“What, do you mean he also put his old clothes up for sale?”
“Of course, he turned everything he could into money. Ask Graziolli,” he said turning to the young man who had just come in.
“Certainly,” he affirmed, “there were even some rather worn drawers belonging to the Ministress; I bought them. Lined with rose coloured silk they will make lovely lamp shades. What are you laughing at? I am not joking; besides it will complete my collection. My dining room comes from the French legation, a departing secretary sold it to me; my bed used to belong to one of the Customs people and my drawing room furniture was the property of the last Russian military attaché. Oh, I nearly forgot the most important thing; I bought my bath and heater from the last director but one of the Sino Bulgarian Bank.”
“For my part,” said Beaurelois, “I never go to sales; they disgust me a bit. When I leave, I shall try and sell to my friends whatever I don’t take with me. But I will certainly not have my house overrun by every body who chooses to come in. The Chinese dealers in old clothes are only too glad to see the inside of a European’s house. They make themselves quite at home there, ensconcing themselves in the arm chairs; in reality they make fun of us behind our backs and snap their fingers at us.”
“Anyhow, my dear,” Maugrais said, “Whatever they buy always finds its way eventually into the houses in the Diplomatic Quarter. A play was running in Paris some years ago called ‘The Torch,’ the author showed that the torch of science went from hand to hand. Here we are less ambitious, only the furniture passes from hand to hand. When we call upon newcomers for the first time, we are sure to find friends; a small familiar table, a sofa with a history and which could tell tales if it were not as discreet as a diplomat.”
The women smiled; Mme. de Beaurelois looked thoughtful, her eyes half closed. She seemed to be absent from the people surrounding her. Chatours watched her amusedly from the corner of his eye. He guessed her thoughts; she could plainly see her beautiful divan, with its comfortable yellow silk cushions, sold at auction when she had left Peking and she was recalling distinct memories of some ex-conjugal embraces to which she had abandoned herself with joy in the days of temptation, giving herself without stint, and fulfilling without reserve, her role of the great lover.
“Is it true you are going away?” asked Mme. de Maricourt turning to the de Frissonges girl.
“Yes, my father wishes to go and live in France. But I do not think we shall leave just yet. We shall wait for the end of the summer.”
“Then the series of farewell dinners will not begin at once. I am sure you must be charmed with the idea of becoming better acquainted with the joys of Europe. Aren’t you delighted at the thought?”
“Yes, of course. I wanted so much to go and live there that now I am a little afraid of finding myself out of my element. Besides, I hate to think of leaving for ever the country where I was born and where I have spent my childhood. Shall I be happy in France? I thought so, but now I am not certain. I shall tumble into the midst of strangers, I shall be friendless. You know the oft repeated saying Partir c’est mourir un peu. Well, I feel I shall leave a little of myself behind me and it makes me sad.”
“Oh,” said Graziolli, “you’ll soon get used to it. Besides, as soon as you land you will be swamped with invitations. Remember you will learn all the fashionable dances at least two years before we do. And if you leave at the beginning of autumn, you will be in France for the big tennis matches. You will see the Peking Club tournament is only child’s play in comparison.”
The girl did not answer. She was lost in thought and these remarks left her cold.
Some one started to talk about curios, asking to see Maricourt’s new purchase. He was a rabid collector of snuff bottles in all colours and shapes.
“Is it true he bought a beautiful one recently, a little jade snuff bottle in a wonderful shade of green?”
Like every one else, Mme. de Maricourt had caught the curio-collecting mania. No one escapes in Peking. Once or twice a week, she and her husband went the rounds of the shops, peering into every corner and hoping to put their hand on the rare piece. She took her guests at once to the room to shew them the snuff bottle. It occupied the place of honour in a cabinet against the wall. The shelves were crowded with snuff bottles in battle array.
The Argentina Minister, expert in hard stone, went into ecstasies; he took up the jade piece very carefully and held it to the light. It was a very dark green, almost giving the illusion of an emerald; the carving was particularly beautiful. All the upper surface had been worked and was carved in garlands of flowers. The tracery seemed to enclose the entire rounded part of the bottle.
Don Luis de Cordobas declared it to be the most beautiful thing of its kind he had ever seen. He was sure it had taken at least a year to carve and was certainly very old, for it was smooth to the touch and the polish of the old pieces is impossible to imitate.
“You probably know how jade is carved,” he said. “I was curious enough to enter a shop in one of the small streets on Chien Men once where the jade carvers have their workshops. First the piece of jade is shaped by experts like those employed by our own sculptors. Circular saws worked by pedals are used for this part. Then the artist begins; the stone is worn down patiently by means of a grindstone on which is scattered slightly damped jade powder or else it is cut with a diamond as is glass. Finally the polishing begins. This is obtained by rubbing first on ordinary polishing stone and then on emery. Most of the jade comes from Eastern Turkestan; it is taken from the Khotan and Yarkand mountains or else picked up in the shape of worn pebbles in the beds of the rivers that come down from these mountains. There is also some jade found in the Yunnan and in Burma.”
Jean had not followed the others; he stayed where he was, thinking of the de Frissonges girl. Her words had struck him; her sad look had moved him and he wanted to talk to her, to learn her real thoughts and to try and console her.
When Graziolli had alluded to the pleasures awaiting her in Europe, he had noticed a look of pain flit over her face. From the bottom of his heart he had cursed the tactless young man whose thoughts were turned only to dancing and sport and for whom life consisted solely of a ball room or a tennis court.
“What a fool,” he thought.
“What is the matter,” he asked approaching the girl. “You must chase away these blue devils,” and as she did not reply, he added “You are on the point of obtaining your heart’s desire. You have no reason for being unhappy; I don’t see any great happiness for you like Graziolli does, but what I do see is, pretty as you are, you will soon find a nice husband.”
“Oh,” she said, “I am not thinking of getting married yet.”
“But you should. I don’t see you becoming an old maid. Besides marriage is the natural finish to a girls’ education. Although I am not Mme. de Thebes or any other clairvoyant, I can easily foretell you will end up by being tranquilly happy, adoring your husband. You will make a good mother who will bring up the children beautifully.”
She smiled, “Mr. Maugrais, you are horrid; you are making fun of me. All that sounds attractive, but it is just a dream. I may only meet with disillusions and bitterness over there. You see, what I regret the most in leaving China are the very few real friends in whom I can confide, who understand me when I tell them my troubles. I am afraid when I am in Europe, I shall not find any one in whom to confide, I shall have to keep my thoughts to myself. At least here,” she added in an undertone, “I can always ask your advice. You are not like all the others and you seem to like me.”
She had said all this in one breath. She stopped, a little embarrassed, fearing she had betrayed herself, that she shown too clearly the young man attracted her and that her greatest regret in going away was having to leave Jean. She was not yet quite sure whether she loved him, but gradually she was getting accustomed to being glad to see him. When he talked to her, she was always content. After dinners, when groups formed themselves in drawing room
s, she nearly always found herself in a corner with him. These little private conversations lengthened out either because the pair lingered, chattering, or else because the other people, with unconscious complicity, left them to themselves.
However, Jean had often been removed from her side by Mrs. Brixton, who had interrupted them. This strangely beautiful woman, whose lithe body moved felinely and whose sometimes tender and imploring eyes occasionally darted piercing, eagle-like glances at him, inspired her with feelings of fear and even terror. The girl felt here was the enemy. Some instinct warned her this woman would make her suffer; she was defenceless and she wanted to cry out: “I have never done you any harm, please spare me. You are beautiful, you are greatly admired. Leave me alone, I am only a weakling, without weapons to fight you. Don’t take my one friend from me; he is the only person who pities me and in whom I can confide.”
The bridge game was finished; Mrs. Brixton declared she did not want to play any longer. She went towards the other room with Maricourt who looked for a fresh partner.
“Well dear lady, and how was the game?” asked the Argentina Minister.
“Don’t talk to me about it, I was the only loser.”
Don Luis de Cordobas smiled enigmatically. You know the saying unlucky at cards, lucky in love.”
The American, a little uneasy, did not reply. She feared this strange man; he had the reputation of being a woman hater, and she had tried her powers of fascination on him in vain. Was he laughing at her? Had he guessed her fancy for Maugrais? Did he know anything about the insult on the Wall? Her woman’s pride had been humiliated by it, but it had also seemed to change her fancy into passion so that, first humble and imploring, then scornful and proud, she wanted both to give herself and to deny herself to the man who had repulsed her.
She did not speak for a minute, but turned her head away. She caught sight of Mlle de Frissonges sitting next to Jean. Suddenly, a wish to hurt this girl seized her, this chit for whom Maugrais showed a partiality.
“So you are still in Peking,” she said. Then with a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “Oh of course, I have forgotten, my husband told me he had seen you riding the other day with Mr. Maugrais.”
“Yes, Mrs. Brixton, we went to the Princess Tomb.”
“It is a charming place to dream in, especially for just two people,” said the American spitefully. “You are lucky to find men willing in spite of the heat, to go for sentimental rides with you.” Then she broke off and listened absently to what was being said around her. A few minutes later she rose and passing near Maugrais, said, looking straight into his eyes: “Will you see me home, I must go now.”
Just now when she had mentioned the ride, Jean had felt humbled by the scornful tone in which she had spoken to the girl; but ashamed like a school boy found out, he had not dare to speak. Now he reproached himself for his cowardice. This woman’s glance disturbed him although it attracted him like a magnet; he obeyed and stammering a few vague excuses he followed the American.
As she watched him go, a pang of anguish shot through the girl. Unconsciously her hand clenched on the card case she carried; a look of intense pain contorted her delicate features. Suddenly she felt like bursting into tears. But she made an effort to control herself and she was able to answer quite naturally some ordinary question Graziolli put to her.
When the American and Maugrais appeared, the carriage drew up at the door. Mrs. Brixton hesitated. “It is cooler now,” she said, “shall we walk a little; I have not had my usual walk on the Wall to-day. Come along, a little turn on foot will do us good.”
Maugrais agreed and she sent the carriage away.
They went down the street in silence. He had obeyed like a machine just now and he still felt as if his head was empty; he could not collect his ideas, he was absolutely powerless, submitting to this woman’s influence. A mere glance from her was enough to magnetise him.
Slim in her well cut white serge dress, Mrs. Brixton looked very young, her figure remained lithe and supple giving her the air of a woman of 25, whose lengthy stay in the Far East had hastened her development. Under her coat, her silk open necked blouse left exposed her milk white throat. Her soft skin seemed to beg caresses and under the thin material her flesh still looked firm and appetising.
A large black ribboned Manila straw hat gave an appearance of slenderness to her features which had not yet coarsened. Her short white skirt exposed her shapely legs ending in slight ankles and well proportioned high instepped feet. She wore well fitting buckskin shoes.
Jean was the first to speak.
“You were a little unkind just now to Melle de Frissonges,” he said. “You know how sensitive she is. Under her free and easy ways she hides a delicate nature. She must be treated gently. I am sure you hurt her feelings, she curled up like the sensitive plant she is.”
“Oh, you seem to be intimately acquainted with her. You must have studied psychology during your rides with her. I think you are growing naive, you, the blasé rake. A little girl makes you her confidant and that is sufficient to influence you like a school boy just out of college Take care, Mr. Maugrais, you will be getting ridiculous.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“My goodness, it is easy to see you are falling in love. That goose, that sham-pure girl will end by leading you straight to the altar. I always thought you required something young, but beware … You are slightly the worse for wear. I wonder if you won’t have some difficulty in fulfilling your conjugal duties. Believe me, my dear, you will make a fool of yourself.” Jean did not reply immediately. He could feel he was growing cowardly and he was ashamed; he wanted to make excuses and to tell her she was inventing.
“Never,” he asserted. “I would not do such an idiotic thing. I assure you it never even entered my head.” Then with an attempt at joking, he added, “Do you see me as the father of a family and jumping the kids on my knee. No, no, I am not cut out for that sort of thing. What makes you think I am, you who know me so well. The girl is nothing to me, as you know. She aroused my interest because she is a little different from the others, that’s all. I am too ripe for anything so green.” Then without pausing he went on, “Do you realize how truly charming you look in that white dress, it suits you down to the ground.”
“I am glad I meet with your approval,” she answered.
He continued, “Just now, when you asked me to see you home, every thing else went out of my head; I followed you without even stopping to say good-bye to any one. You attract me as the light attracts a moth. You have bewitched me, I no longer have any will of my own, your very glance holds me fascinated.”
He spoke in a dull, hurried tone. Her eyes, as she turned them to him were almost tender but a second after, an angry light flashed in them and with a disdainful curl of her lip, she answered: “Your declaration, if it is really one, is a little late, Mr. Maugrais. But I understand your situation. Entre les deux votre coeur balance, as you say in French. But you probably don’t know my motto.”
“No, tell me what it is, perhaps it is all or nothing. It would really lack originality if it was.”
At first she remained silent, absorbed in her thoughts. Then suddenly standing quite still, she slowly uttered the verses from Goethe’s Erlkonig.
“Und bist du nicht willing so brauch ich Gewalt.”
Maugrais cast a glance at her, that instant he received the impression she was made of steel.
“Gewalt,” he said, “Force …”
She gave a laugh in which veiled threats and good humour mingled.
“Not physical force, naturally … I leave that to Immersteht.”
They had reached the bridge connecting the Glacis with the Legation Quarter. A sentry, perched on the wall, watched them smiling to himself. They passed under the acacia trees along the British Legation avenue and walked on silently for a few seconds.
The American suddenly slackened her pace, she touched Maugrais’ hand lightly and said as if to herself:
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br /> “Jean, Jean, sometimes I think you must be blind or else what is still worse, just banal. I am afraid, my friend, you will hesitate too long between the insipidity of happiness and the dazzling joys of suffering and pain.” She said no more. A rickshaw stopped before them. Mr. Brixton got out.
“Hullo, he said cheerily, shaking Jean’s hand energetically. I haven’t seen you for ages. Come in and have a whiskey and soda.”
Rather upset at this encounter at such a moment, the young man refused.
“No thanks, I must go to the Club,” he said mechanically.
He took his leave and vanished in the direction of Legation street.
CHAPTER VII
WHEN the long file of rickshaws, horsemen and pedestrians crowded out of the town by the Ping Tze Men and dispersed along the broad road leading to the Western Hills, the sun was yet high in the Heavens. But it seemed already weary of darting forth its rays during the long hours and was ready to descend slowly towards the panting earth. A small motor followed the long string, its horn hooting shrilly from time to time. The noise it made disturbed the philosophical camels and caused them to shy in a manner not at all seemly to their stately dignity. The people in the car alighted at the gates and, like a flight of doves, a cloud of white frocks scattered about the golden road. To avoid the dust, they went into the kaoliang fields which stretched as far as the eye could see. Here and there were clumps of trees throwing their shade over the solitary graves where proud and watchful stood great stone monsters.
The ponies climbed the bank; in the radiant sunlight, their riders looked like equestrian statues surveying the brilliant country side. Only the rickshaws were unable to leave the road; they advanced slowly, their wheels sunk in the ruts and hidden in a cloud of dust. Gay voices sounded, calling to each other from group to group; fresh laughter rang from out the high kaoliang, such infectious laughter that even the horrible beggars who haunt the outskirts of the city stopped to look at the crowd of gay foreigners, the glimmer of a smile on their dull, worn faces.
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