one in the funerary chamber, however, where the charred lid was quietly finishing its consumption. The chauffeur lifted his lantern above the sarcophagus. The Pharaoh in the golden mask was still smiling enigmatically. In the other sarcophagus, the collapsed Duke was no longer showing any sign of life. Ormus and Ahmed lifted Rutland out, and the Mage applied his ear anxiously to the unconscious man’s breast.

  “Good—there’s still time,” he said to the two men, standing up. He took a small pen-knife from his pocket and opened a vein in the left arm. At first the blood ran black and thick, and then more brightly.

  “He’ll pull through,” the Mage continued. “The man’s drunk, and fear caused him to suffer a cerebral congestion. It’s serious. We need to get him out of here in a hurry.”

  The two men carried Rutland while Ormus lit their path. When they reached the shaft Ahmed attached the body to his back and, taking hold of the rope, completed the climb in two minutes. Up above, Diana and Adsum detached the sick man, and while they took care of him, the Reïs let himself down again.

  When he got back to Shakespeare he shook him rudely.

  “Damn!” groaned the drunk. “I’m dead and buried, leave me alone—or give me something to drink. It’s devilishly hot in this sub-branch of Hell.”

  Swiveling his eyes around him, he recognized Ormus.

  “What! The sorcerer’s here? Henchman of the Devil, have you come on your master’s behalf to look for old Will? That’s all right—I’ll go with you. But give me a drink first.”

  “If you want a drink, Master Will, you’ll have to get out of here first, and back into the daylight. Your friend Rutland’s waiting for you.”

  Shakespeare rubbed his head energetically. “Alas, poor Yorick! This pillow is terribly hard. So George is waiting for me. What are we doing today?”

  “Look where you are, Master Will, and try to remember.”

  The fat man followed this advice, while Ormus paraded the light of the headlamp around. Vaguely, he remembered, but in his confused mind, the events had no more value for him than a dream. On seeing the place where he was, he thought that he really was dreaming, and lay down again, passing his hands over his forehead as if to drive away the evil images.

  “What a nightmare! It’s stupid, stupid!”

  “Come on, get up,” said Ormus, “or I’ll leave you in the tomb.”

  The word “tomb” made the drunkard sit up. “What? It’s not a dream, then—it’s serious.”

  “Very serious. It’s dangerous for you to stay here any longer. Come quickly!”

  “If the hour of danger has come, then it isn’t still to come. There’s a Providence predestined for the death of a sparrow. Why shouldn’t there be one for the death of William Shakespeare?”

  Bustled somewhat by Ahmed and the chauffeur, the drunkard succeeded in standing up, but he continued to follow his train of thought. “And don’t go thinking that I’m drunk.”

  The two men grabbed him by the arms and dragged him away. While lighting the way, Ormus lent a hand in shivering the obstinate drunk, who continued his monologue.

  “Truly, is a little champagne sufficient to celebrate the glory that our most transcendent exploits merit? Drunkenness, in spite of itself, topples the edifice of reason, is the leaven of the most praiseworthy qualities.”

  Carried, pulled and pushed, William arrived as best he could at the bottom of the shaft. Strong as Ahmed was, he could not think of carrying the fat man up on his back. A rope was looped under his arms; then the three men climbed up. Bracing themselves with the rope, they tried to hoist their cumbersome burden up.

  Feeling himself lifted from the ground, William started howling: “Aiee! Aiee! Are you trying to cut me in two?”

  But the three men renounced their rescue attempt and let the fat man fall back.

  “He isn’t helping us at all,” said the Reïs. “We’ll never get him up with the rope. What can we do?” After a pause, he shouted: “Hey—use the ladder, Mr. Shakespeare. We’ll support you.”

  “Me. climb up that thread? You’re mad—completely crazy. Leave me be and send me down a few bottles to keep me company. Send my Juliet, too, we’ll sing like caged birds. Thus, we’ll spend our lives, singing and telling old tales, laughing, in the gilded blue land that haunts the brain of Romeo…no, rum without water...”

  “He’s completely out of his mind,” said the Reïs. “I can only see one way of getting him out of here. Bring the auto, tie the rope to it, and set it going. The poet will come up very gently.”

  “Let’s try,” said Ormus.

  It was, however, impossible to get the vehicle to the orifice of the shaft. They pulled out the ladder and ted it to the end of the rope.

  During these preparations, the bee in Shakespeare’s bonnet had turned another somersault. From the bottom of his hole, he howled: “Furious winds! Blow to burst your cheeks! Cataracts and hurricanes, disgorge yourselves and drown these imbecile pyramids! Sulfurous lightning, as rapid as thoughts, harbinger of the thunderbolt that cleaves oaks, come to me! And you, exterminating thunder! Aiee! Aiee! It’s death!”

  Abruptly tugged by the auto, set in motion, the rope lifted him up, not at all gently, and Shakespeare spun as he rose rapidly.

  “Stop!” cried Ahmed, as the terrified head of the package arrived at the rim.

  The poor fellow was no more than a lamentable wreck, incapable of attempting a movement. Once he was in the light he opened an eye.

  “Since I’ve been a man,” he said, “I can’t remember having lived through such a night...”

  “And here’s the dawn,” said Adsum. “My children, it’s necessary to hurry if we don’t want anyone to discover your Doubles’ true sepulcher.”

  All putting themselves to the task, they replaced the stone over the orifice of the shaft and erased the traces of their passage. In the meantime, the Duchess lavished cares upon he Duke, who was breathing more easily but was still unconscious.

  Rapidly refreshed by the pure air, William said: “Finally, Milady, I find you again in the flesh, and in beauty. I prefer that.”

  “What do you mean, Master Will? It ought to be me who’s astonished to meet you in Egypt, more in the flesh than ever.”

  The parasite with rich eyes but poor hands mastered his wonderstruck face.

  “Am I or am I not? That’s the question that I’m asking. Your presence proves that I am. Never have I had so much joy in contemplating your lovely face, Milady. I was struggling between dream and reality, and George wasn’t there to prove to me that it wasn’t a dream.”

  “Why has your friend pursued me all the way here? He shouldn’t have done that.”

  Duchess, my homonym said; ‘That woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool!’27 Patience—life is short!”

  “William, I know your a
ffection for the Duke. Watch over him when he recovers his senses. He needs care. I know you won’t fail him. And you, Reïs, stay with these gentlemen. Take the invalid to my hotel in Abydos in my personal motor-caravan. Lie him down in my bed. I give you full confidence, Ahmed, and full credit.”

  For his part, Shakespeare made no reply. He had bowed his head as a sign of assent. He gazed at his friend, and two heavy tears—the only ones he had ever shed—rolled down his cheeks.

  XXVI. The Dawn of Love

  The night, so fecund in events, had come to an end. Over the Arabian mountains, the sun rose resplendently and its rays caressed the Nile, reduced at that time of the year to the breadth of its bed; it would not be for another month that the first rush of benevolent waves would reach Thebes. Thanks to the barrage, the river remains navigable all year round, and the river-dwellers await without impatience the flood whose regularly-distributed waters fecundate the whole of Egypt.

  The rise of the day star had a grandiose aspect. The air of Egypt, admirable in its purity and almost completely devoid of water vapor, does not filter the light as in Europe; it as an abrupt and radiant eruption of the sun above the horizon; Horus, as soon as he is risen, shines with a glittering glare, a cascade of fire that surges from the mountains, pouring over the Delta and inundating the sands of the Libyan desert, the limpid waves of which climb into the sky in the distance.

  It as in the full light of dawn, therefore, the dazzle of the young morning, that the Duchess’s automobile retraced the route it had followed the previous evening in the moonlight. The roadster hired to replace the motor-caravan that was carrying the Duke of Rutland, Shakespeare and the Reïs to Abydos, had four seats. Adsum was next to the driver; Diana and Ormus were installed in the rear.

  The lovers abandoned themselves to the charm of that glorious morning, full of azure, sunlight and delight for them. The Duchess was like a beautiful rose displaying all the splendor of its bloom; her eyes were shining with a voluptuous gleam, her lips were redder and her complexion more animated. As for Ormus, his triumphant youth had got the upper hand over the austere reserve of the Mage, and he was no longer anything but a victorious lover.