As the engine could not reach the front of the train, owing to their being only a single line, and no turning-table, it was decided to couple it on in the rear and run backwards to the junction. In this way the box, alas! without the Romanian in it, was in the last carriage.
We started, and in half an hour we were on the main line again.
Fortunately it was not necessary for us to return to Tai-Youan, and we thus saved a delay of an hour and a half. At the junction the engine was detached and run for a few yards towards Peking, then the vans and cars, one by one, were pushed on to the main line, and then the engine backed and the train proceeded, made up as before the accident. By five o’clock we were on our way across Petchili as if nothing had happened.
I have nothing to say regarding this latter half of the journey, during which the Chinese driver—to do him justice—in no way endeavored to make up for lost time. But if a few hours more or less were of no importance to us, it was otherwise with Baron Weissschnitzerdörfer, who wanted to catch the Yokohama boat at Tien Tsin.
When we arrived there at noon the steamer had been gone for three-quarters of an hour; and when the German globetrotter, the rival of Bly and Bisland, rushed on to the platform, it was to learn that the said steamer was then going out of the mouths of the Pei-Ho into the open sea.
Unfortunate traveler! We were not astonished when, as Caterna said, the baron “let go both broadsides” of Teutonic maledictions. And really he had cause to curse in his native tongue.
We remained but a quarter of an hour at Tien Tsin. My readers must pardon me for not having visited this city of five hundred thousand inhabitants, the Chinese town with its temples, the European quarter in which the trade is concentrated, the Pei-Ho quays where hundreds of junks load and unload. It was all Faruskiar’s fault, and were it only for having wrecked my reportorial endeavors he ought to be hanged by the most fantastic executioner in China.
Nothing happened for the rest of our run. I was very sorry at the thought that I was not bringing Kinko along with me, and that his box was empty. And he had asked me to accompany him to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork! How could I tell this unfortunate girl that her sweetheart would never reach Peking station?
Everything ends in this world below, even a voyage of six thousand kilometres on the Grand Transasiatic; and after a run of thirteen days, hour after hour, our train stopped at the gates of the capital of the Celestial Empire.
XXVI
“Peking!” 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 enclosed 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 tomorrow. 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 goodbye, 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
