To infer that my introduction that evening to the beautiful violinist
and her diabolical companion, Monsieur Pharos, produced no effect upon
me, would be as idle as it would misleading. On leaving Medenham House I
was conscious of a variety of sensations, among which attraction for the
woman, repugnance for the man, and curiosity as to the history and
relationship of both could be most easily distinguished. What was
perhaps still more perplexing, considering the small, but none the less
genuine, antagonism that existed between us, by the time I reached my
own abode I had lost my first intense hatred for the man, and was
beginning to look forward, with a degree of interest which a few hours
before would have surprised me, to that next meeting which he had
prophesied would so soon come to pass. Lightly as I proposed to myself
to treat it, his extraordinary individuality must have taken a greater
hold upon me than I imagined, for, as in the afternoon, I soon
discovered that, try to divert my thoughts from it how I would, I could
not dispel his sinister image from my mind. Every detail of the
evening's entertainment was vividly photographed upon my brain, and
without even the formality of shutting my eyes, I could see the crowded
room, the beautiful violinist standing, instrument in hand, beside the
piano, and in the chair at her feet her strange companion, huddled up
beneath his rug.
By the time I reached home it was considerably past midnight; I was not,
however, the least tired, so, exchanging my dress coat for an old velvet
painting jacket, for which I entertained a lasting affection, I lit a
cigar and began to promenade the room. It had been a fancy of mine when
I first took the studio, which, you must understand, was of more than
the usual size, to have it decorated in the Egyptian fashion, and, after
my meeting with Pharos, this seemed to have a singular appropriateness.
It was as if the quaint images of the gods, which decorated the walls,
were watching me with almost human interest, and even the gilded
countenance upon the mummy-case, in the alcove at the farther end, wore
an expression I had never noticed on it before. It might have been
saying: "Ah, my nineteenth century friend, your father stole me from the
land of my birth, and from the resting-place the gods decreed for me;
but beware, for retribution is pursuing you and is even now close upon
your heels."
Cigar in hand, I stopped in my walk and looked at it, thinking as I did
so of the country from which it had hailed, and of the changes that had
taken place in the world during the time it had lain in its Theban tomb,
whence it had emerged in the middle of the nineteenth century, with
colouring as fresh, and detail as perfect, as on the day when the
hieroglyphs had first left the artist's hand. It was an unusually fine
specimen--one of the most perfect, indeed, of its kind ever brought to
England, and, under the influence of the interest it now inspired in me,
I went to an ancient cabinet on the other side of the room, and, opening
a small drawer, took from it a bulky pocketbook, once the property of my
father. He it was, as I have already said, who had discovered the mummy
in question, and it was from him, at his death, in company with many
other Egyptian treasures, that I received it.
As I turned the yellow, time-stained pages in search of the information
I wanted, the clock of St. Jude's, in the street behind, struck one,
solemnly and deliberately, as though it were conscious of the part it
played in the passage of time into eternity. To my surprise the
reference was more difficult to find than I had anticipated. Entries
there were in hundreds; records of distances travelled, of measurements
taken, evidence as to the supposed whereabouts of tombs, translations of
hieroglyphics, paintings, and inscriptions, memoranda of amounts paid to
Arab sheiks, details of stores and equipments, but for some time no
trace of the information for which I was searching. At last, however, it
struck me to look in the pocket contained in the cover of the book. My
diligence was immediately rewarded, for there, carefully folded and
hidden away, was the small square of parchment upon which my father had
written the name once borne by the dead man, with a complete translation
of the record upon the _cartonnage_ itself. According to the statement
here set forth, the coffin contained the mortal remains of a certain
Ptahmes, Chief of the King's Magicians--an individual who flourished
during the reign of Menptah (Amenepthes of the Greeks, but better known
to the nineteenth century as the Pharaoh of the Exodus). For all I knew
to the contrary, my silent property might have been one of that band of
conjurors who pitted their wits against Moses, and by so doing had
caused Pharaoh's heart to be hardened so that he would not let the
Children go. Once more I stood looking at the stolid representation of a
face before me, guessing at the history of the man within, and wondering
whether his success in life had equalled his ambition, or was
commensurate with his merits, and whether in that age, so long since
dead, his heart had ever been thrilled by thoughts of love.
While wrapped in this brown study, my ears, which on that particular
occasion were for some reason abnormally acute, detected the sound of a
soft footfall on the polished boards at the farther end of the room. I
wheeled sharply round, and a moment later almost fell back against the
mummy-case under the influence of my surprise. (How he had got there I
could not tell, for I was certain I had locked the door behind me when I
entered the house.) It is sufficient, however, that, standing before me,
scarcely a dozen feet away, breathing heavily as though he had been
running, and with what struck me as a frightened look in his eyes, was
no less a person than Monsieur Pharos, the man I had met at the foot of
Cleopatra's Needle some weeks before, at the Academy that afternoon, and
at Medenham House only a couple of hours since. Upward of a minute must
have elapsed before I could find sufficient voice to inquire the reason
of his presence in my room.
"My dear Mr. Forrester," he said in a conciliatory tone, "while offering
you ten thousand apologies for my intrusion, I must explain that it is
quite by accident I am here. On reaching home this evening I pined for a
breath of fresh air. Accordingly I went for a stroll, lost my way, and
eventually found myself in this street, where, seeing an open door, I
took the liberty of entering for the purpose of inquiring the way to my
hotel. It was not until you turned round that I realised my good fortune
in having chanced upon a friend. It is plain, however, that my presence
is not as welcome as I could have desired."
From the way he spoke I gathered that for some purpose of his own he
had taken, or was pretending to take, offence at my reception of him.
Knowing, therefore, that if I desired to see anything further of his
beautiful companion, an idea which I will confess had more than once
occurred to me, I must exert myself to conciliate him, I hastened to
apologise for the welcome I had given him, explaining that any momentary
hesitation I might have shown was due more to my surprise than to any
intended discourtesy toward himself.
"In that case let us agree to say no more about it," he answered
politely, but with the same expression of cunning upon his face to which
I have referred elsewhere. "You were quite within your rights. I should
have remembered that in England an impromptu visit at one in the
morning, on the part of an acquaintance of a few hours' standing, is
scarcely likely to be well received."
"If you will carry your memory back a few weeks," I said, as I wheeled a
chair up for him, "you will remember that our acquaintance is not of
such a recent date."
"I am rejoiced to hear it," he replied, with a sharp glance at me as he
seated himself. "Nevertheless, I must confess that I fail for the moment
to remember where I had the pleasure of meeting you on that occasion. It
is not a complimentary admission, I will admit; but, as you know, age is
proverbially forgetful, and my memory is far from being what it once
was."
Could the man be pretending, or had the incident really escaped his
memory? It was just possible, of course, that on that occasion my face
had failed to impress itself upon his recollection; but after the hard
things I had said to him on that memorable occasion, I had to confess
it seemed unlikely. Then the remembrance of the drowning man's piteous
cry for help, and the other's demoniacal conduct on the steps returned
to me, and I resolved to show no mercy.
"The occasion to which I refer, Monsieur Pharos," I said, standing
opposite him and speaking with a sternness that in the light of all that
has transpired since seems almost ludicrous, "was an evening toward the
end of March--a cold, wet night when you stood upon the steps below
Cleopatra's Needle, and not only refused help to, but, in a most inhuman
fashion, laughed at, a drowning man."
I half expected that he would offer a vehement denial, or would at least
put forward the plea of forgetfulness. To my surprise, however, he did
neither.
"I remember the incident perfectly," he answered, with the utmost
composure. "At the same time, I assure you, you wrong me when you
declare I laughed--on my word, you do! Let us suppose, however, that I
_did_ do so; and where is the harm? The man desired death; his own
action confessed it, otherwise how came he there? It was proved at the
inquest that he had repeatedly declared himself weary of life. He was
starving; he was without hope. Had he lived over that night, death,
under any circumstances, would only have been a matter of a few days
with him. Would you therefore have had me, knowing all this, prolong
such an existence? In the name of that humanity to which you referred
just now, I ask you the question. You say I laughed. Would you have had
me weep?"
"A specious argument," I replied; "but I own to you frankly I consider
the incident a detestable one."
"There I will meet you most willingly," he continued. "From your point
of view it certainly _was_. From mine--well, as I said just now, I
confess I view it differently. However, I give you my assurance, your
pity is undeserved. The man was a contemptible scoundrel in every way.
He came of respectable stock, was reared under the happiest auspices.
Had he chosen he might have risen to anything in his own rank of life;
but he would not choose. At fifteen he robbed his father's till to
indulge in debauchery, and had broken his parents' hearts before he was
five-and-twenty. He married a girl as good as he was bad, and as a
result starved not only himself but his wife and children. Though
employment was repeatedly offered him, he refused it, not from any
inability to work, but from sheer distaste of labour. He had not
sufficient wit, courage, or energy to become a criminal; but throughout
his life, wherever he went, and upon all with whom he came in contact,
he brought misery and disgrace. Eventually he reached the end of his
tether, and was cast off by every one. The result you know."
The fluency and gusto with which he related these sordid details amazed
me. I inquired how, since by his own confession he had been such a short
time in London, he had become cognisant of the man's history. He
hesitated before replying.
"Have I not told you once before to-night," he said, "that there are
very few things in this world which are hidden from my knowledge? Were
it necessary, I could tell you circumstances in your own life that you
flatter yourself are known to no one but yourself. But do not let us
talk of such things now. When I entered the room you were reading a
paper. You hold it in your hand at this moment."
"It is a translation of the inscription upon the mummy-case over
yonder," I replied, with an eagerness to change the subject that
provoked a smile in Pharos. "At his death many of his Egyptian treasures
came into my possession, this among them. For some reason or another I
had never read the translation until to-night. I suppose it must have
been my meeting with you that put the idea into my head."
"I am interested in such matters, as you know. May I, therefore, be
permitted to look at it?"
With a parade of indifference that I could easily see was assumed,
Pharos had extended his withered old hand and taken it from me before I
realised what he was doing. Having obtained it, he leaned back in his
chair, and stared at the paper as if he could not remove his eyes from
it. For some moments not a word passed his lips. Then, muttering
something to himself in a language I did not recognise, he sprang to his
feet. The quickness of the action was so different from his usual
enfeebled movements that I did not fail to notice it.
"The mummy?" he cried. "Show me the mummy!"
Before I could answer or comply with his request, he had discovered it
for himself, had crossed to it and was devouring it with his eyes.
Upward of three minutes must have elapsed before he turned to me again.
When he did so, I scarcely recognised the man. So distorted was his
countenance that I instinctively recoiled from him in horror.
"Thy father, was it, wretched man," he cried, shaking his skeleton fist
at me, while his body trembled like a leaf in the whirlwind of his
passion, "who stole this body from its resting-place? Thy father, was
it, who broke the seals the gods had placed upon the tombs of those who
were their servants? If that be so, then may the punishment decreed
against the sin of sacrilege be visited upon thee and thine for
evermore!" Then, turning to the mummy, he continued, as if partly to it
and partly to himself: "Oh, mighty Egypt! hast thou fallen so far from
thy high estate that even the bodies of thy kings and priests may no
longer rest within their tombs, but are ravished from thee to be gaped
at in alien lands? But, by Osiris, a time of punishment is coming. It is
decreed, and none shall stay the sword!"
If I had been surprised at the excitement he had shown on reading the
paper, it was nothing to the astonishment I felt now. For the first time
since I had known him, a suspicion of his sanity crossed my mind, and my
first inclination was to draw away from him. Then the fit, as I deemed
it, passed, and his expression changed completely. He uttered a queer
little laugh, that might have been one of shame or annoyance.
"Once more I must crave your forgiveness, Mr. Forrester," he said, as he
sank exhausted into a chair. "Believe me, I had not the least intention
of offending you. Your father was, I know, an ardent Egyptologist, one
of that intrepid band who penetrated to every corner of our sacred land,
digging, delving, and bringing to light such tombs, temples, and
monuments as have for centuries lain hidden from the sight of man. For
my own part, as you may have gathered from my tirade just now, my
sympathies do not lie in that direction. I am one who reverences the
past, and would fain have others do so."
"At the same time, I scarcely see that that justifies such language
toward myself as you used a few moments since," I replied, with a fair
amount of warmth, which I think it will be conceded I had every right to
feel.
"It does not justify it in the least," he answered, with ready
condescension. "The only way I can hope to do so is on the plea of the
exuberance of my emotion. My dear Mr. Forrester, I beg you will not
misunderstand me. I would not quarrel with you for the wealth of
England. Though you are not aware of it, there is a bond between us that
is stronger than chains of steel. You are required for a certain work,
and for that reason alone I dare not offend you or excite your anger,
even if I otherwise desired to do so. In this matter I am not my own
master."
"A bond between us, Monsieur Pharos? A work for which I am required? I
am afraid I do not understand what you mean."
"And it is not in my power to enlighten you. Remain assured of this,
however, when the time is ripe you will be informed."
As he said this the same light that I have described before came into
his eyes, causing them to shine with an unnatural brilliance. To use a
fishing simile, it made me think of the gleam that comes into the eyes
of a hungry pike as he darts toward his helpless prey. Taken in
conjunction with the extraordinary language he had used toward me, I
felt more than ever convinced of his insanity. The thought was by no
means a cheerful one. Here I was, alone with a dangerous lunatic, in the
middle of the night, and not a soul within call. How I was to rid myself
of him I could not see. Under the circumstances, therefore, I knew that
I must humour him until I could hit upon a scheme. I accordingly tried
to frame a conciliatory speech, but before I could do so he had turned
to me again.
"Your thoughts are easily read," he began, with a repetition of that
queer little laugh which I have described before; and as he uttered it
he leaned a little closer to me till I was sick and faint with the mere
horror of his presence. "You think me mad, and it will require more
than my assurance to make you believe that I am not. How slight is your
knowledge of me! But there, let us put that aside for to-night. There is
something of much greater importance to be arranged between us. In the
first place, it is necessary both for your sake--your safety, if you
like--and for mine, that yonder mummy should pass into my possession."
"Impossible!" I answered. "I could not dream of such a thing! It was one
of my poor father's greatest treasures, and for that reason alone no
consideration would induce me to part with it. Besides, despite your
assertion that it is for our mutual safety, I can not see by what right
you ask such a favour of me."
"If you only knew how important it is," he repeated, "that that
particular mummy should become my property, you would not know a single
minute's peace until you had seen the last of it. You may not believe me
when I say that I have been searching for it without intermission for
nearly fifteen years, and it was only yesterday I learned you were the
owner of it. And yet it is the truth."
If I had not had sufficient proof already, here was enough to convince
me of his madness. By his own confession, until that evening he had had
no notion of my identity, much less of the things I possessed. How,
therefore, could he have become aware that I was the owner of the
remains of Ptahmes, the King's magician? Under the influence of the
momentary irritation caused by his persistence my intention of humouring
him quite slipped my memory, and I answered sharply that it was no use
his bothering me further about the matter, as I had made up my mind and
was not to be moved from it.
He took my refusal with apparent coolness; but the light which still
lingered in his eyes warned me, before it was too late, not to rely too
much upon this. I knew that in his heart he was raging against me, and
that any moment might see his passion taking active shape.
"You must excuse my saying so, Monsieur Pharos," I said, rising from my
chair and moving toward the door, "but I think it would perhaps be
better for both of us to terminate this most unpleasant interview. It is
getting late and I am tired. With your permission, I will open the door
for you."
Seeing that I was determined he should go, and realising, I suppose,
that it was no use his staying longer, he also rose, and a more
evil-looking figure than he presented as he did so Victor Hugo himself
could scarcely have imagined. The light of the quaint old Venetian
hanging-lamp in the middle of the room fell full and fair upon his face,
showing me the deep-set gleaming eyes, the wrinkled, nut-cracker face,
and the extraordinary development of shoulder to which I have already
directed attention. Old man as he was, a braver man than myself might
have been excused had he declined the task of tackling him, and I had
the additional spur of knowing that if he got the better of me he would
show no mercy. For this reason alone I watched his every movement.
"Come, come, my foolish young friend," he said at length, "in spite of
my warning, here we are at a deadlock again! You really must not take
things so seriously. Had I had any idea that you were so determined not
to let me have the thing, I would not have dreamed of asking for it. It
was for your own good as well as mine that I did so. Now, since you
desire to turn me out, I will not force my presence upon you. But let us
part friends."
As he said this he advanced toward me with extended hand, leaning
heavily upon his stick, according to his custom, and to all intents and
purposes as pathetic an example of senile decrepitude as a man could
wish to see. If he were going off like this, I flattered myself I was
escaping from my horrible predicament in an easier manner than I had
expected. Nevertheless, I was fully determined, if I could but once get
him on the other side of the street door, no earthly consideration
should induce me ever to admit him to my dwelling again. His hand was
deathly cold--so cold, in fact, that even in my excitement I could not
help noticing it. I had scarcely done so, however, before a tremor ran
through his figure and, with a guttural noise that could scarcely be
described as a cry, he dropped my hand and sprang forward at my throat.
If I live to be a hundred I shall not forget the absolute, the
unspeakable, the indescribable terror of that moment. Till then I had
never regarded myself in the light of a coward; on the contrary, I had
on several occasions had good reason to congratulate myself upon what is
popularly termed my "nerve." Now, however, it was all different.
Possibly the feeling of repulsion, I might almost say of fear, I had
hitherto entertained for him had something to do with it. It may have
been the mesmeric power, which I afterward had good reason to know he
possessed, that did it. At any rate, from the moment he pounced upon me
I found myself incapable of resistance. It was as if all my will power
were being slowly extracted from me by the mere contact of those
skeleton fingers which, when they had once touched my flesh, seemed to
lose their icy coldness and to burn like red-hot iron. In a dim and
misty fashion, somewhat as one sees people in a fog, I was conscious of
the devilish ferocity of the countenance that was looking into mine.
Then a strange feeling of numbness took possession of me, an entire lack
of interest in everything, even in life itself. Gradually and easily I
sank into the chair behind me, the room swam before my eyes, an intense
craving for sleep overcame me, and little by little, still without any
attempt at resistance, my head fell back and I lost consciousness.