Jules Verne (26 page)

In the morning—26th of May, 7 A.M.—we arrived at Lan-Tcheou. Three
hours to stop, three hours only.

"Come, Major Noltitz, come, Pan-Chao, come, Caterna, we have not a
minute to spare."

But as we are leaving the station we are stopped by the appearance of a
tall, fat, gray, solemn personage. It is the governor of the town in a
double robe of white and yellow silk, fan in hand, buckled belt, and a
mantilla—a black mantilla which would have looked much better on the
shoulders of a manola. He is accompanied by a certain number of
globular mandarins, and the Celestials salute him by holding out their
two fists, which they move up and down as they nod their heads.

"Ah! What is this gentleman going to do? Is it some Chinese formality?
A visit to the passengers and their baggage? And Kinko, what about him?"

Nothing alarming, after all. It is only about the treasure of the Son
of Heaven. The governor and his suite have stopped before the precious
van, bolted and sealed, and are looking at it with that respectful
admiration which is experienced even in China before a box containing
many millions.

I ask Popof what is meant by the governor's presence, has it anything
to do with us?

"Not at all," says Popof; "the order has come from Pekin to telegraph
the arrival of the treasure. The governor has done so, and he is
awaiting a reply as to whether he is to send it on to Pekin or keep it
provisionally at Lan-Tcheou."

"That will not delay us?"

"I don't think so."

"Then come on," said I to my companions. But if the imperial treasure
was a matter of indifference to us, it did not seem to be so to
Faruskiar. But whether this van started or did not start, whether it
was attached to our train or left behind, what could it matter to him?
Nevertheless, he and Ghangir seemed to be much put about regarding it,
although they tried to hide their anxiety, while the Mongols, talking
together in a low tone, gave the governor anything but friendly glances.

Meanwhile the governor had just heard of the attack on the train and of
the part that our hero had taken in defence of the treasure, with what
courage he had fought, and how he had delivered the country from the
terrible Ki-Tsang. And then in laudatory terms, which Pan-Chao
translated to us, he thanked Faruskiar, complimented him, and gave him
to understand that the Son of Heaven would reward him for his services.

The manager of the Grand Transasiatic listened with that tranquil air
that distinguished him, not without impatience, as, I could clearly
see. Perhaps he felt himself superior to praises as well as
recompenses, no matter from how great a height they might come. In that
I recognized all the Mongol pride.

But we need not wait. The treasure van may remain here or go on to
Pekin, but it makes no difference to us! Our business is to visit
Lan-Tcheou.

What we did briefly I will more briefly tell.

There is an outer town and an inner one. No ruins this time. A very
lively city, population swarming like ants and very active,
familiarized by the railway with the presence of strangers whom they do
not follow about with indiscreet curiosity as they used to do. Huge
quarters occupy the right of the Hoang Ho, two kilometres wide. This
Hoang Ho is the yellow river, the famous yellow river, which, after a
course of four thousand four hundred kilometres, pours its muddy waters
into the Gulf of Petchili.

"Is not its mouth near Tien Tsin, where the baron thinks of catching
the mail for Yokohama?" asks the major.

"That is so," I reply.

"He will miss it," says the actor.

"Unless he trots, our globe-trotter."

"A donkey's trot does not last long," says Caterna, "and he will not
catch the boat."

"He will catch it if the train is no later," said the major. "We shall
be at Tien Tsin on the 23d at six o'clock in the morning, and the
steamer leaves at eleven."

"Whether he misses the boat or not, my friends, do not let us miss our
walk."

A bridge of boats crosses the river, and the stream is so swift that
the footway rises and falls like the waves of the sea. Madame Caterna,
who had ventured on it, began to turn pale.

"Caroline, Caroline," said her husband, "you will be seasick! Pull
yourself together; pull yourself together!"

She "pulled herself together," and we went up towards a pagoda which
rises over the town.

Like all the monuments of this kind, the pagoda resembles a pile of
dessert dishes placed one on the other, but the dishes are of graceful
form, and if they are in Chinese porcelain it is not astonishing.

We get an outside view of a cannon foundry, a rifle factory, the
workmen being natives. Through a fine garden we reach the governor's
house, with a capricious assemblage of bridges, kiosks, fountains and
doors like vases. There are more pavilions and upturned roofs than
there are trees and shady walks. Then there are paths paved with
bricks, among them the remains of the base of the Great Wall.

It is ten minutes to ten when we return to the station, absolutely
tired out; for the walk has been a rough one, and almost suffocating,
for the heat is very great.

My first care is to look after the van with the millions. It is there
as usual behind the train under the Chinese guard.

The message expected by the governor has arrived; the order to forward
on the van to Pekin, where the treasure is to be handed over to the
finance minister.

Where is Faruskiar? I do not see him. Has he given us the slip?

No! There he is on one of the platforms, and the Mongols are back in
the car.

Ephrinell has been off to do a round of calls—with his samples, no
doubt—and Mrs. Ephrinell has also been out on business, for a deal in
hair probably. Here they come, and without seeming to notice one
another they take their seats.

The other passengers are only Celestials. Some are going to Pekin; some
have taken their tickets for intermediate stations like Si-Ngan, Ho
Nan. Lou-Ngan, Tai-Youan. There are a hundred passengers in the train.
All my numbers are on board. There is not one missing. Thirteen, always
thirteen!

We were still on the platform, just after the signal of departure had
been given, when Caterna asked his wife what was the most curious thing
she had seen at Lan-Tcheou.

"The most curious thing, Adolphe? Those big cages, hung on to the walls
and trees, which held such curious birds—"

"Very curious, Madame Caterna," said Pan-Chao. "Birds that talk—"

"What—parrots?"

"No; criminals' heads."

"Horrible!" said the actress, with a most expressive grimace.

"What would you have, Caroline?" said Caterna. "It is the custom of the
country."

On leaving Lan-Tcheou, the railway crosses a well-cultivated country,
watered by numerous streams, and hilly enough to necessitate frequent
curves. There is a good deal of engineering work; mostly bridges,
viaducts on wooden trestles of somewhat doubtful solidity, and the
traveler is not particularly comfortable when he finds them bending
under the weight of the train. It is true we are in the Celestial
Empire, and a few thousand victims of a railway accident is hardly
anything among a population of four hundred millions.

"Besides," said Pan-Chao, "the Son of Heaven never travels by railway."

So much the better.

At six o'clock in the evening we are at King-Tcheou, after skirting for
some time the capricious meanderings of the Great Wall. Of this immense
artificial frontier built between Mongolia and China, there remain only
the blocks of granite and red quartzite which served as its base, its
terrace of bricks with the parapets of unequal heights, a few old
cannons eaten into with rust and hidden under a thick veil of lichens,
and then the square towers with their ruined battlements. The
interminable wall rises, falls, bends, bends back again, and is lost to
sight on the undulations of the ground.

At six o'clock we halt for half an hour at King-Tcheou, of which I only
saw a few pagodas, and about ten o'clock there is a halt of
three-quarters of an hour at Si-Ngan, of which I did not even see the
outline.

All night was spent in running the three hundred kilometres which
separate this town from Ho Nan, where we had an hour to stop.

I fancy the Londoners might easily imagine that this town of Ho Nan was
London, and perhaps Mrs. Ephrinell did so. Not because there was a
Strand with its extraordinary traffic, nor a Thames with its prodigious
movement of barges and steamboats. No! But because we were in a fog so
thick that it was impossible to see either houses or pagodas.

The fog lasted all day, and this hindered the progress of the train.
These Chinese engine-drivers are really very skilful and attentive and
intelligent.

We were not fortunate in our last day's journey before reaching Tien
Tsin! What a loss of copy! What paragraphs were melted away in these
unfathomable vapors! I saw nothing of the gorges and ravines, through
which runs the Grand Transasiatic; nothing of the valley of Lou-Ngan,
where we stopped at eleven o'clock; nothing of the two hundred and
thirty kilometres which we accomplished amid the wreaths of a sort of
yellow steam, worthy of a yellow country, until we stopped about ten
o'clock at night at Tai-Youan.

Ah! the disagreeable day.

Luckily the fog rose early in the evening. Now it is night—and a very
dark night, too.

I go to the refreshment bar and buy a few cakes and a bottle of wine.
My intention is to pay a last visit to Kinko. We will drink to his
health, to his approaching marriage with the fair Roumanian. He has
traveled by fraud, I know, and if the Grand Transasiatic only knew! But
the Grand Transasiatic will not know.

During the stoppage Faruskiar and Ghangir are walking on the platform
and looking at the train. But it is not the van at the rear that is
attracting their attention, but the van in front, and they seem to be
much interested in it.

Are they suspicious of Kinko? No! the hypothesis is unlikely. The
driver and stoker seem to be the object of their very particular
attention. They are two brave Chinamen who have just come on duty, and
perhaps Faruskiar is not sorry to see men in whom he can trust, with
this imperial treasure and a hundred passengers behind them!

The hour for departure strikes, and at midnight the engine begins to
move, emitting two or three loud whistles.

As I have said, the night is very dark, without moon, without stars.
Long clouds are creeping across the lower zones of the atmosphere. It
will be easy for me to enter the van without being noticed. And I have
not been too liberal in my visits to Kinko during these twelve days on
the road.

At this moment Popof says to me:

"Are you not going to sleep to-night, Monsieur Bombarnac?"

"I am in no hurry," I reply; "after this foggy day, spent inside the
car, I am glad of a breath of fresh air. Where does the train stop
next?"

"At Fuen-Choo, when it has passed the junction with the Nanking line."

"Good night, Popof."

"Good night, Monsieur Bombarnac."

I am alone.

The idea occurs to me to walk to the rear of the train, and I stop for
an instant on the gangway in front of the treasure van.

The passengers, with the exception of the Chinese guard, are all
sleeping their last sleep—their last, be it understood, on the Grand
Transasiatic.

Returning to the front of the train, I approach Popof's box, and find
him sound asleep.

I then open the door of the van, shut it behind me, and signal my
presence to Kinko.

The panel is lowered, the little lamp is lighted. In exchange for the
cakes and wine I receive the brave fellow's thanks, and we drink to the
health of Zinca Klork, whose acquaintance I am to make on the morrow.

It is ten minutes to one. In twelve minutes, so Popof says, we shall
pass the junction with the Nanking branch. This branch is only
completed for five or six kilometres, and leads to the viaduct over the
Tjon valley. This viaduct is a great work—I have the details from
Pan-Chao—and the engineers have as yet only got in the piers, which
rise for a hundred feet above the ground.

As I know we are to halt at Fuen-Choo, I shake hands with Kinko, and
rise to take my leave.

At this moment I seem to hear some one on the platform in the rear of
the van.

"Look out, Kinko!" I say in a whisper.

The lamp is instantly extinguished, and we remain quite still.

I am not mistaken. Some one is opening the door of the van.

"Your panel," I whisper.

The panel is raised, the car is shut, and I am alone in the dark.

Evidently it must be Popof who has come in. What will he think to find
me here? The first time I came to visit the young Roumanian I hid among
the packages. Well, I will hide a second time. If I get behind
Ephrinell's boxes it is not likely that Popof will see me, even by the
light of his lantern.

I do so; and I watch.

It is not Popof, for he would have brought his lantern.

I try to recognize the people who have just entered. It is difficult.
They have glided between the packages, and after opening the further
door, they have gone out and shut it behind them.

They are some of the passengers, evidently; but why here—at this hour?

I must know. I have a presentiment that something is in the wind

Perhaps by listening?

I approach the front door of the van, and in spite of the rumbling of
the train I hear them distinctly enough—

Thousand and ten thousand devils! I am not mistaken! It is the voice of
my lord Faruskiar. He is talking with Ghangir in Russian. It is indeed
Faruskiar. The four Mongols have accompanied him. But what are they
doing there? For what motive are they on the platform which is just
behind the tender? And what are they saying?