would squeeze the last drop of savour out of it, and lick her fingers afterwards. If you could have seen her even walking, with that quick, gliding stride, or pinning one of her five hundred jade butterfly brooches to her dress, or playing 'The Eight Fairies Travel Across the Sea' game with her ladies, or spraying glycerine on her face to fix her cosmetics—always the same concentration, the same implacable zeal to do it exactly right, the same ambition for perfection. No wonder she became mistress of all China—or that the Emperor died of her mattress gymnastics. Ten years? It's a marvel he lasted ten days.
I append these details because, since she became one of the great women of history,*(* See Appendix II.) an eye-witness account may be of some interest; perhaps it'll help some clever biographer to plumb the mystery of her character. I can't; I knew her as a lover, you see, and Dick Burton assures me I'm a hopeless nympholeptic, which sounds, good fun. She ravished my senses, right enough, and scared me to death—which, by the way, is true of the only three women (apart from Elspeth) whom I've truly loved: Lola, Lakshmibai, and Yehonala. An empress, a queen, and the greatest courtesan of her time; I dare say I'm just a snob.
However, my little character-sketch will have explained my growing anxiety in case she discovered that she was nourishing a Chinese-speaking British viper in her gorgeous bosom. For every day increased that risk … and still Elgin didn't move.
The British and French army seemed to have put down roots at Tang-chao, a mere ten miles from Pekin; I couldn't fathom Grant's intentions, with winter coming on, his lines of communication gaping for a hundred miles behind him to the coast, his force still outnumbered at least four to one—if I'd had command of the remaining Tartar cavalry I'd have had him and his army and his bull fiddle bottled on the Peiho yet. The reason, according to Little An, was that the Big Barbarian was scared the prisoners would be murdered if he moved; knowing Elgin, I was sure there must be more to it; in fact, he and Grant were just 'makking siccar', as my wife would say, counting on the very error which I heard Little An making to Yehonala.
'We shall have warning if they move,' says he. 'The big guns will sound, the order for the deaths of the barbarian prisoners can be dispatched, and we shall have ample time to retire to Jehol, leaving Sang and Prince I and Sushun and the rest of the reptiles to meet the wrath of the Big Barbarian. Hang-ki has charge of Pa-hsia-li and the other; they can be removed quietly and executed by the jacket whenever you wish. Unless,' he glanced moodily at me, 'you will be wise and put that thing away.' Meeting his eye, I smiled amiably and nodded. 'What in the name of Yen-lo are you going to do with him, Orchid Lady?'
'Take him to Jehol,' says she. 'Why not?'
'Gods! To Jehol—and play the harlot with him while … while the Son of Heaven is dying in the next room?'
'Well, I can hardly play the harlot with the Emperor, in his condition, can I? And you know me, Little An—I have to be playing the harlot with someone, or so you keep telling me.'
'Will you jest, at such a time?' he shrilled. 'Oh, little em-press, if you have no shame, at least have sense! Prince Kung and the Empress Dowager are lodged only a mile away—in the Ewen-ming-ewen! Suppose word reached them of this beast's presence? Suppose Sang gets to hear of it? At the moment when you have the prize all but in your grasp—oh, why do I waste time, talking to a lovely idol with an ivory head? How will you hide him in Jehol, or on the road? It's a full day's journey!'
'He can travel with the eunuchs. It may be that I'll keep him as one, eventually. Perhaps make him chief—in place of you. At least he won't deafen me with impertinence. By the way, we'll travel to Jehol by night. Have the horse-litters and cavalry escort standing by from tomorrow; the barbarians may come soon now.'
By gad, I hadn't liked the sound of that. Of course she was just joking—teasing Little An. Wasn't she? One thing was sure, she wasn't getting me to Jehol—when those guns sounded, I'd make a run for it, somehow. If I could give my watchdogs the slip, after dark—even if I didn't get out of the Summer Palace, there were acres of woodland to lie up in … I might even get clear away, and be in time to reach Grant and have him send a flying column slap into the city to rescue Parkes and the others … Probyn or Fane would be in and out before the Chinks knew they'd been. Aye, but I mustn't run the slightest risk of capture myself—the thought of being dragged back, helpless, to face her fury (they can't stand being jilted, these autocratic bitches) and Little An's malice …
'What's the matter with the filthy brute? He looks as though he'd seen a spirit!' It was Little An's harsh squeal, and I realised with a thrill of fear that he was staring at me. How I didn't start round in guilty panic, God knows; I forced myself to sit still—we were in the long ivory saloon of her pavilion, An standing beside her chair while she ate her supper of peaches sliced in honey and wine; myself on a stool about ten feet away. A few of her ladies were playing Go at the other end, laughing and chattering softly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Yehonala had turned to look at me, laying down her spoon. I took a deep breath, pressed my hands to my stomach, and belched gently. She laughed.
'Fried bread dragons. Or love-pangs for his Orchid—eh, Little An?' She returned to her peaches.
'Perhaps.' To my consternation he walked towards me slowly, and I gave him my idiot smile as he paused before me, a thoughtful frown on his pudgy face. 'Do you know, Orchid Lady,' says he, watching me, 'I have sometimes wondered if this … this stallion of yours … is as senseless as he seems. Once or twice … just now, for instance … I've wondered if he doesn't understand every word we say.'
It was like a douche of cold water, but I daren't drop my eyes. I could only blink, without interest, and hope the thunder of my heart wasn't audible.
'What?' Her spoon tinkled into the dish. 'Oh, what old wool! Barbarians don't speak our language, stupid!'
'Pa-hsia-li does. Like a school-master.' His little eyes were bright with suspicion. 'So will others. Perhaps this one.'
'And never a word out of him in days? Or any sign of sense? Nonsense! What makes you think so—apart from malice?'
He continued to stare at me. 'A look … an expression. A sense.' He shrugged. 'I may be wrong … but if I'm not, the tale of your pleasuring him will be the least he can tell.' His eyes narrowed, and I knew what was coming —and began a cavernous yawn to cover the reaction which I knew he was going to startle out of me. Sure enough:
'Look at his thumb!' he squeaked.
Now, I defy anyone in my position not to twitch his thumb, or whatever extremity is mentioned—unless he has set his muscles and begun to yawn, which is a fine suppressor of the guilty start. Hutton, old Pam's Treasury gun-slinger, taught me that one. I saw the disappointment on Little An's face, and looked at him serenely.
'If you are right,' says Yehonala, 'then he understands us now.'
I glanced at her, reasonably enough, since she'd spoken—and felt sick. She was frowning uncertainly, upright in her chair; she beckoned abruptly, so I got up and went over, meeting her stare with polite interest. After a moment:
'Do you understand me?' says she sharply, and I smiled hopefully as her eyes stayed steady on mine. Then she pointed at her feet, so I knelt upright in front of her, my face just below the level of her own, about two feet away. She continued to watch me intently, that lovely oval mask expressionless, and then said quietly:
'I don't know, An … but we must be sure. It's a pity. Take the sabre from the wall yonder … quietly. When I say `Begin' … strike.'
If it was a bluff, it was bound to work. Even Hope Grant or Rudi Starnberg wouldn't have been able to repress a flicker when she spoke the fatal word, and my nerves weren't in the same parish as theirs. I didn't hear Little An move behind me, but I knew he'd be there, quietly poising that razor-sharp blade, waiting. I could only kneel patiently, praying the sweat wasn't starting from my brow, meeting her cold gaze with smiling inquiry as I would have done if I'd been innocent, letting my smile fade uncertainly as she didn't respond. I strove not to gulp, to look easy, knowing it was no go—unless I could think of something I was bound to flinch at the word. In desperation, I lowered my eyes, searching for inspiration … finally letting my glance stray to her bust; she was wearing one of those tight silk Manchoo dresses that button at the throat and are open to the breast-bone, leaving a gap through which appetising curves of Eve's puddings are to be seen; I stared with rapt interest, moving my head slightly for a better view, moistened my lips, and blew gently at the opening. She flinched, and I glanced up with an insolent suggestive twitch of the brow to let her see how my thoughts were running; there was a shadow of doubt in the dark eyes, so I returned to my leering contemplation of her bouncers with a contented sigh, leaning a little closer and blowing again, a longer sustained breeze this time …
'Begin,' says she softly, and I continued to blow soft and steady, without a tremor, for I knew it was a bluff,
