Jules Verne (15 page)

We had to make an effort to throw off our contemplative mood; and
fortunately the Caternas did not trouble our ecstasy by evoking any of
their recollections of the theater. Doubtless they had shared in our
impressions.

We resumed our seats in the arba, and the yemtchik took us at the
gallop of his doves along shady roads which the Russian administration
keeps up with care.

Along these roads we met and passed many figures worthy of notice.
Their costumes were varied enough, "Khalats," in startling colors, and
their heads enturbaned most coquettishly. In a population of forty
thousand there was, of course, a great mingling of races. Most of them
seemed to be Tadjiks of Iranian origin. They are fine strong fellows,
whose white skin has disappeared beneath the tan of the open air and
the unclouded sun. Here is what Madame de Ujfalvy-Bourdon says of them
in her interesting book: "Their hair is generally black, as is also
their beard, which is very abundant. Their eyes are never turned up at
the corners, and are almost always brown. The nose is very handsome,
the lips are not thick, the teeth are small. The forehead is high,
broad, and the general shape of the face is oval."

And I cannot refrain from mentioning a note of approval from Caterna
when he saw one of these Tadjiks superbly draped in his many-colored
Khalat.

"What a splendid lead! What an admirable Melingue! You can see him in
Richepins's
Nana Sahib
or Meurice's
Schamyl
."

"He would make a lot of money! replied Madame Caterna.

"He just would—I believe you, Caroline!" replied the enthusiastic
actor.

And for him, as for all other theatrical folks, is not the money the
most serious and the least disputable manifestation of the dramatic art?

It was already five o clock, and in this incomparable city of Samarkand
scene succeeded scene. There! I am getting into that way of looking at
it now. Certainly the spectacle should finish before midnight. But as
we start at eight o'clock, we shall have to lose the end of the piece.
But as I considered that, for the honor of special correspondents in
general, it would never do to have been at Samarkand without seeing
Tamerlane's tomb, our arba returned to the southwest, and drew up near
the mosque of Gour Emir, close to the Russian town. What a sordid
neighborhood, what a heap of mud huts and straw huts, what an
agglomeration of miserable hovels we have just been through!

The mosque has a grand appearance. It is crowned with its dome, in
which the raw blue of the turquoise is the chief color, and which looks
like a Persian cap; and on its only minaret, which has now lost its
head, there glitter the enamelled arabesques which have retained their
ancient purity.

We visited the central hall beneath the cupola. There stands the tomb
of the lame Timour the Conqueror. Surrounded by the four tombs of his
sons and his patron saint, beneath a stone of black jade covered with
inscriptions, whiten the bones of Tamerlane, in whose name is gathered
the whole fourteenth century of Asiatic history. The walls of the hall
are covered with slabs of jade, on which are engraven innumerable
scrolls of foliage, and in the southwest stands a little column marking
the direction of Mecca. Madame De Ujfalvy-Bourdon has justly compared
this part of the mosque of Gour Emir to a sanctuary, and we had the
same impression. This impression took a still more religious tone when,
by a dark and narrow stairway, we descended to the crypt in which are
the tombs of Tamerlane's wives and daughters.

"But who was this Tamerlane?" asked Caterna. "This Tamerlane everybody
is talking about."

"Tamerlane," replied Major Noltitz, "was one of the greatest conquerors
of the world, perhaps the greatest, if you measure greatness by the
extent of the conquests. Asia to the east of the Caspian Sea, Persia
and the provinces to the north of it, Russia to the Sea of Azof, India,
Syria, Asia Minor, China, on which he threw two hundred thousand
men—he had a whole continent as the theater of his wars."

"And he was lame!" said Madame Caterna.

"Yes, madame, like Genseric, like Shakespeare, like Byron, like Walter
Scott, like Talleyrand, but that did not hinder his getting along in
the world. But how fanatic and bloodthirsty he was! History affirms
that at Delhi he massacred a hundred thousand captives, and at Bagdad
he erected an obelisk of eighty thousand heads."

"I like the one in the Place de la Concorde better," said Caterna, "and
that is only in one piece."

At this observation we left the mosque of Gour Emir, and as it was time
to "hurry up," as our actor said, the arba was driven briskly toward
the station.

For my part, in spite of the observations of the Caternas, I was fully
in tone with the local color due to the marvels of Samarkand, when I
was roughly shaken back into modern reality.

In the streets—yes—in the streets near the railway station, in the
very center of Tamerlane's capital, I passed two bicyclists.

"Ah!" exclaimed Caterna. "Messrs. Wheeler!"

And they were Turkomans!

After that nothing more could be done than leave a town so dishonored
by the masterpiece of mechanical locomotion, and that was what we did
at eight o'clock.

We dined an hour after the train left. In the dining car were several
newcomers, among others two negroes whom Caterna began to speak of as
darkies.

None of these travelers, Popof told me, would cross the Russo-Chinese
frontier, so that they interested me little or not at all.

During dinner, at which all my numbers were present—I have twelve now,
and I do not suppose I shall go beyond that—I noticed that Major
Noltitz continued to keep his eye on his lordship Faruskiar. Had he
begun to suspect him? Was it of any importance in his opinion that this
Mongol seemed to know, without appearing to do so, the three
second-class travelers, who were also Mongols? Was his imagination
working with the same activity as mine, and was he taking seriously
what was only a joke on my part? That I, a man of letters, a chronicler
in search of scenes and incidents, should be pleased to see in his
personage a rival of the famous Ki Tsang, or Ki Tsang himself, could be
understood; but that he, a serious man, doctor in the Russian army,
should abandon himself to such speculations no one would believe. Never
mind now, we shall have something more to say about it by and by.

As for me, I had soon forgotten all about the Mongol for the man in the
case. Tired as I am after that long run through Samarkand, if I get a
chance to visit him to-night I will.

Dinner being over, we all begin to make ourselves comfortable for the
night, with the intention of sleeping till we reach Tachkend.

The distance from Samarkand to Tachkend is three hundred kilometres. The
train will not get in there before seven o'clock in the morning. It will
stop three times at small stations for water and fuel—circumstances
favorable to the success of my project. I add that the night is dark,
the sky overcast, no moon, no stars. It threatens rain; the wind is
freshening. It is no time for walking on platforms, and nobody walks
there. It is important to choose the moment when Popof is sound asleep.

It is not necessary for the interview to be a long one. That the
gallant fellow should be reassured—that is the essential point—and he
will be, as soon as I have made his acquaintance. A little information
concerning him, concerning Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, whence he comes,
why he is going to Pekin, why he chose such a mode of transport, his
provisions for the journey, how he gets into the case, his age, his
trade, his birthplace, what he has done in the past, what he hopes to
do in the future, etc., etc., and I have done all that a conscientious
reporter can do. That is what I want to know; that is what I will ask
him. It is not so very much.

And in the first place let us wait until the car is asleep. That will
not be long, for my companions are more or less fatigued by the hours
they have spent in Samarkand. The beds were ready immediately after
dinner. A few of the passengers tried a smoke on the platform, but the
gust drove them in very quickly. They have all taken up their places
under the curtained lamps, and toward half-past ten the respiration of
some and the snoring of others are blended with the continued grinding
of the train on the steel rails.

I remained outside last of all, and Popof exchanged a few words with me.

"We shall not be disturbed to-night," he said to me, "and I would
advise you to make the most of it. To-morrow night we shall be running
through the defiles of the Pamir, and we shall not travel so quietly, I
am afraid."

"Thanks, Popof, I will take your advice, and sleep like a marmot."

Popof wished me good night and went into his cabin.

I saw no use in going back into the car, and remained on the platform.
It was impossible to see anything either to the left or right of the
line. The oasis of Samarkand had already been passed, and the rails
were now laid across a long horizontal plain. Many hours would elapse
before the train reached the Syr Daria, over which the line passes by a
bridge like that over the Amou-Daria, but of less importance.

It was about half-past eleven when I decided to open the door of the
van, which I shut behind me.

I knew that the young Roumanian was not always shut up in his box, and
the fancy might just have taken him to stretch his limbs by walking
from one end to the other of the van.

The darkness is complete. No jet of light filters through the holes of
the case. That seems all the better for me. It is as well that my No.
11 should not be surprised by too sudden an apparition. He is doubtless
asleep. I will give two little knocks on the panel, I will awake him,
and we will explain matters before he can move.

I feel as I go. My hand touches the case; I place my ear against the
panel and I listen.

There is not a stir, not a breath! Is my man not here? Has he got away?
Has he slipped out at one of the stations without my seeing him? Has my
news gone with him? Really, I am most uneasy; I listen attentively.

No! He has not gone. He is in the case. I hear distinctly his regular
and prolonged respiration. He sleeps. He sleeps the sleep of the
innocent, to which he has no right, for he ought to sleep the sleep of
the swindler of the Grand Transasiatic.

I am just going to knock when the locomotive's whistle emits its
strident crow, as we pass through a station. But the train is not going
to stop, I know, and I wait until the whistling has ceased.

I then give a gentle knock on the panel.

There is no reply.

However, the sound of breathing is not so marked as before.

I knock more loudly.

This time it is followed by an involuntary movement of surprise and
fright.

"Open, open!" I say in Russian.

There is no reply.

"Open!" I say again. "It is a friend who speaks. You have nothing to
fear!"

If the panel is not lowered, as I had hoped, there is the crack of a
match being lighted and a feeble light appears in the case.

I look at the prisoner through the holes in the side.

There is a look of alarm on his face; his eyes are haggard. He does not
know whether he is asleep or awake.

"Open, my friend, I say, open and have confidence. I have discovered
your secret. I shall say nothing about it. On the other hand, I may be
of use to you."

The poor man looks more at ease, although he does not move.

"You are a Roumanian, I think," I add, "and I am a Frenchman."

"Frenchman? You are a Frenchman?"

And this reply was given in my own language, with a foreign accent.

One more bond between us.

The panel slips along its groove, and by the light of a little lamp I
can examine my No. 11, to whom I shall be able to give a less
arithmetical designation.

"No one can see us, nor hear us?" he asked in a half-stifled voice.

"No one."

"The guard?"

"Asleep."

My new friend takes my hands, he clasps them. I feel that he seeks a
support. He understands he can depend on me. And he murmurs:

"Do not betray me—do not betray me."

"Betray you, my boy? Did not the French newspapers sympathize with that
little Austrian tailor, with those two Spanish sweethearts, who sent
themselves by train in the way you are doing? Were not subscriptions
opened in their favor? And can you believe that I, a journalist—"

"You are a journalist?"

"Claudius Bombarnac, special correspondent of the
Twentieth Century."

"A French journal—"

"Yes, I tell you."

"And you are going to Pekin?"

"Through to Pekin."

"Ah! Monsieur Bombarnac, Providence has sent you onto my road."

"No, it was the managers of my journal, and they delegated to me the
powers they hold from Providence, courage and confidence. Anything I
can do for you I will."

"Thanks, thanks."

"What is your name?"

"Kinko."

"Kinko? Excellent name!"

"Excellent?"

"For my articles! You are a Roumanian, are you not?"

"Roumanian of Bucharest."

"But you have lived in France?"

"Four years in Paris, where I was apprentice to an upholsterer in the
Faubourg Saint Antoine."

"And you went back to Bucharest?"

"Yes, to work at my trade there until the day came when it was
impossible for me to resist the desire to leave—"

"To leave? Why?"

"To marry!"

"To marry—Mademoiselle Zinca—"

"Zinca?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Zinca Klork, Avenue Cha-Coua, Pekin, China!"

"You know?"

"Certainly. The address is on the box."

"True."

"As to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork—"