As it was dinner time, we sat down to table, or rather, we remained at the fireside, contemplating the pot, in which a good cut of beef had been boiling for some hours. Samdadchiemba, in his quality of steward, brought this to the surface of the liquid by means of a large wooden spoon, seized it with his nails, and threw it on the end of a board, where he cut it into three equal pieces; each then took his portion in his cup, and with the aid of a few rolls baked in the ashes, we tranquilly commenced our dinner without troubling ourselves very much about swindlers or spies. We were at our dessert—that is to say, we were about to rinse our cups with some buttered tea, when the two Lamas, the pretended merchants, made their re-appearance. “The Regent,” they said,
“awaits you in his palace; he wants to speak to you.” “But,” cried we, “does the Regent, perchance, also want to buy our old saddles?” “It is not a question about either saddles or merchandise. Rise at once, and follow us to the Regent.” The matter was now beyond a doubt; the government was desirous of meddling with us—to what end? Was it to do us good or ill, to give us liberty, or to shackle us? to let us live or to make us die? This we could not tell. “Let us go to the Regent,” we said, “and trust for the rest to the will of our heavenly Father.”
After having dressed ourselves in our best, and put on our majestic caps of fox-skin, we said to our apparitor, “We are ready.” “And this young man,” he said, pointing to Samdadchiemba, who had turned his eyes upon him with no very affectionate expression. “This young man, he is our servant, he will take care of the house in our absence.” “No, no, he must come too; the Regent wishes to see all three of you.” Samdadchiemba shook, by way of making his toilet, his great robe of sheepskin, placed, in a very insolent manner, a small black cap over his ear, and we departed all together, after padlocking the door of our lodging.
We went at a rapid pace for about five or six minutes, and then arrived at the palace of the First Kalon, the Regent of Thibet. After having crossed a large courtyard, where were assembled a great number of Lamas and Chinese, who began to whisper when they saw us appear, we were stopped before a gilt door, the folds of which stood ajar; our leader passed through a small corridor on the left, and an instant after the door was opened. At the farther end of an apartment, simply furnished, we perceived a personage sitting with crossed legs on a thick cushion covered with a tiger’s-skin: it was the Regent. With his right hand he made us a sign to approach. We went close up to him, and saluted him by placing our caps under our arms. A bench covered with a red carpet stood on our right; on this we were invited to sit down—we complied immediately. Meantime the gilt door was closed, and there remained in the saloon only the Regent and seven individuals, who stood behind him—namely, four Lamas of a modest and composed bearing, two sly-looking, mischievous-eyed Chinese, and a person whom, by his long beard, his turban, and grave countenance, we recognised to be a Mussulman. The Regent was a man of fifty years of age; his large features, mild and remarkably pallid, breathed a truly royal majesty; his dark eyes, shaded by long lashes, were intelligent and gentle. He was dressed in a yellow robe, edged with sable; a ring, adorned with diamonds, hung from his left ear, and his long, jet black hair was collected together at the top of his head, and fastened by three small gold combs. His large
red cap, set with pearls and surmounted by a coral ball, lay at his side on a green cushion.
When we were seated, the Regent gazed at us for a long while in silence, and with a minute attention. He turned his head alternately to the right and left, and smiled at us in a half mocking, half friendly manner. This sort of pantomime appeared to us at last so droll, that we could not help laughing. “Come,” we said in French, and in an undertone, “this gentleman seems a good fellow enough; our affair will go on very well.” “Ah!” said the Regent, in a very affable tone, “what language is that you speak? I did not understand what you said?” “We spoke the language of our country.” “Well, repeat aloud what you said just now.” “We said, ‘This gentleman seems a good-natured fellow enough.’” The Regent, turning to those who were standing behind him, said, “Do you understand this language?” They all bowed together, and answered that they did not understand it. “You see, nobody here understands the language of your country. Translate your words into the Thibetian.” We said, that in the physiognomy of the First Kalon there was expressed much kindliness. “Ah! you think I have much kindliness; yet I am very ill-natured. Is it not true that I am very ill-natured?” he asked his attendants. They answered merely by smiling. “You are right,” continued the Regent; “I am kind, for kindness is the duty of a Kalon. I must be kind towards my people, and also towards strangers.” He then addressed to us a long harangue, of which we could comprehend only a few sentences. When he had finished, we told him that, not being much accustomed to the Thibetian language, we had not fully penetrated the sense of his words. The Regent signed to a Chinese, who, stepping forward, translated to us his harangue, of which the following is the outline. We had been summoned without the slightest idea of being molested. The contradictory reports that had circulated respecting us since our arrival at Lha-Ssa, had induced the Regent to question us himself, in order to know where we came from. “We are from the western sky,” we said to the Regent. “From Calcutta?” “No; our country is called France.” “You are, doubtless, Peling?” “No, we are Frenchmen.” “Can you write?” “Better than speak.” The Regent, turning round, addressed some words to a Lama, who disappearing, returned in a moment with paper, ink, and a bamboo point. “Here is paper,” said the Regent; “write something.” “In what language—in Thibetian?” “No, write some letters in your own country’s language.” One of us took the paper on his knees, and wrote this sentence: “What avails it to man to conquer the whole world, if he lose his soul?” “Ah, here are characters
of your country! I never saw any like them; and what is the meaning of that?” We wrote the translation in Thibetian, Tartar, and Chinese, and handed it to him. “I have not been deceived,” he said; “you are men of great knowledge. You can write in all languages, and you express thoughts as profound as those we find in the prayer-books.” He then repeated, slowly moving his head to and fro, “What avails it to man to conquer the whole world if he lose his own soul?”
While the Regent and his attendants were indulging in their raptures at our wonderful knowledge, we heard on a sudden, in the courtyard of the palace, the cries of the crowd and the sonorous noise of the Chinese tamtam. “Here is the ambassador of Peking,” said the Regent, “he wishes to examine you himself. Tell him frankly what concerns you, and rely on my protection; it is I who govern the country.” This said, he quitted the saloon with his retinue through a small secret door, and left us alone in this judgment-hall.
The idea of falling into the hands of the Chinese made at first a disagreeable impression upon us; and the picture of those horrible persecutions which at different times have afflicted the christendoms of China, seized upon our imagination; but we soon recovered our spirits in the reflection that we were alone, and isolated as we were in the midst of Thibet, could not compromise any one. This thought gave us courage. “Samdadchiemba,” we said to our young neophyte, “now must we show that we are brave men, that we are Christians. This affair will perhaps proceed to great lengths; but let us never lose sight of eternity. If we are treated well, we shall thank God for it; if we are maltreated, we shall thank him nevertheless, for we shall have the happiness of suffering for the faith. If we are killed, the martyrdom will be a splendid crowning of all our labours. To arrive, after a journey of only eighteen months, in heaven, were not that a good journey? were not that happiness? What do you say, Samdadchiemba?” “I have never been in fear of death; if I am asked whether I am a Christian, you will see if I tremble.”
This excellent frame of mind in Samdadchiemba filled our hearts with joy, and completely dissipated the unpleasant impressions which this misadventure had occasioned. We thought for a moment of considering the questions that would probably be put to us, and the answers we should give; but we rejected this counsel of mere human prudence, reflecting that the moment had come for us to keep strictly to the injunction which our Saviour addressed to his disciples, that “when they were brought before the synagogues, governors, and kings, they should take no thought how or