“Certainly.”
“And madrassas?”
“Certainly; but you must understand that some of them are as good as the mosques and madrassas of Samarkand or Bokhara.”
I took advantage of the kindness of Major Noltitz and thanks to him, the readers of the Twentieth Century need not spend a night in Kokhan. I will leave my pen inundated with the solar rays of this city of which I could only see a vague outline.
The dinner lasted till rather late, and terminated in an unexpected manner by an offer from Caterna to recite a monologue.
I need scarcely say that the offer was gladly accepted.
Our train more and more resembled a small rolling town. It had even its casino, this dining-car in which we were gathered at the moment. And it was thus in the eastern part of Turkestan, four hundred kilometres from the Pamir plateau, at dessert after our excellent dinner served in a saloon of the Grand Transasiatic, that the Obsession was given with remarkable talent by Monsieur Caterna, grand premier comique, engaged at Shanghai theater for the approaching season.
“Monsieur,” said Pan-Chao, “my sincere compliments. I have heard young Coquelin—”
“A master, Monsieur; a master!” said Caterna.
“Whom you approach—”
“Respectfully—very respectfully!”
The bravos lavished on Caterna had no effect on Sir Francis Trevellyan, who had been occupying himself with onomatopic exclamations regarding the dinner, which he considered execrable. He was not amused—not even sadly, as his countrymen have been for four hundred years, according to Froissart. And yet nobody took any notice of this grumbling gentleman’s recriminations.
Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer had not understood a single word of this little masterpiece, and had he understood it, he would not have been able to appreciate this sample of Parisian monologomania.
As to my lord Faruskiar and his inseparable Ghangir, it seemed that in spite of their traditional reserve, the surprising grimaces, the significant gestures, the comical intonations, had interested them to a certain extent.
The actor had noticed it, and appreciated this silent admiration.
As he rose from the table he said to me:
“He is magnificent, this seigneur! What dignity! What a presence! What a type of the farthest East! I like his companion less—a third-rate fellow at the outside! But this superb Mongol! Caroline, cannot you imagine him as Morales in the Pirates of the Savannah?”
“Not in that costume, at any rate,” said I.
“Why not, Monsieur Claudius? One day at Perpignan I played Colonel de Montéclin in the Closerie des Genets in the costume of a Japanese officer—”
“And he was applauded!” added Madame Caterna.
During dinner the train had passed Kastakos station, situated in the center of a mountainous region. The road curved a good deal, and ran over viaducts and through tunnels—as we could tell by the noise.
A little time afterward Popof told us that we were in the territory of Ferganah, the name of the ancient khanate of Kokhan, which was annexed by Russia in 1876, with the seven districts that compose it. These districts, in which Sarthes are in the majority, are administered by prefects, sub-prefects, and mayors. Come, then, to Ferganah, to find all the machinery of the constitution of the year VIII.
Beyond there is an immense steppe, extending before our train. Madame de Ujfalvy-Bourdon has justly compared it to a billiard table, so perfect in its horizontality. Only it is not an ivory ball which is rolling over its surface, but an express of the Grand Transasiatic running at sixty kilometres an hour.
Leaving the station of Tchontchai behind, we enter Kokhan station at nine o’clock in the evening. The stoppage is to last two hours. We get out onto the platform.
As we are leaving the car I am near Major Noltitz, who asks young Pan-Chao:
“Have you ever heard of this mandarin Yen Lou, whose body is being taken to Peking?”
“Never, major.”
“But he ought to be a personage of consideration, to be treated with the honor he gets.”
“That is possible,” said Pan-Chao; “but we have so many personages of consideration in the Celestial Empire.”
“And so, this mandarin, Yen Lou?”
“I never heard him mentioned.”
Why did Major Noltitz ask the Chinaman this question? What was he thinking about?
XV
Kokhan, two hours to stop. It is night. The majority of the travelers have already taken up their sleeping quarters in the car, and do not care to alight.
Here am I on the platform, walking the deck as I smoke. This is rather an important station, and from the engine house comes a more powerful locomotive than those which have brought the train along since we left Uzun Ada. These early engines were all very well as long as the line lay over an almost horizontal plain. But now we are among the gorges of the Pamir plateau, there are gradients of such steepness as to require more engine power.
I watch the proceedings, and when the locomotive has been detached with its tender, the baggage van—with Kinko in—is at the head of the train.
The idea occurs to me that the young Romanian may perhaps venture out on the platform. It would be an imprudence for he runs the risk of being seen by the police, the gardovois, who move about taking a good look at the passengers. What my No. 11 had better do is to remain in his box, or at least in his van. I will go and get a few provisions, liquid and solid, and take them to him, even before the departure of the train, if it is possible to do so without fear of being noticed.
The refreshment room at the station is open, and Popof is not there. If he was to see me making purchases he would be astonished, as the dining car contains everything we might want.
At the bar I get a little cold meat, some bread, and a bottle of vodka.
The station is not well lighted. A few lamps give only a feeble light. Popof is busy with one of the railway men. The new engine has not yet
