In that coffin—­the last but one of the row on the left—­it is the great Sesostris himself who awaits us.  We know of old that face of ninety years, with its nose hooked like the beak of a falcon; and the gaps between those old man’s teeth; the meagre, birdlike neck, and the hand raised in a gesture of menace.  Twenty years have elapsed since he was brought back to the light, this master of the world.  He was wrapped thousands of times in a marvellous winding-sheet, woven of aloe fibres, finer than the muslin of India, which must have taken years in the making and measured more than 400 yards in length.  The unswathing, done in the presence of the Khedive Tewfik and the great personages of Egypt, lasted two hours, and after the last turn, when the illustrious figure appeared, the emotion amongst the assistants was such that they stampeded like a herd of cattle, and the Pharaoh was overturned.  He has, moreover, given much cause for conversation, this great Sesostris, since his installation in the museum.  Suddenly one day with a brusque gesture, in the presence of the attendants, who fled howling with fear, he raised that hand which is still in the air, and which he has not deigned since to lower.[*] And subsequently there supervened, beginning in the old yellowish-white hair, and then swarming over the whole body, a hatching of cadaveric fauna, which necessitated a complete bath in mercury.  He also has his paper ticket, pasted on the end of his box, and one may read there, written in a careless hand, that name which once caused the whole world to tremble—­“Ramses II. (Sesostris)”!  It need not be said that he has greatly fallen away and blackened even in the fifteen yeas that I have known him.  He is a phantom that is about to disappear; in spite of all the care lavished upon him, a poor phantom about to fall to pieces, to sink into nothingness.  We move our lantern about his hooked nose, the better to decipher, in the play of shadow, his expression, that still remains authoritative. . . .  To think that once the destinies of the world were ruled, without appeal, by the nod of this head, which looks now somewhat narrow, under the dry skin and the horrible whitish hair.  What force of will, of passion and colossal pride must once have dwelt therein!  Not to mention the anxiety, which to us now is scarcely conceivable, but which in his time overmastered all others—­the anxiety, that is to say, of assuring the magnificence and inviolability of sepulture! . . .  And this horrible scarecrow, toothless and senile, lying here in its filthy rags, with the hand raised in an impotent menace, was once the brilliant Sesostris, the master of kings, and by virtue of his strength and beauty the demigod also, whose muscular limbs and deep athletic chest many colossal statues at Memphis, at Thebes, at Luxor, reproduce and try to make eternal. . . .

     [*] This movement is explained by the action of the sun,
     which, falling on the unclothed arm, is supposed to have
     expanded the bone of the elbow.