Chapter 13 - Page 2

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.