II

Eight o'clock in the evening. The long May twilight is almost over, and

the curious lanterns, some of glass with long strings of pearls, others

of rice-paper in the form of birds or of lotus blossoms, are everywhere

lighted among the old cedar branches on the esplanade of the Rotunda

Palace, which I had known plunged in such a melancholy abyss of

sadness and silence. To-night all is movement, life, gay light. Already

uniformed officers of all the nations of Europe, and Chinese, in long

silken robes, with official head-dresses from which depend peacock

feathers, are going and coming amid the wonderful decorations. A table

for seventy is set under a tent, and we are awaiting our incongruous

assembly of guests.

Followed by small suites, they arrive from all quarters of Pekin,

some on horseback, others in carriages, in chairs, or in sumptuous

palanquins. As soon as any person of distinction appears at the lower

door of the inclined plane, one of our military band, who is on the

lookout, orders the playing of the national air of his country. The

Russian Hymn follows the German, or the Japanese the march of the

Bersaglieri. Even the Chinese air is heard, for some one pompously

enters with a large red paper, which proves to be the visiting-card of

Li-Hung-Chang, who is below, but who, in accordance with the etiquette

of his country, is announced before he makes his appearance. Preceded

by similar cards, the Chief-Justice of Pekin and the Representative

Extraordinary of the Empress are the next to arrive. These Chinese

princes, who are to assist at our fête, come in gala palanquins, with a

cavalry escort, and they make their entrance with the most inscrutable

expressions on their faces, followed by a band of servants dressed

in silk. It was hard to have them! But Colonel Marchand, with the

general's permission, made it a point of honor to invite them. Mixed in

with our Western uniforms, mandarins' robes and pointed hats with the

coral button are numerous. Their presence at this barbarian feast right

in the heart of the Imperial City, which we have profaned, will remain

one of the most singular inconsistencies of our time.

Such a length of table as there is,--its legs resting on an imperial

carpet which seems to be made of thick yellow velvet! Bunches of

flowers are arranged in priceless, gigantic old cloisonné vases that

have been taken out of the reserves of the Empress for a single night.

Marshal von Waldersee, with the wife of the French minister at his

side, occupies the seat of honor; then two bishops in violet robes, the

generals and officers of the seven allied nations, five or six women

in evening dress, and, lastly, the three great princes of China, so

enigmatical in their embroidered silks, their eyes partly concealed by

their ceremonial hats and falling plumes.

* * * * *

At the close of this strange dinner, when the roses in the big,

precious vases are beginning to hang their heads, our general, toward

the close of his toast, turns to the Yellow Princes: "Your presence

here among us," he says, "is a sufficient proof that we did not come

here to make war against China, but only against an abominable sect,"

etc.

Then the Empress's representative takes up the ball with a suppleness

characteristic of the far East, and, without turning a hair, replies

(he was secretly a furious Boxer): "In the name of Her Imperial Chinese

Majesty, I thank the generous nations of Europe for having extended a

helping hand to our government in one of the gravest crises it has ever

passed through."

A stupefied silence follows, and then glasses are emptied.

During the banquet the esplanade is filled with many uniformed and

gaily dressed persons, of all sorts and colors, who are invited for

the evening. The toasts having come to an end with the reply of the

Chinese, I lean over the edge of the terrace to watch from on high and

from afar the lighting up of the entire place below.

Coming out from under the awnings and the cedar branches, which obscure

the view, it is a surprise and a delight to see the borders of the

lake and the melancholy, silent landscape,--in ordinary times dark,

disturbing, ghostly places as soon as night approaches,--as the lights

come on as if for some fantastic apotheosis.

Soldiers have been stationed in all the old palaces and temples that

are scattered amongst the trees, and in less than an hour, by climbing

along the enamelled tiles, they have lighted innumerable red lanterns,

which form lines of fire, outlining the curves of the multiple-storied

roofs and emphasizing the Chinese characteristic of the architecture

and the eccentricity of the miradors and towers. All along the tragic

lake where the bodies still lie, concealed in the grass, is a row of

lights; and as far as one can see the entire shadowy park, so ruined

and desolate, creates an illusion of gaiety. The old dungeon on the

Island of Jade throws out bright rays and blue fire. The Empress's

gondolas, so long stationary, and more or less damaged, are out

to-night on the reflecting waters, which, with the lights, remind one

of Venice. For a single night an appearance of life pervades these

phantoms of real things. And all this, never seen before, will never be

seen again.

What an astounding contrast with what I used to see when I was alone in

this palace in the autumn twilight! Along the lake groups of people in

ball dress instead of corpses,--my only neighbors last year,--and the

soft mildness of this May night instead of the glacial cold with which

I used to shiver as soon as the sun began to go down.

In the foreground, at the entrance to the Marble Bridge, the great Arc

de Triomphe of China, resplendent with gilding, shines out against

the evening sky, its values all emphasized by a profusion of lights.

Then the bridge across the lake is much lighted, although it seems

luminous itself in its eternal whiteness. In the distance the whole

phantasmagoria--empty palaces and pagodas--emerges from the obscurity

of the trees, and is reflected in the water in lines of fire.

Our five hundred guests are scattered about in sympathetic groups on

the borders of the lake beneath the spring-like verdure of the willows,

along the Marble Bridge or in the imperial gondolas. As they come down

from the terrace they are given gaily decorated lanterns on little

sticks, so that after a time these balls of color, scattered along the

paths, seem from a distance like a company of glow-worms.

From where I stand women in light evening wraps may be seen on the

arms of officers, crossing the white paving-stones of the bridge, or

seated in the stern of the long imperial barques, softly propelled by

the oarsmen. How strange it seems to see these Europeans, almost all

of whom underwent the tortures of the siege, walking quietly about

in dinner dress in the retreat of the sovereigns who had secretly

conspired to kill them!

Decidedly the place has lost all its horrors; there is so much light,

so many people, so many soldiers, that all the vague forms of ghosts

and evil spirits have been driven away for the night.

Something like approaching thunder is heard in the distance, which

proves to be the noise of about fifty tambourines announcing the

arrival of the procession. It was to form at the Yellow Gate, so as

to follow the line of the new avenue, and to disband at the foot of

the Rotunda Palace. The lights of the first division appear at the

entrance of the Marble Bridge, and begin to cross its magnificent white

archway. Cavalry, infantry, and music, all seem to be rolling on in our

direction, with enough noise from the brasses and the tambourines to

make the sepulchral walls of the Violet City tremble, while above the

heads of the thousands of soldiers groups and rows of extravagantly

Chinese colored lanterns are swinging to the movement of the horses'

hoofs or to the rhythm of human shoulders.

The troops have passed, but the procession is not nearly over. A sharp,

delirious noise that gets on one's nerves follows the marches played

by our musicians,--the noise of gongs, zithers, cymbals, bells. At the

same time gigantic green and yellow banners, curiously slashed and

of unusual proportions, begin to appear on the Marble Bridge, borne

by an advancing company of tall, slender persons, with astonishing

underpinnings, who are swinging along like bears. They prove to be my

stilt-walkers from Y-Tchou and from Laï-Chou-Chien from the vicinity

of the tombs, who have taken a three or four days' journey in order to

participate in this French fête!

Behind them a crescendo of gongs, cymbals, and other diabolical Chinese

instruments, announces the arrival of the dragons,--red and green

beasts twenty metres long. In some way or other they are lighted from

within, which by night gives them an incandescent appearance; above

the heads of the crowds they twist and undulate like the sulphurescent

serpents in a Buddhist hell. The entire scene reflected in the

water--the outline of palace and pagoda with their multiple roofs--is

emphasized by lines of red lights that shine brightly this moonless and

cloudy night.

When the big serpents have gone past, the Marble Bridge continues to

pour at our feet a stream of humanity, although an irregular one, which

moves tumultuously along with a formidable noise. It is the rest of our

troops, the free soldiers following the procession with lanterns, also

singing the "Marseillaise," or the "Sambre-et-Meuse," at the top of

their lungs. Along with them are German soldiers arm-in-arm with them,

increasing the volume of sound by adding their voices to the others,

and singing with all their might the old French songs.

* * * * *

Midnight. The myriads of little red lanterns on the cornices of the

old palace and pagodas have burned themselves out. Obscurity and the

usual silence have come back to the lake and to the imperial woods. The

Chinese princes have discreetly withdrawn, followed by their silk-robed

attendants, and have been borne far away in their palanquins to their

own dwellings in another part of the shadowy city.

It is now time for the cotillon, after a ball that was necessarily

short,--a ball that seemed an impossibility, for there were scarcely

a dozen dancing women, even including a pretty little twelve-year-old

girl and her governess, to five hundred dancing men. It took place in

the beautiful gilt pagoda, converted for the night into a ball-room;

the dancers occupied the centre of the great empty space beneath the

downcast gaze of the big alabaster goddess in the golden robes, who

was my companion of last summer in the solitude of this same palace,

together with a certain yellow and white cat. Poor goddess! A bed of

natural iris has been arranged for the evening at her feet, and the

injured background of her altar draped in blue satin, against the

magnificent folds of which her figure stands out in ideal whiteness;

her golden dress, embroidered with sparkling stones, shows to great

advantage.

In spite of all effort to light this sanctuary and to decorate it

with lanterns in the form of flowers and birds, it is too freakish a

place for a ball-room. It is impossible to light up the corners and

the gilded arches of the ceiling, and the presiding goddess is so

mysteriously pale as to be embarrassing with that smile of hers, which

seems to pity the puerility of our Occidental hopping and skipping; her

eyes are downcast, that she may not see. This feeling of embarrassment

is not peculiar to myself, for the young woman who is leading the

cotillon, seized by some sudden fancy, leaves the room, taking with her

the tambourine she is using in the figure that has just begun, and is

followed by both dancers and onlookers, so that the temple is emptied,

and our poor little cotillon, languidly continued for a time in the

open air, comes to an end under the cedars of the esplanade, where a

few lanterns are still burning.

* * * * *

One o'clock in the morning. Most of the guests have departed, having

far to go in the darkness before reaching their dwellings. A few of

the particularly faithful among the "Allies" remain, it is true, around

the buffet where the champagne continues to flow, and the toasts to

France grow warmer and warmer.

I was about to go off alone to my own palace, not far away, and was, in

fact, already on the inclined plane leading to the Lake of the Lotus,

when some one called out: "Wait for me; it will rest me to go along

with you."

It was Colonel Marchand, and we walked along together over the Marble

Bridge. The great winding sheet of silence and of night has fallen upon

the Imperial City that had been filled for a single evening with music

and light.

"Well," he questioned, "how did it go? what was your impression of it

all?" And I replied as I felt,--that it was magnificently unusual, in

a setting absolutely unparalleled.

Yet my friend Marchand seems rather depressed, and we scarcely speak,

except for the occasional word that suffices between friends. There

was, for one thing, the feeling of melancholy that comes from the

fading away into the past of an event--futile though it was--which had

brought us a few days' distraction from the preoccupations of life;

and more than all this, there was another feeling, common to us both,

which we understood almost without words as our heels clicked on the

marble pavement in the silence that from moment to moment grew more

solemn. It seemed to us that this evening had commemorated in a way the

irremediable downfall of Pekin, or rather the downfall of a people.

Whatever happens now, even though the remarkable Asiatic court comes

back here, which seems improbable, Pekin is over, its prestige gone,

its mysteries are open to the light of day.

Yet this Imperial City was one of the last refuges on earth of the

marvellous and the unknown, one of the last bulwarks of a humanity so

old as to be incomprehensible--nay, almost fabulous--to men of our

times.

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