The Adventures of a Special Correspondent

Chapter 13

We dined an hour after the train left. In the dining car were several

newcomers, among others two n*****s 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--"

"She is a young Roumanian. I knew her in Paris, where she was learning

the trade of a milliner. Oh, charming--"

"I am sure upon it. You need not dwell on that."

"She also returned to Bucharest, until she was invited to take the

management of a dressmaker's at Pekin. We loved, monsieur; she

went--and we were separated for a year. Three weeks ago she wrote to

me. She was getting on over there. If I could go out to her, I would do

well. We should get married without delay. She had saved something. I

would soon earn as much as she had. And here I am on the road--in my

turn--for China."

"In this box?"

"What would you have, Monsieur Bombarnac?" asked Kinko, reddening. "I

had only money enough to buy a packing case, a few provisions, and get

myself sent off by an obliging friend. It costs a thousand francs to go

from Tiflis to Pekin. But as soon as I have gained them, the company

will be repaid, I assure you."

"I believe you, Kinko, I believe you; and on your arrival at Pekin?"

"Zinca has been informed. The box will be taken to Avenue Cha-Coua, and

she--"

"Will pay the carriage?"

"Yes."

"And with pleasure, I will answer for it."

"You may be sure of it, for we love each other so much."

"And besides, Kinko, what would one not do for a sweetheart who

consents to shut himself up in a box for a fortnight, and arrives

labelled 'Glass,' 'Fragile,' 'Beware of damp--'"

"Ah, you are making fun of a poor fellow."

"Not at all; and you may rest assured I will neglect nothing which will

enable you to arrive dry and in one piece at Mademoiselle Zinca

Klork's--in short, in a perfect state of preservation!"

"Again I thank you," said Kinko, pressing my hands. "Believe me, you

will not find me ungrateful."

"Ah! friend Kinko, I shall be paid, and more than paid!"

"And how?"

"By relating, as soon as I can do so without danger to you, the

particulars of your journey from Tiflis to Pekin. Think now--what a

heading for a column: