Under the Chinese Dragon: A Tale of Mongolia

by F. S. Brereton

It was queer to see even this somewhat Westernised native of the Celestial Kingdom cover his face and kowtow deeply when he mentioned the name of the Emperor of China, or when he even referred to that august personage. For while we in Europe give due observance and respect to rulers, and while the King of Great Britain and Ireland, and of the huge Empire we possess beyond the seas, is at once the king and the first gentleman in all our vast territories, yet one may speak of him without sign of fear, and without grovelling. But in China, the home of much that is extremely ancient and mysterious, the Son of Heaven, as the Emperor is known to his millions of people, is as far removed from the masses as is the sun from the earth. He is never seen save by the palace attendants. He lives for the most part in majestic seclusion. And should he venture abroad, borne in a palanquin of the utmost gorgeousness, it is not that he may be seen by those who bow to his rule; for in China it is death to look upon the Son of Heaven. All who happen to be abroad when the Emperor sets out in procession must fly to their houses, there to hide their faces, and if that is not possible, they must retire from the streets through which his cavalcade will pass, and turn towards the wall.

But if Jong were interested in Twang Chun, the governor of the province, so also was Alphonse.

'Parbleu!' he cried, when David accosted him, 'this is a man to cater for, this Excellency. I tell you he has travelled, he has dined on the best that Paris can provide, and where else, Monsieur David, in all this wide world is there entertainment to be found to equal that in Paris. Ah! You think in London. That is not so. I, Alphonse, tell you so. It is true that we send some of our finest gentlemen to London, some of the grandest chefs that we have ever produced. Bien! what then? There is the Parisian atmosphere. How can even the king of chefs turn out even so simple a thing as an omelet to perfection in your city of fogs and blizzards?'

The pompous little fellow bustled about his camp kitchen, still clad in those curious clothes, so altogether incongruous with such surroundings. The perspiration stood on his forehead, his peaky little beard was thrust if anything a little more abruptly forward, while the hideous hat he insisted on retaining was perched somewhat jauntily on the side of his head, where his energetic movements had jerked it.

'Nom du Roi, but he shall have a dinner to-night that even Monsieur le Président would not sniff at, this Excellency,' he cried, as he shifted pot and pan swiftly. 'Ah, you shall see, Monsieur David. Here, in the wilds, I will serve up a dainty feast that shall make the eyes to open. Yes, I tell you. Hors-d'œuvres to commence with. Soup, ah, you will wonder from what it is produced. An entrée a la Reine d'Angleterre that will make the Excellency clap his hands. Légumes! Pah! such a country as this is for their provision. I tell you not one haricot vert is there to be obtained between this and the south of China. But, there, it is not finished, the telling of this dinner. You shall see. You will applaud. His Excellency will be delighted, and when Monsieur le Professeur has complimented me, I, Alphonse, shall retire to bed as proud as any Emperor of China.'

That dinner was, indeed, a feather in the cap of the voluble and clever Frenchman. He surpassed all previous attempts in his culinary art, and delighted Twang Chun and all who sat at the table.

'My friend, this is indeed a surprise,' said the governor, when course followed course without cessation. 'And I speak not of the variety which you so liberally place before me. It is the cooking that delights my heart. Not that we in China do not produce chefs who study their profession, or art, whichever you style it; we do. But then the dishes are peculiar to the country. And there, believe me, is one of the charms of travel, even to the man who is not a gourmand. There is pleasure to be obtained by tasting food as foreigners eat it, and always there is charm in partaking of a dainty meal, such as this one, originating, as one may fairly claim, in Paris, and brought to a triumphant issue in the wilds of China. Ah! it brings one back to Western civilization.'

That night there was no happier nor prouder man in all the world than Alphonse. The statement is a bold and wide-sweeping one, we imagine, but still we repeat it. Alphonse was undoubtedly in the seventh heaven of enjoyment. The praise he received spurred him to greater effort, so that had Twang Chun been but a luke-warm friend on his arrival, he left the camp a firm and undoubted adherent of the party.

Then tents were packed, ponies laden, and the Professor and his staff set off for that Mongolian city.

'We shall have to chance trouble,' he said. 'I cannot afford not to see the place and undertake excavations. We must hope for the best, and if there is need, make good use of the escort the governor has promised.'