was that they should be kept absolutely secret.  And this time they were.  Except Prince Ching and one Tsungli Yamen Minister, nobody knew, nobody even guessed, that anything unusual was even “on the carpet,” as the French say; and in order to deepen the impression that no political anxieties were darkening the horizon, Robert Hart embarked in private theatricals—­a thing he had never done before, or since—­and played Pillicoddy.

Alas, the path of treaties never did run smooth!  When arrangements were just on the point of being concluded the Court suddenly desired to retract some of their promises, thinking too much had been given away.  This was a cruel blow to the I.G., who well knew that the French would never agree to the proposed changes and that the painstaking work of weeks would topple over like a house of cards.  As for China’s position in case the Treaty fell through, the less said about that the better.

Notwithstanding, the I.G. did speak of it, and forcibly, to Yamen Ministers, who did not listen—­not because they would not, but because they dared not for fear of exceeding their powers and bringing Imperial censure on their own heads.  What the I.G. must do, said they, was to send a telegram immediately to Paris and say the Treaty could not be signed as it was.  He promised to do this—­what else could he do?—­and went home from the Yamen disheartened, discouraged, and in no mood for work.

[Illustration:  STABLES OF SIR ROBERT HART IN THE RAINY SEASON.]

A weaker man would have “gloomed” openly; he did nothing more despairing than stroll into the office of one of his secretaries and have some talk about indifferent matters.  None the less it was an unusual thing for him to do, as, whenever they had business together, his secretaries came to him, and he must have been pushed to it by one of those mysterious impulses that sometimes shape men’s destinies.  Was it the same strange impulse that sent him over to the bookcase in the corner of the room, that made him pick out, at random, and without thinking what he was doing, a volume of the Chinese classics, and when he opened it carelessly made his eye light on the sentence “Kung Kwei Yih Kwei,”—­literally, the “work wants another basket”? (The phrase is part of one of Confucius’ sayings.) “If a man wants to build a hill so high,” says the Sage, “he must not refuse it the last basketful of earth.”

Here was a direct answer to the I.G.’s own perplexity.  Perhaps one more effort and his work, too, might be successful.  At any rate he would keep back the fatal telegram for a day.

Next morning he went to the Yamen again.  The first thing the Minister said to him was, “Have you sent that telegram?” And they were all anxiety till they had his reply, which, strange to say, they received with profound sighs of relief, for once again the Court had changed their minds—­had come to see the folly of risking a break in the negotiations—­and the Ministers, who feared the I.G. had already taken the step they had insisted on so firmly the day before, were prodigiously relieved to find nothing definite had been done.  Then, when he told them the reason, how Confucius had guided China from his grave, they were still more deeply impressed.