A wooden bridge, fifty yards long, crosses the river.  It is practicable not only for foot-passengers, but for trains, and telegraph wires are stretched above its parapets.

On the opposite bank is the administrative town, which contains a considerable number of civil servants, wearing the usual Russian cap.

In reality the most interesting place to see is a sort of annexe, a Tekke village, in the middle of Merv, whose inhabitants have retained the villainous characteristics of this decaying race, the muscular bodies, large ears, thick lips, black beard.  And this gives the last bit of local color to be found in the new town.

At a turning in the commercial quarter we met the commercials, American and English.

“Mr. Ephrinell,” I said, “there is nothing curious in this modern Merv.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Bombarnac, the town is almost Yankee, and it will soon see the day when the Russians will give it tramways and gaslights!”

“That will come!”

“I hope it will, and then Merv will have a right to call itself a city.”

“For my part, I should have preferred a visit to the old town, with its mosque, its fortress, and its palace.  But that is a little too far off, and the train does not stop there, which I regret.”

“Pooh!” said the Yankee.  “What I regret is, that there is no business to be done in these Turkoman countries!  The men all have teeth—­”

“And the women all have hair,” added Horatia Bluett.

“Well, miss, buy their hair, and you will not lose your time.”

“That is exactly what Holmes-Holme of London will do as soon as we have exhausted the capillary stock of the Celestial Empire.”

And thereupon the pair left us.

I then suggested to Major Noltitz—­it was six o’clock—­to dine at Merv, before the departure of the train.  He consented, but he was wrong to consent.  An ill-fortune took us to the Hotel Slav, which is very inferior to our dining car—­at least as regards its bill of fare.  It contained, in particular, a national soup called “borchtch,” prepared with sour milk, which I would carefully refrain from recommending to the gourmets of the Twentieth Century.

With regard to my newspaper, and that telegram relative to the mandarin our train is “conveying” in the funereal acceptation of the word?  Has Popof obtained from the mutes who are on guard the name of this high personage?

Yes, at last!  And hardly are we within the station than he runs up to me, saying: 

“I know the name.”

“And it is?”

“Yen Lou, the great mandarin Yen Lou of Pekin.”

“Thank you, Popof.”

I rush to the telegraph office, and from there I send a telegram to the Twentieth Century.

“Merv, 16th May, 7 p.m.

“Train, Grand Transasiatic, just leaving Merv.  Took from Douchak the body of the great mandarin Yen Lou coming from Persia to Pekin.”