Chapter Seventy-Four: An Unexpected Encounter

Yang Xiaolin finally confirmed to his brothers that all his earlier claims about not wanting to get involved with the widow were nothing but lies. The moment he saw the young mistress of the Zhao family, he didn’t even wait for her to speak again before taking out the money on his own initiative.

He didn’t just contribute money; he offered his labor as well. Together with several brothers, Yang Xiaolin erected a tombstone at Young Master Zhao’s grave. The stone was made from the finest material, and the inscriptions were painted in the best red lacquer. Yang Xiaolin believed that the man lying in this grave deserved nothing less. Though he was a bit foolish, unable to see that his unwavering loyalty was pledged to a regime unworthy of his devotion, from a national standpoint, he had acted with selfless righteousness.

He had dared to charge forward against the invaders’ gunfire, and for this alone, Yang Xiaolin respected him—he was a true man.

There were other reasons too, but Yang would never admit them, at least not now.

He had expected the young mistress to cry, but to his surprise, throughout the entire process of erecting the tombstone, she remained incomparably strong, not shedding a single tear.

“You must be wondering why I came to borrow money from you,” she said.

Yang Xiaolin was indeed puzzled. It seemed rather abrupt for her to approach him—after all, she should have turned to relatives, friends, or neighbors, any of whom would surely be willing to help. He was just an outsider, a stranger of unclear origin.

Kneeling before the grave, the young mistress suddenly revealed a sincere smile, as if recalling some happy memory. “He was always so proud. If I’d gone to relatives or neighbors, he would have found out. But you’re different. You didn’t know him, and even if you’d seen him, you wouldn’t recognize him. I just didn’t want him to know that the once-glorious Zhao family had to borrow money to erect his tombstone.”

After the others finished their work, they tactfully left, leaving only Yang Xiaolin and the young mistress by the grave. Yang Xiaolin poured a cup of wine from his flask and spilled it onto the earth. “He was a lucky man, to have married a woman like you. He should be smiling now.”

The young mistress took a stack of paper money; Yang Xiaolin lit it for her with a match and watched the flames consume it.

“What have you been doing lately? Why haven’t I seen you these past two days?” she asked.

“I found a job. I’ve been busy,” he replied.

“Helping foreigners?” she pressed.

Yang Xiaolin hesitated, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt. “Yes.”

She had been kneeling for so long that when she tried to stand, her legs failed her and she nearly stumbled. Yang Xiaolin quickly moved to support her—their first physical contact. Her face flushed red, but she naturally brushed aside his hand. “Lu Er hasn’t come around again. That Englishman came himself yesterday, insisting on buying my house. He somehow learned about my husband and threatened that if I refused, he’d go to the authorities and accuse my husband of being a rebel. Even though my husband is already buried, he said they would dig him up and scatter his bones.”

Yang Xiaolin was furious. He’d seen shameless people before, but never anyone quite like Robert! He said at once, “If he comes again, just tell Lu Mozong. They’ll take care of it for you.”

The young mistress glanced at him. “Was Lu Er dealt with by you as well?”

Yang Xiaolin was stunned. Her keen intelligence had once again caught him off guard—she always seemed to pick up on the slightest clues. In her presence, Yang Xiaolin found he had no desire to lie, so he answered with silence.

Silence was as good as an admission. She had found her answer in his quiet.

She didn’t press further, only remarked casually, “Why are men always like this? Even when you know it’s dangerous and survival is slim, you still won’t turn back?”

Yang Xiaolin replied, “Because we’re men. There are some things we simply have to do. There’s no choice.”

Her gaze met his, flickering with an unusual light, and Yang Xiaolin realized she was likely thinking of another man. A wave of sourness swept through him—no one wishes to be a substitute, not even for a moment.

She seemed to sense his turmoil, or perhaps she noticed her own loss of composure, for the look in her eyes quickly vanished. “I won’t sell the house to the foreigners. I’m thinking of burning it. Will you need it? If not, I’ll set it alight tomorrow.”

Yang Xiaolin asked, “If you burn it, where will you go?”

“I’ll raise my child. I’ll keep him safe. I won’t let him study anymore—some truths are better left unknown.”

Though she spoke with resolve, Yang Xiaolin heard the underlying note in her words—it was clear she had no plans for her own future. From now on, there was only the child’s future, not hers.

Yang Xiaolin turned to look at the grave, already beginning to grow over with grass. “I think, if he’s watching from above, he’d want you and your child to live well.”

The young mistress smiled, saying nothing. Anyone can speak words of comfort, but only those who have suffered truly understand the pain.

After a moment of silence, Yang Xiaolin finally said, “Let me use the house for a few days. When the time comes, I’ll help you burn it.”

She nodded slightly. “Be careful.”

On the day of the cocktail party, from early morning, the newly expanded French consulate was decorated with colorful ribbons in accordance with Chinese custom. The band from the bar had also been invited by the French and had started preparations since dawn.

Inside the French embassy, the arrangements were even more meticulous. Not only was the main hall for the party splendidly adorned, but the garden outside had also been carefully arranged. France is a romantic nation. In the eyes of the French, anything can be imperfect, but a cocktail party must be flawless.

Especially this time, as nearly all the embassies along Dongjiaomin Lane had undergone expansion, each country was competing with the others. If the size of the consulate was the hardware, then the quality of the cocktail party was the software.

Minister Shirley demanded that both hardware and software be first-class—at the very least, they must not be outdone by the Italians, who had just hosted a similar event a few days earlier.

Yang Xiaolin’s job was to cook. Early that morning, he started with a long shopping list, which Biaozi and a foreigner took to the market. This was also their only chance to smuggle guns into Dongjiaomin Lane.

Biaozi hadn’t left yet when Wu Daoliang arrived, sweating profusely. “Lu San, have you bought the groceries yet?”

Yang Xiaolin quickly handed the list to Biaozi. “Manager Wu, it’s still early. We’ll get everything in time, don’t worry.”

But Wu Daoliang’s face clearly spelled out anxiety. “You don’t know how much pressure Montault is putting on us! Even though the party is tonight, there will be some guests arriving this morning. Montault insists we have everything ready by eight o’clock. It’s enough to drive a man mad!”

Yang Xiaolin glanced at the large clock on the embassy’s tower. “Well, we’d better hurry then. Biaozi, go now, and make sure you get everything on the list. Don’t miss a single item.”

Biaozi understood the true meaning behind these words. This grocery run was their only chance to bring in the guns. Having a Frenchman with them could be a hindrance, but on the other hand, his presence meant the inspections at the gates would be less strict.

Biaozi tucked the list into his coat. “Don’t worry, Third Brother. We’ll be back before eight.”

Only when Biaozi had left did Wu Daoliang let out a long sigh of relief and turn to Yang Xiaolin again. “Lu San, make some noodles or something for everyone. We’ve all been busy since dawn, and quite a few people haven’t eaten yet.”

Yang Xiaolin’s eyes followed Biaozi’s departing figure as he answered absentmindedly, “Got it.”

As Biaozi headed for the gate, the haughty French nobleman was shouting orders, arranging the security. Although the embassy was in Dongjiaomin Lane, the French dared not be careless.

Yet their innate sense of romance dictated that the French soldiers had to participate; otherwise, Minister Shirley would lose favor. So Shirley assigned the African soldiers to take charge today.

The Indian soldiers were deemed unreliable—the French didn’t trust them with important tasks.

The African soldiers, however, were hardworking and uncomplaining, each standing in their designated spot, at least giving the appearance of strict security. Yang Xiaolin knew that tonight, he would have to get past them.

Biaozi’s eyes darted everywhere as he walked, but the Frenchman with him made no comment. In his mind, Chinese people from the Qing dynasty were always like this—unsophisticated and uncouth.

He only hurried Biaozi along when he walked too slowly, speaking in French that Biaozi couldn’t understand. But Biaozi knew enough to quicken his pace whenever the man spoke.

The two soon passed through the gate. Just as Biaozi turned his head to check the streets on either side of the consulate, he suddenly caught sight of Domlikshava walking side by side with another foreigner, heading straight toward them!

Their eyes met in mid-air, and Biaozi’s heart jolted. “Isn’t that the foreign woman from the other night? It can’t be her, can it?”

Domlikshava froze as well, her expression icy and rigid as a block of cold stone. Biaozi was certain he hadn’t mistaken her. In that instant, he felt an overwhelming urge to kill Erganzi!

Quickly, he averted his gaze. Had she recognized him? He didn’t know. If she hadn’t, why had she frozen with fear? But if she had recognized him, why hadn’t she called out? And if she really had recognized him, what would happen to the boss and the others still inside?

Biaozi’s heart pounded faster and faster, a sense of panic creeping in. He felt a wild impulse to kill the Frenchman beside him on the spot, then return and silence that woman as well! But he knew that would only make things worse.

So he strode forward, not daring to look back, his nerves in chaos.