In honour of the Bey this slight building had been rigged out with flags, adorned with rugs and divans; a splendid buffet had been fitted up with sherbets, all ready for his Highness.  Once there and out of the carriage the Nabob tried to dispel the feeling of uneasiness which he, too, had begun to suffer from.  Prefects, generals, deputies, people in dress-coats and uniforms, were standing about on the platform in imposing groups, their faces solemn, their mouths pursed, their bodies swaying and jerking in the knowing way of public functionaries who feel people are looking at them.  And you can imagine how noses were flattened against the windows to see all this hierarchical swelldom.  There was Monpavon, his shirt-front bulging like a whipped egg.  Cardailhac breathlessly giving his last orders, and the honest face of Jansoulet, whose sparkling eyes, set over his fat, sunburnt cheeks, looked like two gold nails in a goffering of Spanish leather.  Suddenly an electric bell rang.  The station-master, in a new uniform, ran down the line:  “Gentlemen, the train is signalled.  It will be here in eight minutes.”  Every one started, and with the same instinctive movement pulled out their watches.  Only six minutes more.  Then in the great silence some one said:  “Look over there!” To the right, on the side from which the train was to come, two great slopes, covered with vines, made a sort of funnel into which the track disappeared as though swallowed up.  Just then all this hollow was as black as ink, darkened by an enormous cloud, a bar of gloom, cutting the blue of the sky perpendicularly, throwing out banks that resembled cliffs of basalt on which the light broke all white like moonshine.  In the solemnity of the deserted track, over the lines of silent rails where one felt that everything was ready for the coming of the prince, it was terrifying to see this aerial crag approaching, throwing its shadow before it, to watch the play of the perspective which gave the cloud a slow, majestic movement, and the shadow the rapidity of a galloping horse.  “What a storm we shall have directly!” was the thought which came to every one, but none had voice to express it, for a strident whistle sounded and the train appeared at the end of the dark funnel.  A real royal train, rapid and short, and decorated with flags.  The smoking, roaring engine carried a large bouquet of roses on its breastplate, like a bridesmaid at some leviathan wedding.

It came out of the funnel at full speed, but slowed down as it approached.  The functionaries grouped themselves, straightened their backs, hitched their swords and eased their collars, while Jansoulet went down the track to meet the train, an obsequious smile on his lips, his back curved ready for the “Salam Alek.”  The train proceeded very slowly.  Jansoulet thought it had stopped, and put his hand on the door of the royal carriage, glittering with gold under the black sky.  But, doubtless, the impetus had been too strong, and the train continued