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But we must leave Ephrinell gathering up the odontological treasures of the forty-second case. The bell is ringing for the last time. All the passengers are aboard. The Astara is casting off her warps. Suddenly there are shouts from the quay. I recognize them as being in German, the same as I had heard at Tiflis when the train was starting for Baku. It is the same man.
"There is no road from Astará," said Z , "and deep rivers to cross. You will be robbed and murdered like the Italian who travelled this way three years ago! He was the last European to do so." Gerôme remembers the incident. In fact, he says, the murdered man was a friend of his, travelling to Teherán with a large sum of money.
One thing is certain, and that is that it is not yet daylight when I awake. I rub my eyes, I rise, I go and lean against the rail. The Astara is not so lively, for the wind has shifted to the northeast. The night is cold. I warm myself by walking about briskly for half an hour. I think no more of my wild beast. Suddenly remembrance returns to me.
The coast is quickly reached eastward or westward, and harbors of refuge are not numerous on either the Asiatic or the European side. There are a hundred passengers on board the Astara a large number of them Caucasians trading with Turkestan, and who will be with us all the way to the eastern provinces of the Celestial Empire.
The case slips from his shoulders, falls luckily over the rail of the Astara breaks in two, and a quantity of little packets of paper scatter their contents on the deck. What a shout of indignation did Ephrinell raise! What a whack with his fist did he administer to the unfortunate porter as he repeated in a voice of despair: "My teeth, my poor teeth!"
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