At the end of its negligible body, the gilded head, with its great foetus eyes, is unforgettable for its suffering ugliness, for its frustrated and ferocious expression.
In the halls into which we next penetrate there are veritable dead bodies ranged on either side of us as we pass; their coffins are displayed in tiers one above the other; the air is heavy with the sickly odour of mummies; and on the ground, curled always like some huge serpent, the leather hoses are in readiness, for here indeed is the danger spot for fire.
And the master of this strange house whispers to me: "This is the place.
Look! There they are." In truth I recognise the place, having often come here in the daytime, like other people.

In spite of the darkness, which commences at some ten paces from us--so small is the circle of light cast by our lantern--I can distinguish the double row of the great royal coffins, open without shame in their glass cases.

And standing against the walls, upright, like so many sentinels, are the coffin lids, fashioned in the shape of the human figure.
We are there at last, admitted at this unseasonable hour into the guest-chamber of kings and queens, for an audience that is private indeed.
And there, first of all, is the woman with the baby, upon whom, without stopping, we throw the light of our lantern.

A woman who died in giving to the world a little dead prince.

Since the old embalmers no one has seen the face of this Queen Makeri.