Chapter 26

"Pekin!" shouted Popof. "All change here."

And Caterna replied with truly Parisian unction:

"I believe you, my boy!"

And we all changed.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. For people fatigued with three
hundred and twelve hours of traveling, it was no time for running about
the town--what do I say?--the four towns inclosed one within the other.
Besides, I had plenty of time. I was going to stop some weeks in this
capital.

The important thing was to find a hotel in which one could live
passably. From information received I was led to believe that the hotel
of _Ten Thousand Dreams_, near the railway station, might be
sufficiently in accord with Western notions.

As to Mademoiselle Klork, I will postpone my visit till to-morrow. I
will call on her before the box arrives, and even then I shall be too
soon, for I shall take her the news of Kinko's death.

Major Noltitz will remain in the same hotel as I do. I have not to bid
him farewell, nor have I to part with the Caternas, who are going to
stay a fortnight before starting for Shanghai. As to Pan-Chao and Dr.
Tio-King, a carriage is waiting to take them to the yamen in which the
young Chinaman's family live. But we shall see each other again.
Friends do not separate at a simple good-by, and the grip of the hand I
gave him as he left the car will not be the last.

Mr. and Mrs. Ephrinell lose no time in leaving the station on business,
which obliges them to find a hotel in the commercial quarter of the
Chinese town. But they do not leave without receiving my compliments.
Major Noltitz and I go up to this amiable couple, and the conventional
politenesses are reciprocally exchanged.

"At last," said I to Ephrinell, "the forty-two packages of Strong,
Bulbul & Co. have come into port. But it is a wonder the explosion of
our engine did not smash your artificial teeth."

"Just so," said the American, "my teeth had a narrow escape. What
adventures they have had since we left Tiflis? Decidedly this journey
has been less monotonous than I expected."

"And," added the major, "you were married on the way--unless I am
mistaken!"

"Wait a bit!" replied the Yankee in a peculiar tone. "Excuse me; we are
in a hurry."

"We will not keep you, Mr. Ephrinell," I replied, "and to Mrs.
Ephrinell and yourself allow us to say au revoir!"

"Au revoir!" replied the Americanized lady, rather more dryly at her
arrival than at her departure.

Then, turning, she said:

"I have no time to wait, Mr. Ephrinell."

"Nor have I, Mrs. Ephrinell," replied the Yankee.

Mr.! Mrs.! And not so long ago they were calling each other Fulk and
Horatia.

And then, without taking each other's arm, they walked out of the
station. I believe he turned to the right and she to the left; but that
is their affair.

There remains my No. 8, Sir Francis Trevellyan, the silent personage,
who has not said a word all through the piece--I mean all through the
journey. I wanted to hear his voice, if it was only for one second.

Eh! If I am not mistaken, here is the opportunity at last.

There is the phlegmatic gentleman contemptuously looking up and down
the cars. He has just taken a cigar from his yellow morocco case, but
when he looks at his match-box he finds it empty.

My cigar--a particularly good one--is alight, and I am smoking it with
the blessed satisfaction of one who enjoys it, and regretting that
there is not a man in all China who has its equal.

Sir Francis Trevellyan has seen the light burning at the end of my
cigar, and he comes towards me.

I think he is going to ask me for a light. He stretches out his hand,
and I present him with my cigar.

He takes it between his thumb and forefinger, knocks off the white ash,
lights up, and then, if I had not heard him ask for a light, I at least
expected him to say, "Thank you, sir!"

Not at all! Sir Francis Trevellyan takes a few puffs at his own cigar,
and then nonchalantly throws mine on to the platform. And then without
even a bow, he walks leisurely off out of the railway station.

Did you say nothing? No, I remained astounded. He gave me neither a
word nor a gesture. I was completely dumfounded at this ultra-Britannic
rudeness, while Major Noltitz could not restrain a loud outburst of
laughter.

Ah! If I should see this gentleman again. But never did I see again Sir
Francis Trevellyan of Trevellyan Hall, Trevellyanshire.

Half an hour afterwards we are installed at the Hotel of _Ten Thousand
Dreams_. There we are served with a dinner in Chinese style. The repast
being over--towards the second watch--we lay ourselves on beds that are
too narrow in rooms with little comfort, and sleep not the sleep of the
just, but the sleep of the exhausted--and that is just as good.

I did not wake before ten o'clock, and I might have slept all the
morning if the thought had not occurred to me that I had a duty to
fulfil. And what a duty! To call in the Avenue Cha Coua before the
delivery of the unhappy case to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork.

I arise. Ah! If Kinko had not succumbed, I should have returned to the
railway station--I should have assisted, as I had promised, in the
unloading of the precious package. I would have watched it on to the
cart, and I would have accompanied it to the Avenue Cha Coua, I would
even have helped in carrying him up to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork! And
what a double explosion of joy there would have been when Kinko jumped
through the panel to fall into the arms of the fair Roumanian!

But no! When the box arrives it will be empty--empty as a heart from
which all the blood has escaped.

I leave the Hotel of _Ten Thousand Dreams_ about eleven o'clock, I call
one of those Chinese carriages, which look like palanquins on wheels, I
give the address of Mademoiselle Klork, and I am on the way.

You know, that among the eighteen provinces of China Petchili occupies
the most northerly position. Formed of nine departments, it has for its
capital Pekin, otherwise known as Chim-Kin-Fo, an appellation which
means a "town of the first order, obedient to Heaven."

I do not know if this town is really obedient to Heaven, but it is
obedient to the laws of rectilineal geometry. There are four towns,
square or rectangular, one within the other. The Chinese town, which
contains the Tartar town, which contains the yellow town, or Houng
Tching, which contains the Red Town, or Tsen-Kai-Tching, that is to
say, "the forbidden town." And within this symmetrical circuit of six
leagues there are more than two millions of those inhabitants, Tartars
or Chinese, who are called the Germans of the East, without mentioning
several thousands of Mongols and Tibetans. That there is much bustle in
the streets, I can see by the obstacles my vehicle encounters at every
step, itinerating peddlers, carts heavily laden, mandarins and their
noisy following. I say nothing of those abominable wandering dogs, half
jackals, half wolves, hairless and mangy, with deceitful eyes,
threatening jaws, and having no other food than the filthy rubbish
which foreigners detest. Fortunately I am not on foot, and I have no
business in the Red Town, admittance to which is denied, nor in the
yellow town nor even in the Tartar town.

The Chinese town forms, a rectangular parallelogram, divided north and
south by the Grand Avenue leading from the Houn Ting gate to the Tien
gate, and crossed east and west by the Avenue Cha-Coua, which runs from
the gate of that name to the Cpuan-Tsa gate. With this indication
nothing could be easier than to find the dwelling of Mademoiselle Zinca
Klork, but nothing more difficult to reach, considering the block in
the roads in this outer ring.

A little before twelve I arrived at my destination. My vehicle had
stopped before a house of modest appearance, occupied by artisans as
lodgings, and as the signboard said more particularly by strangers.

It was on the first floor, the window of which opened on to the avenue,
that the young Roumanian lived, and where, having learned her trade as
a milliner in Paris, she was engaged in it at Pekin.

I go up to the first floor. I read the name of Madame Zinca Klork on a
door. I knock. The door is opened.

I am in the presence of a young lady who is perfectly charming, as
Kinko said. She is a blonde of from twenty-two to twenty-three years
old, with the black eyes of the Roumanian type, an agreeable figure, a
pleasant, smiling face. In fact, has she not been informed that the
Grand Transasiatic train has been in the station ever since last
evening, in spite of the circumstances of the journey, and is she not
awaiting her betrothed from one moment to another?

And I, with a word, am about to extinguish this joy. I am to wither
that smile.

Mademoiselle Klork is evidently much surprised at seeing a stranger in
her doorway. As she has lived several years in France, she does not
hesitate to recognize me as a Frenchman, and asks to what she is
indebted for my visit.

I must take care of my words, for I may kill her, poor child.

"Mademoiselle Zinca--" I say.

"You know my name?" she exclaims.

"Yes, mademoiselle. I arrived yesterday by the Grand Transasiatic."

The girl turned pale; her eyes became troubled. It was evident that she
feared something. Had Kinko been found in his box? Had the fraud been
discovered? Was he arrested? Was he in prison?

I hastened to add:

"Mademoiselle Zinca--certain circumstances have brought to my
knowledge--the journey of a young Roumanian--"

"Kinko--my poor Kinko--they have found him?" she asks in a trembling
voice.

"No--no--" say I, hesitating. "No one knows--except myself. I often
visited him in the luggage-van at night; we were companions, friends. I
took him a few provisions--"

"Oh! thank you, sir!" says the lady, taking me by the hands. "With a
Frenchman Kinko was sure of not being betrayed, and even of receiving
help! Thank you, thank you!"

I am more than ever afraid of the mission on which I have come.

"And no one suspected the presence of my dear Kinko?" she asks.

"No one."

"What would you have had us do, sir? We are not rich. Kinko was without
money over there at Tiflis, and I had not enough to send him his fare.
But he is here at last. He will get work, for he is a good workman, and
as soon as we can we will pay the company--"

"Yes; I know, I know."

"And then we are going to get married, monsieur. He loves me so much,
and I love him. We met one another in Paris. He was so kind to me. Then
when he went back to Tiflis I asked him to come to me in that box. Is
the poor fellow ill?"

"No, Mademoiselle Zinca, no."

"Ah! I shall be happy to pay the carriage of my dear Kinko."

"Yes--pay the carriage--"

"It will not be long now?"

"No; this afternoon probably."

I do not know what to say.

"Monsieur," says mademoiselle, "we are going to get married as soon as
the formalities are complied with; and if it is not abusing your
confidence, will you do us the honor and pleasure of being present?"

"At your marriage--certainly. I promised my friend Kinko I would."

Poor girl! I cannot leave her like this. I must tell her everything.

"Mademoiselle Zinca--Kinko--"

"He asked you to come and tell me he had arrived?"

"Yes--but--you understand--he is very tired after so long a
journey--"

"Tired?"

"Oh! do not be alarmed--"

"Is he ill?"

"Yes--rather--rather ill--"

"Then I will go--I must see him--I pray you, sir, come with me to the
station--"

"No; that would be an imprudence--remain here--remain--"

Zinca Klork looked at me fixedly.

"The truth, monsieur, the truth! Hide nothing from me--Kinko--"

"Yes--I have sad news--to give you." She is fainting. Her lips tremble.
She can hardly speak.

"He has been discovered!" she says. "His fraud is known--they have
arrested him--"

"Would to heaven it was no worse. We have had accidents on the road.
The train was nearly annihilated--a frightful catastrophe--"

"He is dead! Kinko is dead!"

The unhappy Zinca falls on to a chair--and to employ the imaginative
phraseology of the Chinese--her tears roll down like rain on an autumn
night. Never have I seen anything so lamentable. But it will not do to
leave her in this state, poor girl! She is becoming unconscious. I do
not know where I am. I take her hands. I repeat:

"Mademoiselle Zinca! Mademoiselle Zinca!"

Suddenly there is a great noise in front of the house. Shouts are
heard. There is a tremendous to do, and amid the tumult I hear a voice.

Good Heavens! I cannot be mistaken. That is Kinko's voice!

I recognize it. Am I in my right senses?

Zinca jumps up, springs to the window, opens it, and we look out.

There is a cart at the door. There is the case, with all its
inscriptions: _This side up, this side down, fragile, glass, beware of
damp_, etc., etc. It is there--half smashed. There has been a
collision. The cart has been run into by a carriage, as the case was
being got down. The case has slipped on to the ground. It has been
knocked in. And Kinko has jumped out like a jack-in-the-box--but alive,
very much alive!

I can hardly believe my eyes! What, my young Roumanian did not perish
in the explosion? No! As I shall soon hear from his own mouth, he was
thrown on to the line when the boiler went up, remained there inert for
a time, found himself uninjured--miraculously--kept away till he could
slip into the van unperceived. I had just left the van after looking
for him in vain, and supposing that he had been the first victim of the
catastrophe.

Then--oh! the irony of fate!--after accomplishing a journey of six
thousand kilometres on the Grand Transasiatic, shut up in a box among
the baggage, after escaping so many dangers, attack by bandits,
explosion of engine, he was here, by the mere colliding of a cart and a
carriage in a Pekin Street, deprived of all the good of his
journey--fraudulent it may be--but really if--I know of no epithet
worthy of this climax.

The carter gave a yell at the sight of a human being who had just
appeared. In an instant the crowd had gathered, the fraud was
discovered, the police had run up. And what could this young Roumanian
do who did not know a word of Chinese, but explain matters in the sign
language? And if he could not be understood, what explanation could he
give?

Zinca and I ran down to him.

"My Zinca--my dear Zinca!" he exclaims, pressing the girl to his heart.

"My Kinko--my dear Kinko!" she replies, while her tears mingle with his.

"Monsieur Bombarnac!" says the poor fellow, appealing for my
intervention.

"Kinko," I reply, "take it coolly, and depend on me. You are alive, and
we thought you were dead."

"But I am not much better off!" he murmurs.

Mistake! Anything is better than being dead--even when one is menaced
by prison, be it a Chinese prison. And that is what happens, in spite
of the girl's supplications and my entreaties. And Kinko is dragged off
by the police, amid the laughter and howls of the crowd.

But I will not abandon him! No, if I move heaven and earth, I will not
abandon him.