"What's the matter with the filthy brute? He looks as though he'd seen a spirit!" It was Little An's harsh squeal, and I realised with a thrill of fear that he was staring at me. How I didn't start round in guilty panic, God knows; I forced myself to sit still—we were in the long ivory saloon of her pavilion, An standing beside her chair while she ate her supper of peaches sliced in honey and wine; myself on a stool about ten feet away. A few of her ladies were playing Go at the other end, laughing and chattering softly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Yehonala had turned to look at me, laying down her spoon. I took a deep breath, pressed my hands to my stomach, and belched gently. She laughed.
"Fried bread dragons. Or love-pangs for his Orchid—eh, Little An?" She returned to her peaches.
"Perhaps." To my consternation he walked towards me slowly, and I gave him my idiot smile as he paused before me, a thoughtful frown on his pudgy face. "Do you know, Orchid Lady," says he, watching me, "I have sometimes wondered if this … this stallion of yours … is as senseless as he seems. Once or twice … just now, for instance … I've wondered if he doesn't understand every word we say."
It was like a douche of cold water, but I daren't drop my eyes. I could only blink, without interest, and hope the thunder of my heart wasn't audible.
"What?" Her spoon tinkled into the dish. "Oh, what old wool! Barbarians don't speak our language, stupid!"
"Pa-hsia-li does. Like a school-master." His little eyes were bright with suspicion. "So will others. Perhaps this one."
"And never a word out of him in days? Or any sign of sense? Nonsense! What makes you think so—apart from malice?"
He continued to stare at me. "A look … an expression. A sense." He shrugged. "I may be wrong … but if I'm not, the tale of your pleasuring him will be the least he can tell." His eyes narrowed, and I knew what was coming—and began a cavernous yawn to cover the reaction which I knew he was going to startle out of me. Sure enough:
"Look at his thumb!" he squeaked.
Now, I defy anyone in my position not to twitch his thumb, or whatever extremity is mentioned—unless he has set his muscles and begun to yawn, which is a fine suppressor of the guilty start. Hutton, old Pam's Treasury gun-slinger, taught me that one. I saw the disappointment on Little An's face, and looked at him serenely.
"If you are right," says Yehonala, "then he understands us now."
I glanced at her, reasonably enough, since she'd spoken—and felt sick. She was frowning uncertainly, upright in her chair; she beckoned abruptly, so I got up and went over, meeting her stare with polite interest. After a moment:
"Do you understand me?' says she sharply, and I smiled hopefully as her eyes stayed steady on mine. Then she pointed at her feet, so I knelt upright in front of her, my face just below the level of her own, about two feet away. She continued to watch me intently, that lovely oval mask expressionless, and then said quietly:
"I don't know, An … but we must be sure. It's a pity. Take the sabre from the wall yonder … quietly. When I say `Begin' … strike."
If it was a bluff, it was bound to work. Even Hope Grant or Rudi Starnberg wouldn't have been able to repress a flicker when she spoke the fatal word, and my nerves weren't in the same parish as theirs. I didn't hear Little An move behind me, but I knew he'd be there, quietly poising that razor-sharp blade, waiting. I could only kneel patiently, praying the sweat wasn't starting from my brow, meeting her cold gaze with smiling inquiry as I would have done if I'd been innocent, letting my smile fade uncertainly as she didn't respond. I strove not to gulp, to look easy, knowing it was no go—unless I could think of something I was bound to flinch at the word. In desperation, I lowered my eyes, searching for inspiration … finally letting my glance stray to her bust; she was wearing one of those tight silk Manchoo dresses that button at the throat and are open to the breast-bone, leaving a gap through which appetising curves of Eve's puddings are to be seen; I stared with rapt interest, moving my head slightly for a better view, moistened my lips, and blew gently at the opening. She flinched, and I glanced up with an insolent suggestive twitch of the brow to let her see how my thoughts were running; there was a shadow of doubt in the dark eyes, so I returned to my leering contemplation of her bouncers with a contented sigh, leaning a little closer and blowing again, a longer sustained breeze this time …
"Begin," says she softly, and I continued to blow soft and steady, without a tremor, for I knew it was a bluff, and that Little An, far from holding a sabre over my head, was still ten feet away, watching. If you want to play double-dares with Flashy, don't do it when there's a polished walnut cabinet reflecting the room behind him.
"Idiot!" snaps Yehonala, and snatching up her spoon she flung it at An's head. "He doesn't understand a word! You're a snivelling old woman … and a spiteful little worm! Now get out, and leave us alone."
By George, I was glad to see the brute go; he'd had my innards in a rare turmoil for a few minutes, and I knew that now his suspicions were aroused he'd watch me like a lynx. Even in the small hours, when Yehonala had played us both out, I was still too nervous to go to sleep for fear I babbled in Chinese—and next day, to my consternation, I was confined to my room, with the door locked and a Mongol trooper of the Imperial Guards cavalry on sentry, which had never happened before. I glimpsed him when they brought my dinner—a hulking, shaven-headed rascal in a mail coat and yellow sleeves. I demanded in English to be let out, and they slammed the door on me without a word. I ate little dinner, I can tell you, pacing up and down my room with its high, impossibly tiny windows, asking myself if An had been poisoning her mind with suspicions, but as the day wore on my anxieties changed colour—something strange was doing in the Summer Palace. There was distant bustle in Yehonala's pavilion, voices raised and feet hurrying; outside in the garden, towards evening, there were unmistakable noises of horses going past, and a peremptory voice in Chinese: "I know the litters are there, but the third one's empty—no cushions or rugs! Why not?" An apologetic mumble, and then: "Well, get them! And stay with the grooms. If anyone wanders off, he'll walk to Jehol in a cangue!"
So she was going! Was Grant moving at last, then? But there hadn't been a single cannon-shot, ours or the Chinese; he couldn't be advancing on Pekin without some hysterical Tartar touching off a field piece, surely? Tang-chao was less than a dozen miles away—the sound of firing would carry easily … but the afternoon light was fading; it wasn't possible he was coming today, Yehonala's people must have had a false alarm—and then, far-off, there was the brazen whisper of a Manchoo trumpet, and a drum of approaching hoof-beats, a single rider pounding across the sward, voices calling anxiously at the front of the house, and a hoarse cry of alarm:
"The barbarians! Fly for your lives! They are in the city—the streets run with blood! Everyone is dead, the Temple of Heaven is overthrown, the shops are closed!"
I swear it's what he said—and even the last part wasn't true. Not a single allied soldier was in Pekin, nor even a gun threatening its walls, the Manchoo army was watching in vain … but the barbarians were coming, all right. Grant had slipped his hounds without so much as a shout, our cavalry was sweeping in from the north (the last place they might have been expected), with the Frog infantry in support—everyone got lost in the dark and went blundering about famously, but that only added to the Chinese confusion. I knew nothing of that as I listened to the uproar in the pavilion … and now footsteps were padding to my door, it was thrown open, and a eunuch came in, threw me a cloak, and jerked his thumb. I slipped it over the loose tunic and trousers that were my only clothes, and followed him out, my Mongol guard looming behind me as we made our way to the ivory saloon.