In the meanwhile night came on, and soon the kettle-drums of justice were heard in the town. The prince asked what this noise meant.

‘It is,’ said the old woman, ‘to inform the people that someone is about to be executed, and the unfortunate wretch who is going to be immo­lated is the prince I told you of, who must to-night lose his life for having answered the princess’s questions badly. It is the custom to punish the guilty during the day; but this is a particular case. The king in his heart detests the punishment meted out to his daughter’s suitors, and he does not wish the sun to be the witness of so cruel an action.’

The son of Timurtasch desired to see this execution, the cause of which seemed very singular to him: he left his hostess’s house, and, encountering in the street a large crowd of Chinese animated by the same curiosity, he mingled with them and arrived in the courtyard of the palace where so tragic a scene was to take place.

He saw erected in the middle a very high tower of wood, the outside of which from the top to the bottom was covered with branches of cypress, among which were a large quantity of lamps very well arranged, which spread such a strong light that all the courtyard was lit up by them. Fifteen paces from the tower was raised a scaffold all covered with white satin, and around which were ranged several pavilions of taffetas of the same colour. Behind these tents two thousand soldiers of the guard of Altoun-Khan, with naked swords and axes in their hands, formed a double hedge, which served as a barrier to the people. Calaf was looking attentively at everything, when all of a sudden the sad cere­mony, the preparations for which were seen, began by a confused sound of drums and bells from the top of the tower, which were heard afar off; at the same time twenty mandarins, and as many legal men, all clad in long robes of white wool, came out of the palace, advanced towards the scaffold, and, after having walked three times round it, went to seat themselves under the pavilions.

Then appeared the victim, adorned with flowers entwined with cypress leaves, with a blue scarf on his head, and not a red scarf like the criminals whom justice has condemned. He was a young prince hardly eighteen years of age: he was accompanied by a mandarin who held him by the hand, and was followed by the executioner. They all three mounted the scaffold; the sound of the drums and bells immediately ceased.

The mandarin then addressed the prince, in a tone of voice loud enough for half the people to hear. ‘Prince,’ he said to him, ‘is it not true that the tenour of the edict was made known to you as soon as you presented yourself to ask the princess in marriage? Is it not also true that the king made every effort to deter you from your bold resolution?’

The prince replied, ‘Yes.’

‘Recognise, then,’ continued the mandarin, ‘that it is your fault if you lose your life to-day, and that the king and the princess are not guilty of your death.’

‘I pardon it them,’ replied the prince. ‘I impute it to myself only, and I pray Heaven never to call them to account for the blood which is going to be spilled.’

He had hardly finished these words than the executioner cut off his head with one stroke of the sword. The air immediately resounded anew with the sound of the bells and the noise of the drums. Twelve mandarins came to take the body; they enclosed it in a coffin of ivory and ebony, and put it in a small litter which six of them carried on their shoulders into the garden of the palace, under a dome of white marble, which the king had had built expressly to be the place of sepulture of all the unfortunate princes who were to share the same fate. He often went to weep over the tomb of those who were there, and he endeavoured by honouring their ashes, to expiate in a measure the barbarity of his daughter.

As soon as the mandarins had borne off the prince who had just perished, the people and the legal men returned home, blaming the king for having been imprudent enough to consecrate his daughter’s fury by an oath which he could not violate. Calaf remained in the courtyard of the palace, filled with a thousand perplexing thoughts. He saw near him a man who was in tears; he judged him to be someone who was interested in the execution which had just taken place, and hoping to know more about it, he spoke to him. ‘I am touched,’ he said, ‘at the keen grief you display, and I sympathise with your trouble, for I do not doubt but you have known well the prince who has just died.’

‘Ah! my lord,’ replied the afflicted man, whose tears redoubled, ‘I ought to have known him well, since I was his tutor. O unhappy King of Samarcand!’ he added, how great will be your grief when you know the strange death of your son: and what man will dare bring you the news of it?’

Calaf asked how the Prince of Samarcand had become amorous of the Princess of China.

‘I will tell you,’ said the tutor, ‘and you will doubtless be astonished at the story I am going to relate. The Prince of Samarcand,’ he continued, ‘lived happily at his father’s court; the courtiers, looking upon him as a prince who must one day be their sovereign, did not study less to please him than the king himself. He generally spent the day in hunting or throwing the sledge-hammer, and at night he introduced secretly into his apartment the noble youth of the court, with whom he drank all sorts of beverages. He also took pleasure some­times in seeing beautiful slaves dance and in listen­ing to voices and instruments. In a word, his life was a round of pleasure.

‘Meanwhile, there arrived a famous painter at Samarcand, with several portraits of princesses which he had painted in the different courts he had visited. He came to show them to the prince, who said in looking at the first which he showed him: “These are very fine paintings; I am per­suaded that the originals of these portraits are under much obligation to you.”

‘“My lord,” replied the painter, “I admit that these portraits are a little flattered, but I may tell you that I have at the same time one still more beautiful than these, and which, nevertheless, does not approach the original.”

‘Thus speaking he drew from a small case in which were his portraits, that of the Princess of China. Hardly had my master got it in his hands than, not being able to imagine that nature was capable of producing so perfect a beauty, he cried that there was in all the world no woman so charming and that the portrait of the Princess of China must be still more flattered than the others. The painter protested that it was not so, and assured him that no brush could ever render the grace and charm that there was in the face of the Princess Tourandot. Thus assured, my master bought the portrait, which made such an impres­sion on him that, forsaking one day his father’s court, he left Samarcand accompanied only by me; and without telling me his intention he took the road to China and arrived in this town. He proposed serving Altoun-Khan for some time against his enemies, and then to ask his daughter in marriage; but on arriving we learnt the rigour of the edict, and what is most strange is, that my prince, instead of being keenly afflicted by this news, was rejoiced at it.

‘“I am going,” he said, “to present myself to reply to the questions of Tourandot. I am not wanting in intelligence. I shall obtain this princess.”

‘There is no need to tell you the rest, my lord,’ continued the tutor sobbing; ‘you may judge by the sad spectacle which you have just seen that the deplorable Prince of Samarcand was not able to reply, as he hoped, to the fatal questions of this barbaric beauty, who delights in shedding blood and who has already cost the life of several sons of kings. He gave me just now the portrait of this cruel princess when he saw that he must prepare to die. “I entrust to you,” he said, “this rare painting. Take good care of this precious trust; you have only to show it to my father when informing him of my fate, and I do not doubt that on seeing so charming a picture, he will pardon me my temerity.” But,’ added the tutor, ‘let who will go and bear to the king his father such sad news; for myself, absorbed in my grief, I shall go far from here and Samarcand to bemoan one so dear. That is what you wished to know; and here is this dangerous portrait,’ he pursued, taking it from under his robe, and throwing it on the ground with indig­nation; ‘here is the cause of my prince’s misfor­tune. Oh, detestable painting! Why had not my master my eyes when you fell into his hands? Oh, inhuman princess! may all the princes of the earth have for you the sentiments which you inspire in me! Instead of being the object of their love, you would inspire them with horror.’

At these words the tutor of the Prince of Samarcand retired full of anger, casting a furious glance at the palace, and without further speech with the Prince of Timurtasch, who promptly picked up the portrait of Tourandot, and, wish­ing to retire to the old woman’s house, got lost in the darkness and insensibly found himself outside the town. He impatiently awaited the daylight in order to contemplate the beauty of the Princess of China. As soon as it dawned, and he could satisfy his curiosity, he opened the box which contained the portrait.