The Secret of the Night
by
Gaston Leroux
Part 1 out of 6
The Secret of the Night
by Gaston Leroux
CONTENTS
Chapter
I GAYETY AND DYNAMITE
II NATACHA
III THE WATCH
IV "THE YOUTH OF Moscow Is DEAD"
V BY ROULETABILLE'S ORDER THE GENERAL PROMENADES
VI THE MYSTERIOUS HAND
VII ARSENATE OF SODA
VIII THE LITTLE CHAPEL OF THE GUARDS
IX ANNOUCHEA
X A DRAMA IN THE NIGHT
XI THE POISON CONTINUES
XII PERE ALEXIS
XIII THE LIVING BOMBS
XIV THE MARSHES
XV "I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU"
XVI BEFORE THE REVOLUTIONARY TRIBUNAL
XVII THE LAST CRAVAT
XVIII A SINGULAR EXPERIENCE
XIX THE TSAR
THE SECRET OF THE NIGHT
I
GAYETY AND DYNAMITE
"BARINIA, the young stranger has arrived."
"Where is he?"
"Oh, he is waiting at the lodge."
"I told you to show him to Natacha's sitting-room. Didn't you
understand me, Ermolai?"
"Pardon, Barinia, but the young stranger, when I asked to search
him, as you directed, flatly refused to let me."
"Did you explain to him that everybody is searched before being
allowed to enter, that it is the order, and that even my mother
herself has submitted to it?"
"I told him all that, Barinia; and I told him about madame your
mother."
"What did he say to that?"
"That he was not madame your mother. He acted angry."
"Well, let him come in without being searched."
"The Chief of Police won't like it."
"Do as I say."
Ermolai bowed and returned to the garden. The "barinia" left the
veranda, where she had come for this conversation with the old
servant of General Trebassof, her husband, and returned to the
dining-room in the datcha des Iles, where the gay Councilor Ivan
Petrovitch was regaling his amused associates with his latest
exploit at Cubat's resort. They were a noisy company, and certainly
the quietest among them was not the general, who nursed on a sofa
the leg which still held him captive after the recent attack, that
to his old coachman and his two piebald horses had proved fatal.
The story of the always-amiable Ivan Petrovitch (a lively, little,
elderly man with his head bald as an egg) was about the evening
before. After having, as he said, "recure la bouche" for these
gentlemen spoke French like their own language and used it among
themselves to keep their servants from understanding - after having
wet his whistle with a large glass of sparkling rosy French wine,
he cried:
"You would have laughed, Feodor Feodorovitch. We had sung songs
on the Barque* and then the Bohemians left with their music and we
went out onto the river-bank to stretch our legs and cool our faces
in the freshness of the dawn, when a company of Cossacks of the
Guard came along. I knew the officer in command and invited him to
come along with us and drink the Emperor's health at Cubat's place.
That officer, Feodor Feodorovitch, is a man who knows vintages and
boasts that he has never swallowed a glass of anything so common as
Crimean wine. When I named champagne he cried, 'Vive l'Empereur!'
A true patriot. So we started, merry as school-children. The
entire company followed, then all the diners playing little whistles,
and all the servants besides, single file. At Cubat's I hated to
leave the companion-officers of my friend at the door, so I invited
them in, too. They accepted, naturally. But the subalterns were
thirsty as well. I understand discipline. You know, Feodor
Feodorovitch, that I am a stickler for discipline. Just because
one is gay of a spring morning, discipline should not be forgotten.
I invited the officers to drink in a private room, and sent the
subalterns into the main hall of the restaurant. Then the soldiers
were thirsty, too, and I had drinks served to them out in the
courtyard. Then, my word, there was a perplexing business, for now
the horses whinnied. The brave horses, Feodor Feodorovitch, who
also wished to drink the health of the Emperor. I was bothered
about the discipline. Hall, court, all were full. And I could not
put the horses in private rooms. Well, I made them carry out
champagne in pails and then came the perplexing business I had tried
so hard to avoid, a grand mixture of boots and horse-shoes that was
certainly the liveliest thing I have ever seen in my life. But the
horses were the most joyous, and danced as if a torch was held under
their nostrils, and all of them, my word! were ready to throw their
riders because the men were not of the same mind with them as to
the route to follow! From our window we laughed fit to kill at such
a mixture of sprawling boots and dancing hoofs. But the troopers
finally got all their horses to barracks, with patience, for the
Emperor's cavalry are the best riders in the world, Feodor
Feodorovitch. And we certainly had a great laugh! - Your health,
Matrena Petrovna."
[*The "Barque" is a restaurant on a boat, among the isles,
near the Gulf of Finland, on a bank of the Neva.]
These last graceful words were addressed to Madame Trebassof, who
shrugged her shoulders at the undesired gallantry of the gay
Councilor. She did not join in the conversation, excepting to
calm the general, who wished to send the whole regiment to the
guard-house, men and horses. And while the roisterers laughed over
the adventure she said to her husband in the advisory voice of the
helpful wife:
"Feodor, you must not attach importance to what that old fool Ivan
tells you. He is the most imaginative man in the capital when he
has had champagne."
"Ivan, you certainly have not had horses served with champagne in
pails," the old boaster, Athanase Georgevitch, protested jealously.
He was an advocate, well-known for his table-feats, who claimed the
hardest drinking reputation of any man in the capital, and he
regretted not to have invented that tale.
"On my word! And the best brands! I had won four thousand
roubles. I left the little fete with fifteen kopecks."
Matrena Petrovna was listening to Ermolai, the faithful country
servant who wore always, even here in the city, his habit of fresh
nankeen, his black leather belt, his large blue pantaloons and his
boots glistening like ice, his country costume in his master's city
home. Madame Matrena rose, after lightly stroking the hair of her
step-daughter Natacha, whose eyes followed her to the door,
indifferent apparently to the tender manifestations of her father's
orderly, the soldier-poet, Boris Mourazoff, who had written
beautiful verses on the death of the Moscow students, after having
shot them, in the way of duty, on their barricades.
Ermolai conducted his mistress to the drawing-room and pointed
across to a door that he had left open, which led to the
sitting-room before Natacha's chamber.
"He is there," said Ermolai in a low voice.
Ermolai need have said nothing, for that matter, since Madame
Matrena was aware of a stranger's presence in the sitting-room
by the extraordinary attitude of an individual in a maroon
frock-coat bordered with false astrakhan, such as is on the coats
of all the Russian police agents and makes the secret agents
recognizable at first glance. This policeman was on his knees
in the drawing-room watching what passed in the next room through
the narrow space of light in the hinge-way of the door. In this
manner, or some other, all persons who wished to approach General
Trebassof were kept under observation without their knowing it,
after having been first searched at the lodge, a measure adopted
since the latest attack.
Madame Matrena touched the policeman's shoulder with that heroic
hand which had saved her husband's life and which still bore traces
of the terrible explosion in the last attack, when she had seized
the infernal machine intended for the general with her bare hand.
The policeman rose and silently left the room, reached the veranda
and lounged there on a sofa, pretending to be asleep, but in
reality watching the garden paths.
Matrena Petrovna took his place at the hinge-vent. This was her
rule; she always took the final glance at everything and everybody.
She roved at all hours of the day and night round about the general,
like a watch-dog, ready to bite, to throw itself before the danger,
to receive the blows, to perish for its master. This had commenced
at Moscow after the terrible repression, the massacre of
revolutionaries under the walls of Presnia, when the surviving
Nihilists left behind them a placard condemning the victorious
General Trebassof to death. Matrena Petrovna lived only for the
general. She had vowed that she would not survive him. So she had
double reason to guard him.
But she had lost all confidence even within the walls of her own
home.
Things had happened even there that defied her caution, her
instinct, her love. She had not spoken of these things save to the
Chief of Police, Koupriane, who had reported them to the Emperor.
And here now was the man whom the Emperor had sent, as the supreme
resource, this young stranger - Joseph Rouletabille, reporter.
"But he is a mere boy!" she exclaimed, without at all understanding
the matter, this youthful figure, with soft, rounded cheeks, eyes
clear and, at first view, extraordinarily naive, the eyes of an
infant. True, at the moment Rouletabille's expression hardly
suggested any superhuman profundity of thought, for, left in view
of a table, spread with hors-d'oeuvres, the young man appeared
solely occupied in digging out with a spoon all the caviare that
remained in the jars. Matrena noted the rosy freshness of his
cheeks, the absence of down on his lip and not a hint of beard, the
thick hair, with the curl over the forehead. Ah, that forehead
- the forehead was curious, with great over-hanging cranial lumps
which moved above the deep arcade of the eye-sockets while the mouth
was busy - well, one would have said that Rouletabille had not
eaten for a week. He was demolishing a great slice of Volgan
sturgeon, contemplating at the same time with immense interest a
salad of creamed cucumbers, when Matrena Petrovna appeared.
He wished to excuse himself at once and spoke with his mouth full.
"I beg your pardon, madame, but the Czar forgot to invite me to
breakfast."
Madame Matrena smiled and gave him a hearty handshake as she urged
him to be seated.
"You have seen His Majesty?"
"I come from him, madame. It is to Madame Trebassof that I have
the honor of speaking?"
"Yes. And you are Monsieur - ?"
"Joseph Rouletabille, madame. I do not add, 'At your service
- because I do not know about that yet. That is what I said just
now to His Majesty."
"Then?" asked Madame Matrena, rather amused by the tone the
conversation had taken and the slightly flurried air of Rouletabille.
"Why, then, I am a reporter, you see. That is what I said at once
to my editor in Paris, 'I am not going to take part in revolutionary
affairs that do not concern my country,' to which my editor replied,
'You do not have to take part. You must go to Russia to make an
inquiry into the present status of the different parties. You will
commence by interviewing the Emperor.' I said, 'Well, then, here
goes,' and took the train."
"And you have interviewed the Emperor?"
"Oh, yes, that has not been difficult. I expected to arrive direct
at St. Petersburg, but at Krasnoie-Coelo the train stopped and the
grand-marshal of the court came to me and asked me to follow him.
It was very flattering. Twenty minutes later I was before His
Majesty. He awaited me! I understood at once that this was
obviously for something out of the ordinary."
"And what did he say to you?"
"He is a man of genuine majesty. He reassured me at once when I
explained my scruples to him. He said there was no occasion for me
to take part in the politics of the matter, but to save his most
faithful servant, who was on the point of becoming the victim of
the strangest family drama ever conceived."
Madame Matrena, white as a sheet, rose to her feet.
"Ah," she said simply.
But Rouletabille, whom nothing escaped, saw her hand tremble on the
back of the chair.
He went on, not appearing to have noticed her emotion:
"His Majesty added these exact words: 'It is I who ask it of you;
I and Madame Trebassof. Go, monsieur, she awaits you'"
He ceased and waited for Madame Trebassof to speak.
She made up her mind after brief reflection.
"Have you seen Koupriane?"
"The Chief of Police? Yes. The grand-marshal accompanied me back
to the station at Krasnoie-Coelo, and the Chief of Police
accompanied me to St. Petersburg station. One could not have been
better received."
"Monsieur Rouletabille," said Matrena, who visibly strove to regain
her self-control, "I am not of Koupriane's opinion and I am not"
- here she lowered her trembling voice - " of the opinion His
Majesty holds. It is better for me to tell you at once, so that
you may not regret intervening in an affair where there are - where
there are - risks - terrible risks to run. No, this is not a family
drama. The family is small, very small: the general, his daughter
Natacha (by his former marriage), and myself. There could not be a
family drama among us three. It is simply about my husband,
monsieur, who did his duty as a soldier in defending the throne of
his sovereign, my husband whom they mean to assassinate! There is
nothing else, no other situation, my dear little guest."
To hide her distress she started to carve a slice of jellied veal
and carrot.
"You have not eaten, you are hungry. It is dreadful, my dear young
man. See, you must dine with us, and then - you will say adieu.
Yes, you will leave me all alone. I will undertake to save him all
alone. Certainly, I will undertake it."
A tear fell on the slice she was cutting. Rouletabille, who felt
the brave woman's emotion affecting him also, braced himself to keep
from showing it.
"I am able to help you a little all the same," he said. "Monsieur
Koupriane has told me that there is a deep mystery. It is my
vocation to get to the bottom of mysteries."
"I know what Koupriane thinks," she said, shaking her head. "But
if I could bring myself to think that for a single day I would
rather be dead."
The good Matrena Petrovna lifted her beautiful eyes to Rouletabille,
brimming with the tears she held back.
She added quickly:
"But eat now, my dear guest; eat. My dear child, you must forget
what Koupriane has said to you, when you are back in France."
"I promise you that, madame."
"It is the Emperor who has caused you this long journey. For me,
I did not wish it. Has he, indeed, so much confidence in you?" she
asked naively, gazing at him fixedly through her tears.
"Madame, I was just about to tell you. I have been active in some
important matters that have been reported to him, and then sometimes
your Emperor is allowed to see the papers. He has heard talk, too
(for everybody talked of them, madame), about the Mystery of the
Yellow Room and the Perfume of the Lady in Black."
Here Rouletabille watched Madame Trebassof and was much mortified
at the undoubted ignorance that showed in her frank face of either
the yellow room or the black perfume.
"My young friend," said she, in a voice more and more hesitant,
"you must excuse me, but it is a long time since I have had good
eyes for reading."
Tears, at last, ran down her cheeks.
Rouletabille could not restrain himself any further. He saw in one
flash all this heroic woman had suffered in her combat day by day
with the death which hovered. He took her little fat hands, whose
fingers were overloaded with rings, tremulously into his own:
"Madame, do not weep. They wish to kill your husband. Well then,
we will be two at least to defend him, I swear to you."
"Even against the Nihilists!"
"Aye, madame, against all the world. I have eaten all your caviare.
I am your guest. I am your friend."
As he said this he was so excited, so sincere and so droll that
Madame Trebassof could not help smiling through her tears. She made
him sit down beside her.
"The Chief of Police has talked of you a great deal. He came here
abruptly after the last attack and a mysterious happening that I
will tell you about. He cried, 'Ah, we need Rouletabille to unravel
this!' The next day he came here again. He had gone to the Court.
There, everybody, it appears, was talking of you. The Emperor
wished to know you. That is why steps were taken through the
ambassador at Paris."
"Yes, yes. And naturally all the world has learned of it. That
makes it so lively. The Nihilists warned me immediately that I
would not reach Russia alive. That, finally, was what decided me
on coming. I am naturally very contrary."
"And how did you get through the journey?"
"Not badly. I discovered at once in the train a young Slav assigned
to kill me, and I reached an understanding with him. He was a
charming youth, so it was easily arranged."
Rouletabille was eating away now at strange viands that it would
have been difficult for him to name. Matrena Petrovna laid her fat
little hand on his arm:
"You speak seriously?"
"Very seriously."
"A small glass of vodka?"
"No alcohol."
Madame Matrena emptied her little glass at a draught.
"And how did you discover him? How did you know him?"
"First, he wore glasses. All Nihilists wear glasses when traveling.
And then I had a good clew. A minute before the departure from
Paris I had a friend go into the corridor of the sleeping-car, a
reporter who would do anything I said without even wanting to know
why. I said, 'You call out suddenly and very loud, "Hello, here is
Rouletabille."' So he called, 'Hello, here is Rouletabille,' and
all those who were in the corridor turned and all those who were
already in the compartments came out, excepting the man with the
glasses. Then I was sure about him."
Madame Trebassof looked at Rouletabile, who turned as red as the
comb of a rooster and was rather embarrassed at his fatuity.
"That deserves a rebuff, I know, madame, but from the moment the
Emperor of all the Russias had desired to see me I could not admit
that any mere man with glasses had not the curiosity to see what
I looked like. It was not natural. As soon as the train was off
I sat down by this man and told him who I thought he was. I was
right. He removed his glasses and, looking me straight in the eyes,
said he was glad to have a little talk with me before anything
unfortunate happened. A half-hour later the entente-cordiale was
signed. I gave him to understand that I was coming here simply on
business as a reporter and that there was always time to check me
if I should be indiscreet. At the German frontier he left me to
go on, and returned tranquilly to his nitro-glycerine."
"You are a marked man also, my poor boy."
"Oh, they have not got us yet."
Matrena Petrovna coughed. That _us_ overwhelmed her. With what
calmness this boy that she had not known an hour proposed to share
the dangers of a situation that excited general pity but from which
the bravest kept aloof either from prudence or dismay.
"Ah, my friend, a little of this fine smoked Hamburg beef?"
But the young man was already pouring out fresh yellow beer.
"There," said he. "Now, madame, I am listening. Tell me first
about the earliest attack."
"Now," said Matrena, "we must go to dinner."
Rouletabille looked at her wide-eyed.
"But, madame, what have I just been doing?"
Madame Matrena smiled. All these strangers were alike. Because
they had eaten some hors-d'ceuvres, some zakouskis, they imagined
their host would be satisfied. They did not know how to eat.
"We will go to the dining-room. The general is expecting you.
They are at table."
"I understand I am supposed to know him."
"Yes, you have met in Paris. It is entirely natural that in passing
through St. Petersburg you should make him a visit. You know him
very well indeed, so well that he opens his home to you. Ah, yes,
my step-daughter also " - she flushed a little - " Natacha believes
that her father knows you."
She opened the door of the drawing-room, which they had to cross in
order to reach the dining-room.
From his present position Rouletabille could see all the corners of
the drawing-room, the veranda, the garden and the entrance lodge at
the gate. In the veranda the man in the maroon frock-coat trimmed
with false astrakhan seemed still to be asleep on the sofa; in one
of the corners of the drawing-room another individual, silent and
motionless as a statue, dressed exactly the same, in a maroon
frock-coat with false astrakhan, stood with his hands behind his
back seemingly struck with general paralysis at the sight of a
flaring sunset which illumined as with a torch the golden spires of
Saints Peter and Paul. And in the garden and before the lodge
three others dressed in maroon roved like souls in pain over the
lawn or back and forth at the entrance. Rouletabille motioned to
Madame Matrena, stepped back into the sitting-room and closed the
door.
"Police?" he asked.
Matrena Petrovna nodded her head and put her finger to her mouth
in a naive way, as one would caution a child to silence.
Rouletabille smiled.
"How many are there?"
"Ten, relieved every six hours."
"That makes forty unknown men around your house each day."
"Not unknown," she replied. "Police."
"Yet, in spite of them, you have had the affair of the bouquet in
the general's chamber."
"No, there were only three then. It is since the affair of the
bouquet that there have been ten."
"It hardly matters. It is since these ten that you have had ..."
"What?" she demanded anxiously.
"You know well - the flooring."
"Sh-h-h."
She glanced at the door, watching the policeman statuesque before
the setting sun.
"No one knows that - not even my husband."
"So M. Koupriane told me. Then it is you who have arranged for
these ten police-agents?"
"Certainly."
"Well, we will commence now by sending all these police away."
Matrena Petrovna grasped his hand, astounded.
"Surely you don't think of doing such a thing as that!"
"Yes. We must know where the blow is coming from. You have four
different groups of people around here - the police, the domestics,
your friends, your family. Get rid of the police first. They must
not be permitted to cross your threshold. They have not been able
to protect you. You have nothing to regret. And if, after they
are gone, something new turns up, we can leave M. Koupriane to
conduct the inquiries without his being preoccupied here at the
house."
"But you do not know the admirable police of Koupriane. These brave
men have given proof of their devotion."
"Madame, if I were face to face with a Nihilist the first thing I
would ask myself about him would be, 'Is he one of the police?'
The first thing I ask in the presence of an agent of your police is,
'Is he not a Nihilist?'"
"But they will not wish to go."
"Do any of them speak French?"
"Yes, their sergeant, who is out there in the salon."
"Pray call him."
Madame Trebassof walked into the salon and signaled. The man
appeared. Rouletabille handed him a paper, which the other read.
"You will gather your men together and quit the villa," ordered
Rouletabille. "You will return to the police Headguarters. Say to
M. Koupriane that I have commanded this and that I require all police
service around the villa to be suspended until further orders."
The man bowed, appeared not to understand, looked at Madame
Trebassof and said to the young man:
"At your service."
He went out.
"Wait here a moment," urged Madame Trebassof, who did not know how
to take this abrupt action and whose anxiety was really painful
to see.
She disappeared after the man of the false astrakhan. A few moments
afterwards she returned. She appeared even more agitated.
"I beg your pardon," she murmured, "but I cannot let them go like
this. They are much chagrined. They have insisted on knowing where
they have failed in their service. I have appeased them with money."
"Yes, and tell me the whole truth, madame. You have directed them
not to go far away, but to remain near the villa so as to watch it
as closely as possible."
She reddened.
"It is true. But they have gone, nevertheless. They had to obey
you. What can that paper be you have shown them?"
Rouletabille drew out again the billet covered with seals and signs
and cabalistics that he did not understand. Madame Trebassof
translated it aloud: "Order to all officials in surveillance of the
Villa Trebassof to obey the bearer absolutely. Signed: Koupriane."
"Is it possible!" murmured Matrena Petrovna. "But Koupriane would
never have given you this paper if he had imagined that you would
use it to dismiss his agents."
"Evidently. I have not asked him his advice, madame, you may be
sure. But I will see him to-morrow and he will understand."
"Meanwhile, who is going to watch over him?" cried she.
Rouletabille took her hands again. He saw her suffering, a prey
to anguish almost prostrating. He pitied her. He wished to give
her immediate confidence.
"We will," he said.
She saw his young, clear eyes, so deep, so intelligent, the
well-formed young head, the willing face, all his young ardency for
her, and it reassured her. Rouletabille waited for what she might
say. She said nothing. She took him in her arms and embraced him.
II
NATACHA
In the dining-room it was Thaddeus Tchnichnikoff's turn to tell
hunting stories. He was the greatest timber-merchant in Lithuania.
He owned immense forests and he loved Feodor Feodorovitch* as a
brother, for they had played together all through their childhood,
and once he had saved him from a bear that was just about to crush
his skull as one might knock off a hat. General Trebassof's father
was governor of Courlande at that time, by the grace of God and the
Little Father. Thaddeus, who was just thirteen years old, killed
the bear with a single stroke of his boar-spear, and just in time.
Close ties were knit between the two families by this occurrence,
and though Thaddeus was neither noble-born nor a soldier, Feodor
considered him his brother and felt toward him as such. Now
Thaddeus had become the greatest timber-merchant of the western
provinces, with his own forests and also with his massive body,
his fat, oily face, his bull-neck and his ample paunch. He quitted
everything at once - all his affairs, his family - as soon as he
learned of the first attack, to come and remain by the side of his
dear comrade Feodor. He had done this after each attack, without
forgetting one. He was a faithful friend. But he fretted because
they might not go bear-hunting as in their youth. 'Where, he would
ask, are there any bears remaining in Courlande, or trees for that
matter, what you could call trees, growing since the days of the
grand-dukes of Lithuania, giant trees that threw their shade right
up to the very edge of the towns? Where were such things nowadays?
Thaddeus was very amusing, for it was he, certainly, who had cut
them away tranquilly enough and watched them vanish in locomotive
smoke. It was what was called Progress. Ah, hunting lost its
national character assuredly with tiny new-growth trees which had
not had time to grow. And, besides, one nowadays had not time for
hunting. All the big game was so far away. Lucky enough if one
seized the time to bring down a brace of woodcock early in the
morning. At this point in Thaddeus's conversation there was a
babble of talk among the convivial gentlemen, for they had all the
time in the world at their disposal and could not see why he should
be so concerned about snatching a little while at morning or
evening, or at midday for that matter. Champagne was flowing like
a river when Rouletabille was brought in by Matrena Petrovna. The
general, whose eyes had been on the door for some time, cried at
once, as though responding to a cue:
"Ah, my dear Rouletabille! I have been looking for you. Our
friends wrote me you were coming to St. Petersburg."
_____________________________________________________________________
*In this story according to Russian habit General Trebassof is
called alternately by that name or the family name Feodor
Feodorovitch, and Madame Trebassof by that name or her family
name, Matrena Petrovna.- Translator's Note.
_____________________________________________________________________
Rouletabille hurried over to him and they shook hands like friends
who meet after a long separation. The reporter was presented to
the company as a close young friend from Paris whom they had enjoyed
so much during their latest visit to the City of Light. Everybody
inquired for the latest word of Paris as of a dear acquaintance.
"How is everybody at Maxim's?" urged the excellent Athanase
Georgevitch.
Thaddeus, too, had been once in Paris and he returned with an
enthusiastic liking for the French demoiselles.
"Vos gogottes, monsieur," he said, appearing very amiable and
leaning on each word, with a guttural emphasis such as is common
in the western provinces, "ah, vos gogottes!"
Matrena Perovna tried to silence him, but Thaddeus insisted on his
right to appreciate the fair sex away from home. He had a turgid,
sentimental wife, always weeping and cramming her religious notions
down his throat.
Of course someone asked Rouletabille what he thought of Russia, but
he had no more than opened his mouth to reply than Athanase
Georgevitch closed it by interrupting:
"Permettez! Permettez! You others, of the young generation, what
do you know of it? You need to have lived a long time and in all
its districts to appreciate Russia at its true value. Russia,
my young sir, is as yet a closed book to you."
"Naturally," Rouletabille answered, smiling.
"Well, well, here's your health! What I would point out to you
first of all is that it is a good buyer of champagne, eh?" - and
he gave a huge grin. "But the hardest drinker I ever knew was born
on the banks of the Seine. Did you know him, Feodor Feodorovitch?
Poor Charles Dufour, who died two years ago at fete of the officers
of the Guard. He wagered at the end of the banquet that he could
drink a glassful of champagne to the health of each man there.
There were sixty when you came to count them. He commenced the
round of the table and the affair went splendidly up to the
fifty-eighth man. But at the fifty-ninth - think of the
misfortune! - the champagne ran out! That poor, that charming,
that excellent Charles took up a glass of vin dore which was in the
glass of this fifty-ninth, wished him long life, drained the glass
at one draught, had just time to murmur, 'Tokay, 1807,' and fell
back dead! Ah, he knew the brands, my word! and he proved it to
his last breath! Peace to his ashes! They asked what he died of.
I knew he died because of the inappropriate blend of flavors. There
should be discipline in all things and not promiscuous mixing. One
more glass of champagne and he would have been drinking with us
this evening. Your health, Matrena Petrovna. Champagne, Feodor
Feodorovitch! Vive la France, monsieur! Natacha, my child, you
must sing something. Boris will accompany you on the guzla. Your
father will enjoy it."
All eyes turned toward Natacha as she rose.
Rouletabille was struck by her serene beauty. That was the first
enthralling impression, an impression so strong it astonished him,
the perfect serenity, the supreme calm, the tranquil harmony of her
noble features. Natacha was twenty. Heavy brown hair circled about
er forehead and was looped about her ears, which were half-concealed.
Her profile was clear-cut; her mouth was strong and revealed between
red, firm lips the even pearliness of her teeth. She was of medium
height. In walking she had the free, light step of the highborn
maidens who, in primal times, pressed the flowers as they passed
without crushing them. But all her true grace seemed to be
concentrated in her eyes, which were deep and of a dark blue.
The impression she made upon a beholder was very complex. And it
would have been difficult to say whether the calm which pervaded
every manifestation of her beauty was the result of conscious
control or the most perfect ease.
She took down the guzla and handed it to Boris, who struck some
plaintive preliminary chords.
"What shall I sing?" she inquired, raising her father's hand from
the back of the sofa where he rested and kissing it with filial
tenderness.
"Improvise," said the general. "Improvise in French, for the sake
of our guest."
"Oh, yes," cried Boris; "improvise as you did the other evening."
He immediately struck a minor chord.
Natacha looked fondly at her father as she sang:
"When the moment comes that parts us at the close of day,
when the Angel of Sleep covers you with azure wings;
"Oh, may your eyes rest from so many tears, and your oppressed
heart have calm;
"In each moment that we have together, Father dear, let our
souls feel harmony sweet and mystical;
"And when your thoughts may have flown to other worlds, oh, may
my image, at least, nestle within your sleeping eyes."
Natacha's voice was sweet, and the charm of it subtly pervasive.
The words as she uttered them seemed to have all the quality of a
prayer and there were tears in all eyes, excepting those of Michael
Korsakoff, the second orderly, whom Rouletabille appraised as a man
with a rough heart not much open to sentiment.
"Feodor Feodorovitch," said this officer, when the young girl's
voice had faded away into the blending with the last note of the
guzla, "Feodor Feodorovitch is a man and a glorious soldier who is
able to sleep in peace, because he has labored for his country and
for his Czar."
"Yes, yes. Labored well! A glorious soldier!" repeated Athanase
Georgevitch and Ivan Petrovitch. "Well may he sleep peacefully."
"Natacha sang like an angel," said Boris, the first orderly, in a
tremulous voice.
"Like an angel, Boris Nikolaievitch. But why did she speak of his
heart oppressed? I don't see that General Trebassof has a heart
oppressed, for my part." Michael Korsakoff spoke roughly as he
drained his glass.
"No, that's so, isn't it?" agreed the others.
"A young girl may wish her father a pleasant sleep, surely!" said
Matrena Petrovna, with a certain good sense. "Natacha has affected
us all, has she not, Feodor?"
"Yes, she made me weep," declared the general. "But let us have
champagne to cheer us up. Our young friend here will think we
are chicken-hearted."
"Never think that," said Rouletabille. "Mademoiselle has touched
me deeply as well. She is an artist, really a great artist. And
a poet."
"He is from Paris; he knows," said the others.
And all drank.
Then they talked about music, with great display of knowledge
concerning things operatic. First one, then another went to the
piano and ran through some motif that the rest hummed a little
first, then shouted in a rousing chorus. Then they drank more,
amid a perfect fracas of talk and laughter. Ivan Petrovitch and
Athanase Georgevitch walked across and kissed the general.
Rouletabille saw all around him great children who amused
themselves with unbelievable naivete and who drank in a fashion
more unbelievable still. Matrena Petrovna smoked cigarettes of
yellow tobacco incessantly, rising almost continually to make a
hurried round of the rooms, and after having prompted the servants
to greater watchfulness, sat and looked long at Rouletabille, who
did not stir, but caught every word, every gesture of each one
there. Finally, sighing, she sat down by Feodor and asked how his
leg felt. Michael and Natacha, in a corner, were deep in
conversation, and Boris watched them with obvious impatience, still
strumming the guzla. But the thing that struck Rouletabille's
youthful imagination beyond all else was the mild face of the
general. He had not imagined the terrible Trebassof with so
paternal and sympathetic an expression. The Paris papers had
printed redoubtable pictures of him, more or less authentic, but
the arts of photography and engraving had cut vigorous, rough
features of an official - who knew no pity. Such pictures were in
perfect accord with the idea one naturally had of the dominating
figure of the government at Moscow, the man who, during eight
days - the Red Week - had made so many corpses of students and
workmen that the halls of the University and the factories had
opened their doors since in vain. The dead would have had to arise
for those places to be peopled! Days of terrible battle where in
one quarter or another of the city there was naught but massacre or
burnings, until Matrena Petrovna and her step-daughter, Natacha
(all the papers told of it), had fallen on their knees before the
general and begged terms for the last of the revolutionaries, at
bay in the Presnia quarter, and had been refused by him. "War is
war," had been his answer, with irrefutable logic. "How can you
ask mercy for these men who never give it?" Be it said for the
young men of the barricades that they never surrendered, and equally
be it said for Trebassof that he necessarily shot them. "If I had
only myself to consider," the general had said to a Paris
journalist, "I could have been gentle as a lamb with these
unfortunates, and so I should not now myself be condemned to death.
After all, I fail to see what they reproach me with. I have served
my master as a brave and loyal subject, no more, and, after the
fighting, I have let others ferret out the children that had hidden
under their mothers' skirts. Everybody talks of the repression of
Moscow, but let us speak, my friend, of the Commune. There was a
piece of work I would not have done, to massacre within a court an
unresisting crowd of men, women and children. I am a rough and
faithful soldier of His Majesty, but I am not a monster, and I have
the feelings of a husband and father, my dear monsieur. Tell your
readers that, if you care to, and do not surmise further about
whether I appear to regret being condemned to death."
Certainly what stupefied Rouletabille now was this staunch figure
of the condemned man who appeared so tranquilly to enjoy his life.
When the general was not furthering the gayety of his friends he
was talking with his wife and daughter, who adored him and
continually fondled him, and he seemed perfectly happy. With his
enormous grizzly mustache, his ruddy color, his keen, piercing
eyes, he looked the typical spoiled father.
The reporter studied all these widely-different types and made his
observations while pretending to a ravenous appetite, which served,
moreover, to fix him in the good graces of his hosts of the datcha
des Iles. But, in reality, he passed the food to an enormous
bull-dog under the table, in whose good graces he was also thus
firmly planting himself. As Trebassof had prayed his companions to
let his young friend satisfy his ravening hunger in peace, they did
not concern themelves to entertain him. Then, too, the music
served to distract attention from him, and at a moment somewhat
later, when Matrena Petrovna turned to speak to the young man, she
was frightened at not seeing him. Where had he gone? She went out
into the veranda and looked. She did not dare to call. She walked
into the grand-salon and saw the reporter just as he came out of
the sitting-room.
"Where were you?" she inquired.
"The sitting-room is certainly charming, and decorated exquisitely,"
complimented Rouletabille. "It seems almost a boudoir."
"It does serve as a boudoir for my step-daughter, whose bedroom
opens directly from it; you see the door there. It is simply for
the present that the luncheon table is set there, because for some
time the police have pre-empted the veranda."
"Is your dog a watch-dog, madame?" asked Rouletabille, caressing
the beast, which had followed him.
"Khor is faithful and had guarded us well hitherto."
"He sleeps now, then?"
"Yes. Koupriane has him shut in the lodge to keep him from barking
nights. Koupriane fears that if he is out he will devour one of
the police who watch in the garden at night. I wanted him to sleep
in the house, or by his master's door, or even at the foot of the
bed, but Koupriane said, 'No, no; no dog. Don't rely on the dog.
Nothing is more dangerous than to rely on the dog. 'Since then he
has kept Khor locked up at night. But I do not understand
Koupriane's idea."
"Monsieur Koupriane is right," said the reporter. "Dogs are useful
only against strangers."
"Oh," gasped the poor woman, dropping her eyes. "Koupriane
certainly knows his business; he thinks of everything."
"Come," she added rapidiy, as though to hide her disquiet, "do not
go out like that without letting me know. They want you in the
dining-room."
"I must have you tell me right now about this attempt."
"In the dining-room, in the dining-room. In spite of myself," she
said in a low voice, "it is stronger than I am. I am not able to
leave the general by himself while he is on the ground-floor."
She drew Rouletabille into the dining-room, where the gentlemen were
now telling odd stories of street robberies amid loud laughter.
Natacha was still talking with Michael Korsakoff; Boris, whose eyes
never quitted them, was as pale as the wax on his guzla, which he
rattled violently from time to time. Matrena made Rouletabille sit
in a corner of the sofa, near her, and, counting on her fingers
like a careful housewife who does not wish to overlook anything in
her domestic calculations, she said:
"There have been three attempts; the first two in Moscow. The first
happened very simply. The general knew he had been condemned to
death. They had delivered to him at the palace in the afternoon the
revoluntionary poster which proclaimed his intended fate to the
whole city and country. So Feodor, who was just about to ride into
the city, dismissed his escort. He ordered horses put to a sleigh.
I trembled and asked what he was going to do. He said he was going
to drive quietly through all parts of the city, in order to show the
Muscovites that a governor appointed according to law by the Little
Father and who had in his conscience only the sense that he had
done his full duty was not to be intimidated. It was nearly four
o'clock, toward the end of a winter day that had been clear and
bright, but very cold. I wrapped myself in my furs and took my
seat beside him, and he said, 'This is fine, Matrena; this will
have a great effect on these imbeciles.' So we started. At
first we drove along the Naberjnaia. The sleigh glided like
the wind. The general hit the driver a heavy blow in the back,
crying, 'Slower, fool; they will think we are afraid,' and so the
horses were almost walking when, passing behind the Church of
Protection and intercession, we reached the Place Rouge. Until
then the few passers-by had looked at us, and as they recognized
him, hurried along to keep him in view. At the Place Rouge there
was only a little knot of women kneeling before the Virgin. As
soon as these women saw us and recognized the equipage of the
Governor, they dispersed like a flock of crows, with frightened
cries. Feodor laughed so hard that as we passed under the vault
of the Virgin his laugh seemed to shake the stones. I felt
reassured, monsieur. Our promenade continued without any remarkable
incident. The city was almost deserted. Everything lay prostrated
under the awful blow of that battle in the street. Feodor said,
'Ah, they give me a wide berth; they do not know how much I love
them," and all through that promenade he said many more charming
and delicate things to me.
"As we were talking pleasantly under our furs we came to la Place
Koudrinsky, la rue Koudrinsky, to be exact. It was just four
o'clock, and a light mist had commenced to mix with the sifting
snow, and the houses to right and left were visible only as masses
of shadow. We glided over the snow like a boat along the river in
foggy calm. Then, suddenly, we heard piercing cries and saw shadows
of soldiers rushing around, with movements that looked larger than
human through the mist; their short whips looked enormous as they
knocked some other shadows that we saw down like logs. The general
stopped the sleigh and got out to see what was going on. I got out
with him. They were soldiers of the famous Semenowsky regiment,
who had two prisoners, a young man and a child. The child was being
beaten on the nape of the neck. It writhed on the ground and cried
in torment. It couldn't have been more than nine years old. The
other, the young man, held himself up and marched along without a
single cry as the thongs fell brutally upon him. I was appalled.
I did not give my husband time to open his mouth before I called
to the subaltern who commanded the detachment, 'You should be
ashamed to strike a child and a Christian like that, which cannot
defend itself.' The general told him the same thing. Then the
subaltern told us that the little child had just killed a lieutenant
in the street by firing a revolver, which he showed us, and it was
the biggest one I ever have seen, and must have been as heavy for
that infant to lift as a small cannon. It was unbelievable.
"'And the other,' demanded the general; 'what has he done?'
"'He is a dangerous student,' replied the subaltern, 'who has
delivered himself up as a prisoner because he promised the landlord
of the house where he lives that he would do it to keep the house
from being battered down with cannon.'
"'But that is right of him. Why do you beat him?'
"'Because he has told us he is a dangerous student.'
"'That is no reason,' Feodor told him. 'He will be shot if he
deserves it, and the child also, but I forbid you to beat him. You
have not been furnished with these whips in order to beat isolated
prisoners, but to charge the crowd when it does not obey the
governor's orders. In such a case you are ordered "Charge," and
you know what to do. You understand?' Feodor said roughly. 'I
am General Trebassof, your governor.'
"Feodor was thoroughly human in saying this. Ah, well, he was badly
ecompensed for it, very badly, I tell you. The student was truly
dangerous, because he had no sooner heard my husband say, 'I am
General Trebassof, your governor,' than he cried, 'Ah, is it you,
Trebassoff' and drew a revolver from no one knows where and fired
straight at the general, almost against his breast. But the general
was not hit, happily, nor I either, who was by him and had thrown
myself onto the student to disarm him and then was tossed about at
the feet of the soldiers in the battle they waged around the student
while the revolver was going off. Three soldiers were killed. You
can understand that the others were furious. They raised me with
many excuses and, all together, set to kicking the student in the
loins and striking at him as he lay on the ground. The subaltern
struck his face a blow that might have blinded him. Feodor hit the
officer in the head with his fist and called, 'Didn't you hear what
I said?' The officer fell under the blow and Feodor himself carried
him to the sleigh and laid him with the dead men. Then he took
charge of the soldiers and led them to the barracks. I followed,
as a sort of after-guard. We returned to the palace an hour later.
It was quite dark by then, and almost at the entrance to the palace
we were shot at by a group of revolutionaries who passed swiftly in
two sleighs and disappeared in the darkness so fast that they could
not be overtaken. I had a ball in my toque. The general had not
been touched this time either, but our furs were ruined by the blood
of the dead soldiers which they had forgotten to clean out of the
sleigh. That was the first attempt, which meant little enough,
after all, because it was fighting in the open. It was some days
later that they commenced to try assassination."
At this moment Ermolai brought in four bottles of champagne and
Thaddeus struck lightly on the piano.
"Quickly, madame, the second attempt," said Rouletabille, who was
aking hasty notes on his cuff, never ceasing, meanwhile, to watch
the convivial group and listening with both ears wide open to
Matrena.
"The second happened still in Moscow. We had had a jolly dinner
because we thought that at last the good old days were back and
good citizens could live in peace; and Boris had tried out the guzla
singing songs of the Orel country to please me; he is so fine and
sympathetic. Natacha had gone somewhere or other. The sleigh was
waiting at the door and we went out and got in. Almost instantly
there was a fearful noise, and we were thrown out into the snow,
both the general and me. There remained no trace of sleigh or
coachman; the two horses were disemboweled, two magnificent piebald
horses, my dear young monsieur, that the general was so attached to.
As to Feodor, he had that serious wound in his right leg; the calf
was shattered. I simply had my shoulder a little wrenched,
practically nothing. The bomb had been placed under the seat of the
unhappy coachman, whose hat alone we found, in a pool of blood.
From that attack the general lay two months in bed. In the second
month they arrested two servants who were caught one night on the
landing leading to the upper floor, where they had no business, and
after that I sent at once for our old domestics in Orel to come and
serve us. It was discovered that these detected servants were in
touch with the revolutionaries, so they were hanged. The Emperor
appointed a provisional governor, and now that the general was
better we decided on a convalescence for him in the midi of France.
We took train for St. Petersburg, but the journey started high fever
in my husband and reopened the wound in his calf. The doctors
ordered absolute rest and so we settled here in the datcha des Iles.
Since then, not a day has passed without the general receiving an
anonymous letter telling him that nothing can save him from the
revenge of the revolutionaries. He is brave and only smiles over
them, but for me, I know well that so long as we are in Russia we
have not a moment's security. So I watch him every minute and let
no one approach him except his intimate friends and us of the family.
I have brought an old gniagnia who watched me grow up, Ermolai, and
the Orel servants. In the meantime, two months later, the third
attempt suddenly occurred. It is certainly of them all the most
frightening, because it is so mysterious, a mystery that has not
yet, alas, been solved."
But Athanase Georgevitch had told a "good story" which raised so
much hubbub that nothing else could be heard. Feodor Feodorovitch
was so amused that he had tears in his eyes. Rouletabille said to
himself as Matrena talked, "I never have seen men so gay, and yet
they know perfectly they are apt to be blown up all together any
moment."
General Trebassof, who had steadily watched Rouletabille, who, for
that matter, had been kept in eye by everyone there, said:
"Eh, eh, monsieur le journaliste, you find us very gay?"
"I find you very brave," said Rouletabille quietly.
"How is that?" said Feodor Feodorovitch, smiling.
"You must pardon me for thinking of the things that you seem to
have forgotten entirely."
He indicated the general's wounded leg.
"The chances of war! the chances of war!" said the general. "A leg
here, an arm there. But, as you see, I am still here. They will
end by growing tired and leaving me in peace. Your health, my
friend!"
"Your health, general!"
"You understand," continued Feodor Feodorovitch, "there is no
occasion to excite ourselves. It is our business to defend the
empire at the peril of our lives. We find that quite natural, and
there is no occasion to think of it. I have had terrors enough in
other directions, not to speak of the terrors of love, that are
more ferocious than you can yet imagine. Look at what they did to
my poor friend the Chief of the Surete, Boichlikoff. He was
commendable certainly. There was a brave man. Of an evening, when
his work was over, he always left the bureau of the prefecture and
went to join his wife and children in their apartment in the ruelle
des Loups. Not a soldier! No guard! The others had every chance.
One evening a score of revolutionaries, after having driven away
the terrorized servants, mounted to his apartments. He was dining
with his family. They knocked and he opened the door. He saw who
they were, and tried to speak. They gave him no time. Before his
wife and children, mad with terror and on their knees before the
revolutionaries, they read him his death-sentence. A fine end that
to a dinner!"
As he listened Rouletabille paled and he kept his eyes on the door
as if he expected to see it open of itself, giving access to
ferocious Nihilists of whom one, with a paper in his hand, would
read the sentence of death to Feodor Feodorovitch. Rouletabille's
stomach was not yet seasoned to such stories. He almost regretted,
momentarily, having taken the terrible responsibility of dismissing
the police. After what Koupriane had confided to him of things that
had happened in this house, he had not hesitated to risk everything
on that audacious decision, but all the same, all the same - these
stories of Nihilists who appear at the end of a meal, death-sentence
in hand, they haunted him, they upset him. Certainly it had been
a piece of foolhardiness to dismiss the police!
"Well," he asked, conquering his misgivings and resuming, as always,
his confidence in himself, "then, what did they do then, after
reading the sentence?"
"The Chief of the Surete knew he had no time to spare. He did not
ask for it. The revolutionaries ordered him to bid his family
farewell. He raised his wife, his children, clasped them, bade
them be of good courage, then said he was ready. They took him
into the street. They stood him against a wall. His wife and
children watched from a window. A volley sounded. They descended
to secure the body, pierced with twenty-five bullets."
"That was exactly the number of wounds that were made on the body
of little Jacques Zloriksky," came in the even tones of Natacha.
"Oh, you, you always find an excuse," grumbled the general. "Poor
Boichlikoff did his duty, as I did mine.
"Yes, papa, you acted like a soldier. That is what the
revolutionaries ought not to forget. But have no fears for us,
papa; because if they kill you we will all die with you."
"And gayly too," declared Athanase Georgevitch.
"They should come this evening. We are in form!"
Upon which Athanase filled the glasses again.
"None the less, permit me to say," ventured the timber-merchant,
Thaddeus Tchnitchnikof, timidly, "permit me to say that this
Boichlikoff was very imprudent."
"Yes, indeed, very gravely imprudent," agreed Rouletabille. "When
a man has had twenty-five good bullets shot into the body of a
child, he ought certainly to keep his home well guarded if he
wishes to dine in peace."
He stammered a little toward the end of this, because it occurred
to him that it was a little inconsistent to express such opinions,
seeing what he had done with the guard over the general.
"Ah," cried Athanase Georgevitch, in a stage-struck voice, "Ah, it
was not imprudence! It was contempt of death! Yes, it was contempt
of death that killed him! Even as the contempt of death keeps us,
at this moment, in perfect health. To you, ladies and gentlemen!
Do you know anything lovelier, grander, in the world than contempt
of death? Gaze on Feodor Feodorovitch and answer me. Superb! My
word, superb! To you all! The revolutionaries who are not of the
police are of the same mind regarding our heroes. They may curse
the tchinownicks who execute the terrible orders given them by
those higher up, but those who are not of the police (there are
some, I believe) - these surely recognize that men like the Chief
of the Surete our dead friend, are brave."
"Certainly," endorsed the general. "Counting all things, they need
more heroism for a promenade in a salon than a soldier on a
battle-field."
"I have met some of these men," continued Athanase in exalted vein.
"I have found in all their homes the same - imprudence, as our young
French friend calls it. A few days after the assassination of the
Chief of Police in Moscow I was received by his successor in the
same place where the assassination had occurred. He did not take
the slightest precaution with me, whom he did not know at all, nor
with men of the middle class who came to present their petitions,
in spite of the fact that it was under precisely identical
conditions that his predecessor had been slain. Before I left I
looked over to where on the floor there had so recently occurred
such agony. They had placed a rug there and on the rug a table,
and on that table there was a book. Guess what book. 'Women's
Stockings,' by Willy! And - and then - Your health, Matrena
Petrovna. What's the odds!"
"You yourselves, my friends," declared the general, prove your great
courage by coming to share the hours that remain of my life with me."
"Not at all, not at all! It is war."
"Yes, it is war."
"Oh, there's no occasion to pat us on the shoulder, Athanase,"
insisted Thaddeus modestly. "What risk do we run? We are well
guarded."
"We are protected by the finger of God," declared Athanase, "because
the police - well, I haven't any confidence in the police."
Michael Korsakoff, who had been for a turn in the garden, entered
during the remark.
"Be happy, then, Athanase Georgevitch," said he, "for there are now
no police around the villa."
"Where are they?" inquired the timber-merchant uneasily.
"An order came from Koupriane to remove them," explained Matrena
Petrovna, who exerted herself to appear calm.
"And are they not replaced?" asked Michael.
"No. It is incomprehensible. There must have been some confusion
in the orders given." And Matrena reddened, for she loathed a lie
and it was in tribulation of spirit that she used this fable under
Rouletabille's directions.
"Oh, well, all the better," said the general. "It will give me
pleasure to see my home ridded for a while of such people."
Athanase was naturally of the same mind as the general, and when
Thaddeus and Ivan Petrovitch and the orderlies offered to pass the
night at the villa and take the place of the absent police, Feodor
Feodorovitch caught a gesture from Rouletabille which disapproved
the idea of this new guard.
"No, no," cried the general emphatically. "You leave at the usual
time. I want now to get back into the ordinary run of things, my
word! To live as everyone else does. We shall be all right.
Koupriane and I have arranged the matter. Koupriane is less sure
of his men, after all, than I am of my servants. You understand
me. I do not need to explain further. You will go home to bed
- and we will all sleep. Those are the orders. Besides, you must
remember that the guard-post is only a step from here, at the corner
of the road, and we have only to give a signal to bring them all
here. But - more secret agents or special police - no, no!
Good-night. All of us to bed now!"
They did not insist further. When Feodor had said, "Those are the
orders," there was room for nothing more, not even in the way of
polite insistence.
But before going to their beds all went into the veranda, where
liqueurs were served by the brave Ermolai, as always. Matrena
pushed the wheel-chair of the general there, and he kept repeating,
"No, no. No more such people. No more police. They only bring
trouble."
"Feodor! Feodor!" sighed Matrena, whose anxiety deepened in spite
of all she could do, "they watched over your dear life."
"Life is dear to me only because of you, Matrena Petrovna."
"And not at all because of me, papa?" said Natacha.
"Oh, Natacha!"
He took both her hands in his. It was an affecting glimpse of
family intimacy.
From time to time, while Ermolai poured the liqueurs, Feodor struck
his band on the coverings over his leg.
"It gets better," said he. "It gets better."
Then melancholy showed in his rugged face, and he watched night
deepen over the isles, the golden night of St. Petersburg. It was
not quite yet the time of year for what they call the golden nights
there, the "white nights," nights which never deepen to darkness,
but they were already beautiful in their soft clarity, caressed,
here by the Gulf of Finland, almost at the same time by the last
and the first rays of the sun, by twilight and dawn.
From the height of the veranda one of the most beautiful bits of
the isles lay in view, and the hour was so lovely that its charm
thrilled these people, of whom several, as Thaddeus, were still
close to nature. It was he, first, who called to Natacha:
"Natacha! Natacha! Sing us your 'Soir des Iles.'"
Natacha's voice floated out upon the peace of the islands under the
dim arched sky, light and clear as a night rose, and the guzla of
Boris accompanied it. Natacha sang:
"This is the night of the Isles - at the north of the world.
The sky presses in its stainless arms the bosom of earth,
Night kisses the rose that dawn gave to the twilight.
And the night air is sweet and fresh from across the shivering gulf,
Like the breath of young girls from the world still farther north.
Beneath the two lighted horizons, sinking and rising at once,
The sun rolls rebounding from the gods at the north of the world.
In this moment, beloved, when in the clear shadows of this
rose-stained evening I am here alone with you,
Respond, respond with a heart less timid to the holy, accustomed
cry of 'Good-evening.'"
Ah, how Boris Nikolaievitch and Michael Korsakoff watched her as
she sang! Truly, no one ever can guess the anger or the love that
broods in a Slavic heart under a soldier's tunic, whether the
soldier wisely plays at the guzla, as the correct Boris, or merely
lounges, twirling his mustache with his manicured and perfumed
fingers, like Michael, the indifferent.
Natacha ceased singing, but all seemed to be listening to her still
- the convivial group on the terrace appeared to be held in charmed
attention, and the porcelain statuettes of men on the lawn,
according to the mode of the Iles, seemed to lift on their short
legs the better to hear pass the sighing harmony of Natacha in the
rose nights at the north of the world.
Meanwhile Matrena wandered through the house from cellar to attic,
watching over her husband like a dog on guard, ready to bite, to
throw itself in the way of danger, to receive the blows, to die
for its master - and hunting for Rouletabille, who had disappeared
again.
III
THE WATCH
She went out to caution the servants to a strict watch, armed to
the teeth, before the gate all night long, and she crossed the
deserted garden. Under the veranda the schwitzar was spreading a
mattress for Ermolai. She asked him if he had seen the young
Frenchman anywhere, and after the answer, could only say to herself,
"Where is he, then?" Where had Rouletabille gone? The general,
whom she had carried up to his room on her back, without any help,
and had helped into bed without assistance, was disturbed by this
singular disappearance. Had someone already carried off "their"
Rouletabille? Their friends were gone and the orderlies had taken
leave without being able to say where this boy of a journalist had
gone. But it would be foolish to worry about the disappearance of
a Journalist, they had said. That kind of man - these journalists
- came, went, arrived when one least expected them, and quitted
their company - even the highest society - without formality. It
was what they called in France "leaving English fashion." However,
it appeared it was not meant to be impolite. Perhaps he had gone
to telegraph. A journalist had to keep in touch with the telegraph
at all hours. Poor Matrena Petrovna roamed the solitary garden in
tumult of heart. There was the light in the general's window on
the first floor. There were lights in the basement from the
kitchens. There was a light on the ground-floor near the
sitting-room, from Natacha's chamber window. Ah, the night was
hard to bear. And this night the shadows weighed heavier than ever
on the valiant breast of Matrena. As she breathed she felt as
though she lifted all the weight of the threatening night. She
examined everything - everything. All was shut tight, was perfectly
secure, and there was no one within excepting people she was
absolutely sure of - but whom, all the same, she did not allow to
go anywhere in the house excepting where their work called them.
Each in his place. That made things surer. She wished each one
could remain fixed like the porcelain statues of men out on the
lawn. Even as she thought it, here at her feet, right at her very
feet, a shadow of one of the porcelain men moved, stretched itself
out, rose to its knees, grasped her skirt and spoke in the voice
of Rouletabille. Ah, good! it was Rouletabille. "Himself, dear
madame; himself."
"Why is Ermolai in the veranda? Send him back to the kitchens and
tell the schwitzar to go to bed. The servants are enough for an
ordinary guard outside. Then you go in at once, shut the door,
and don't concern yourself about me, dear madame. Good-night."
Rouletabille had resumed, in the shadows, among the other porcelain
figures, his pose of a porcelain man.
Matrena Petrovna did as she was told, returned to the house, spoke
to the schwitzar, who removed to the lodge with Ermolai, and their
mistress closed the outside door. She had closed long before the
door of the kitchen stair which allowed the domestics to enter the
villa from below. Down there each night the devoted gniagnia and
the faithful Ermolai watched in turn.
Within the villa, now closed, there were on the ground-floor only
Matrena herself and her step-daughter Natacha, who slept in the
chamber off the sitting-room, and, above on the first floor, the
general asleep, or who ought to be asleep if he had taken his
potion. Matrena remained in the darkness of the drawing-room,
her dark-lantern in her hand. All her nights passed thus, gliding
from door to door, from chamber to chamber, watching over the watch
of the police, not daring to stop her stealthy promenade even to
throw herself on the mattress that she had placed across the
doorway of her husband's chamber. Did she ever sleep? She herself
could hardly say. Who else could, then? A tag of sleep here and
there, over the arm of a chair, or leaning against the wall, waked
always by some noise that she heard or dreamed, some warning,
perhaps, that she alone had heard. And to-night, to-night there is
Rouletabille's alert guard to help her, and she feels a little less
the aching terror of watchfulness, until there surges back into her
mind the recollection that the police are no longer there. Was he
right, this young man? Certainly she could not deny that some way
she feels more confidence now that the police are gone. She does
not have to spend her time watching their shadows in the shadows,
searching the darkness, the arm-chairs, the sofas, to rouse them,
to appeal in low tones to all they held binding, by their own name
and the name of their father, to promise them a bonus that would
amount to something if they watched well, to count them in order to
know where they all were, and, suddenly, to throw full in their
face the ray of light from her little dark-lantern in order to be
sure, absolutely sure, that she was face to face with them, one of
the police, and not with some other, some other with an infernal
machine under his arm. Yes, she surely had less work now that she
had no longer to watch the police. And she had less fear!
She thanked the young reporter for that. Where was he? Did he
remain in the pose of a porcelain statue all this time out there
on the lawn? She peered through the lattice of the veranda shutters
and looked anxiously out into the darkened garden. Where could
he be? Was that he, down yonder, that crouching black heap with an
unlighted pipe in his mouth? No, no. That, she knew well, was the
dwarf she genuinely loved, her little domovoi-doukh, the familiar
spirit of the house, who watched with her over the general's life
and thanks to whom serious injury had not yet befallen Feodor
Feodorovitch - one could not regard a mangled leg that seriously.
Ordinarily in her own country (she was from the Orel district) one
did not care to see the domovoi-doukh appear in flesh and blood.
When she was little she was always afraid that she would come upon
him around a turn of the path in her father's garden. She always
thought of him as no higher than that, seated back on his haunches
and smoking his pipe. Then, after she was married, she had suddenly
run across him at a turning in the bazaar at Moscow. He was just
as she had imagined him, and she had immediately bought him, carried
him home herself and placed him, with many precautions, for he was
of very delicate porcelain, in the vestibule of the palace. And in
leaving Moscow she had been careful not to leave him there. She
had carried him herself in a case and had placed him herself on the
lawn of the datcha des Iles, that he might continue to watch over
her happiness and over the life of her Feodor. And in order that
he should not be bored, eternally smoking his pipe all alone, she
had surrounded him with a group of little porcelain genii, after
the fashion of the Jardins des Iles. Lord! how that young Frenchman
had frightened her, rising suddenly like that, without warning, on
the lawn. She had believed for a moment that it was the
domovoi-doukh himself rising to stretch his legs. Happily he had
spoken at once and she had recognized his voice. And besides, her
domovoi surely would not speak French. Ah! Matrena Petrovna
breathed freely now. It seemed to her, this night, that there were
two little familiar genii watching over the house. And that was
worth more than all the police in the world, surely. How wily that
little fellow was to order all those men away. There was something
it was necessary to know; it was necessary therefore that nothing
should be in the way of learning it. As things were now, the
mystery could operate without suspicion or interference. Only one
man watched it, and he had not the air of watching. Certainly
Rouletabille had not the air of constantly watching anything. He
had the manner, out in the night, of an easy little man in porcelain,
neither more nor less, yet he could see everything - if anything
were there to see - and he could hear everything - if there were
anything to hear. One passed beside him without suspecting him,
and men might talk to each other without an idea that he heard
them, and even talk to themselves according to the habit people
have sometimes when they think themselves quite alone. All the
guests had departed thus, passing close by him, almost brushing
him, had exchanged their "Adieus," their "Au revoirs," and all
their final, drawn-out farewells. That dear little living domovoi
certainly was a rogue! Oh, that dear little domovoi who had been
so affected by the tears of Matrena Petrovna! The good, fat,
sentimental, heroic woman longed to hear, just then, his
reassuring voice.
"It is I. Here I am," said the voice of her little living familiar
spirit at that instant, and she felt her skirt grasped. She waited
for what he should say. She felt no fear. Yet she had supposed he
was outside the house. Still, after all, she was not too astonished
that he was within. He was so adroit! He had entered behind her,
in the shadow of her skirts, on all-fours, and had slipped away
without anyone noticing him, while she was speaking to her enormous,
majestic schwitzar.
"So you were here?" she said, taking his hand and pressing it
nervously in hers.
"Yes, yes. I have watched you closing the house. It is a task
well-done, certainly. You have not forgotten anything."
"But where were you, dear little demon? I have been into all the
corners, and my hands did not touch you."
"I was under the table set with hors-d'oeuvres in the sitting-room."
"Ah, under the table of zakouskis! I have forbidden them before
now to spread a long hanging cloth there, which obliges me to kick
my foot underneath casually in order to be sure there is no one
beneath. It is imprudent, very imprudent, such table-cloths. And
under the table of zakouskis have you been able to see or hear
anything?"
"Madame, do you think that anyone could possibly see or hear
anything in the villa when you are watching it alone, when the
general is asleep and your step-daughter is preparing for bed?"
"No. no. I do not believe so. I do not. No, oh, Christ!"
They talked thus very low in the dark, both seated in a corner of
the sofa, Rouletabille's hand held tightly in the burning hands of
Matrena Petrovna.
She sighed anxiously. "And in the garden - have you heard anything?"
"I heard the officer Boris say to the officer Michael, in French,
'Shall we return at once to the villa?' The other replied in
Russian in a way I could see was a refusal. Then they had a
discussion in Russian which I, naturally, could not understand.
But from the way they talked I gathered that they disagreed and
that no love was lost between them."
"No, they do not love each other. They both love Natacha."
"And she, which one of them does she love? It is necessary to tell
me."
"She pretends that she loves Boris, and I believe she does, and yet
she is very friendly with Michael and often she goes into nooks and
corners to chat with him, which makes Boris mad with jealousy. She
has forbidden Boris to speak to her father about their marriage, on
the pretext that she does not wish to leave her father now, while
each day, each minute the general's life is in danger."
"And you, madame - do you love your step-daughter?" brutally
inquired the reporter.
"Yes - sincerely," replied Matrena Petrovna, withdrawing her hand
from those of Rouletabille.
"And she - does she love you?"
"I believe so, monsieur, I believe so sincerely. Yes, she loves me,
and there is not any reason why she should not love me. I believe
- understand me thoroughly, because it comes from my heart - that
we all here in this house love one another. Our friends are old
proved friends. Boris has been orderly to my husband for a very
long time. We do not share any of his too-modern ideas, and there
were many discussions on the duty of soldiers at the time of the
massacres. I reproached him with being as womanish as we were in
going down on his knees to the general behind Natacha and me, when
it became necessary to kill all those poor moujiks of Presnia. It
was not his role. A soldier is a soldier. My husband raised him
roughly and ordered him, for his pains, to march at the head of the
troops. It was right. What else could he do? The general already
had enough to fight against, with the whole revolution, with his
conscience, with the natural pity in his heart of a brave man, and
with the tears and insupportable moanings, at such a moment, of his
daughter and his wife. Boris understood and obeyed him, but, after
the death of the poor students, he behaved again like a woman in
composing those verses on the heroes of the barricades; don't you
think so? Verses that Natacha and he learned by heart, working
together, when they were surprised at it by the general. There
was a terrible scene. It was before the next-to-the-last attack.
The general then had the use of both legs. He stamped his feet and
fairly shook the house."
"Madame," said Rouletabille, "a propos of the attacks, you must
tell me about the third."
As he said this, leaning toward her, Matrena Petrovna ejaculated a
"Listen!" that made him rigid in the night with ear alert. What
had she heard? For him, he had heard nothing.
"You hear nothing?" she whispered to him with an effort. "A
tick-tack?"
"No, I hear nothing."
"You know - like the tick-tack of a clock. Listen."
"How can you hear the tick-tack? I've noticed that no clocks are
running here."
"Don't you understand? It is so that we shall be able to hear the
tick-tack better."
"Oh, yes, I understand. But I do not hear anything."
"For myself, I think I hear the tick-tack all the time since the
last attempt. It haunts my ears, it is frightful, to say to one's
self: There is clockwork somewhere, just about to reach the
death-tick - and not to know where, not to know where! When the
police were here I made them all listen, and I was not sure even
when they had all listened and said there was no tick-tack. It is
terrible to hear it in my ear any moment when I least expect it.
Tick-tack! Tick-tack! It is the blood beating in my ear, for
instance, hard, as if it struck on a sounding-board. Why, here
are drops of perspiration on my hands! Listen!"
"Ah, this time someone is talking - is crying," said the young man.
"Sh-h-h!" And Rouletabille felt the rigid hand of Matrena Petrovna
on his arm. "It is the general. The general is dreaming!"
She drew him into the dining-room, into a corner where they could
no longer hear the moanings. But all the doors that communicated
with the dining-room, the drawing-room and the sitting-room
remained open behind him, by the secret precaution of Rouletabille.
He waited while Matrena, whose breath he heard come hard, was a
little behind. In a moment, quite talkative, and as though she
wished to distract Rouletabille's attention from the sounds above,
the broken words and sighs, she continued:
"See, you speak of clocks. My husband has a watch which strikes.
Well, I have stopped his watch because more than once I have been
startled by hearing the tick-tack of his watch in his
waistcoat-pocket. Koupriane gave me that advice one day when he
was here and had pricked his ears at the noise of the pendulums,
to stop all my watches and clocks so that there would be no chance
of confusing them with the tick-tack that might come from an
infernal machine planted in some corner. He spoke from experience,
my dear little monsieur, and it was by his order that all the clocks
at the Ministry, on the Naberjnaia, were stopped, my dear little
friend. The Nihilists, he told me, often use clockworks to set off
their machines at the time they decide on. No one can guess all
the inventions that they have, those brigands. In the same way,
Koupriane advised me to take away all the draught-boards from the
fireplaces. By that precaution they were enabled to avoid a
terrible disaster at the Ministry near the Pont-des-chantres, you
know, petit demovoi? They saw a bomb just as it was being lowered
into the fire-place of the minister's cabinet.* The Nihilists held
it by a cord and were up on the roof letting it down the chimney.
One of them was caught, taken to Schlusselbourg and hanged. Here
you can see that all the draught-boards of the fireplaces are
cleared away."
____________________________________________________________________
*Actual attack on Witte.
____________________________________________________________________
"Madame," interrupted Rouletabille (Matrena Petrovna did not know
that no one ever succeeded in distracting Rouletabille's attention),
"madame, someone moans still, upstairs."
"Oh, that is nothing, my little friend. It is the general, who has
bad nights. He cannot sleep without a narcotic, and that gives him
a fever. I am going to tell you now how the third attack came about.
And then you will understand, by the Virgin Mary, how it is I have
yet, always have, the tick-tack in my ears.
"One evening when the general had got to sleep and I was in my own
room, I heard distinctly the tick-tack of clockwork operating. All
the clocks had been stopped, as Koupriane advised, and I had made
an excuse to send Feodor's great watch to the repairer. You can
understand how I felt when I heard that tick-tack. I was frenzied.
I turned my head in all directions, and decided that the sound came
from my husband's chamber. I ran there. He still slept, man that
he is! The tick-tack was there. But where? I turned here and
there like a fool. The chamber was in darkness and it seemed
absolutely impossible for me to light a lamp because I thought I
could not take the time for fear the infernal machine would go off
in those few seconds. I threw myself on the floor and listened
under the bed. The noise came from above. But where? I sprang to
the fireplace, hoping that, against my orders, someone had started
the mantel-clock. No, it was not that! It seemed to me now that
the tick-tack came from the hed itself, that the machine was in the
bed. The general awaked just then and cried to me, 'What is it,
Matrena? What are you doing?' And he raised himself in bed, while
I cried, 'Listen! Hear the tick-tack. Don't you hear the
tick-tack?' I threw myself upon him and gathered him up in my arms
to carry him, but I trembled too much, was too weak from fear, and
fell back with him onto the bed, crying, 'Help!' He thrust me away
and said roughly, 'Listen.' The frightful tick-tack was behind us
now, on the table. But there was nothing on the table, only the
night-light, the glass with the potion in it, and a gold vase where
I had placed with my own hands that morning a cluster of grasses
and wild flowers that Ermolai had brought that morning on his return
from the Orel country. With one bound I was on the table and at
the flowers. I struck my fingers among the grasses and the flowers,
and felt a resistance. The tick-tack was in the bouquet! I took
the bouquet in both hands, opened the window and threw it as far
as I could into the garden. At the same moment the bomb burst with
a terrible noise, giving me quite a deep wound in the hand. Truly,
my dear little domovoi, that day we had been very near death, but
God and the Little Father watched over us."
And Matrena Petrovna made the sign of the cross.
"All the windows of the house were broken. In all, we escaped with
the fright and a visit from the glazier, my little friend, but I
certainly believed that all was over."
"And Mademoiselle Natacha?" inquired Rouletabille. "She must also
have been terribly frightened, because the whole house must have
rocked."
"Surely. But Natacha was not here that night. It was a Saturday.
She had been invited to the soiree du 'Michel' by the parents of
Boris Nikolaievitch, and she slept at their house, after supper at
the Ours, as had been planned. The next day, when she learned the
danger the general had escaped, she trembled in every limb. She
threw herself in her father's arms, weeping, which was natural
enough, and declared that she never would go away from him again.
The general told her how I had managed. Then she pressed me to
her heart, saying that she never would forget such an action, and
that she loved me more than if I were truly her mother. It was all
in vain that during the days following we sought to understand how
the infernal machine had been placed in the bouquet of wild flowers.
Only the general's friends that you saw this evening, Natacha and
I had entered the general's chamber during the day or in the evening.
No servant, no chamber-maid, had been on that floor. In the
day-time as well as all night long that entire floor is closed and
I have the keys. The door of the servants' staircase which opens
onto that floor, directly into the general's chamber, is always
locked and barred on the inside with iron. Natacha and I do the
chamber work. There is no way of taking greater precautions. Three
police agents watched over us night and day. The night of the
bouquet two had spent their time watching around the house, and the
third lay on the sofa in the veranda. Then, too, we found all the
doors and windows of the villa shut tight. In such circumstances
you can judge whether my anguish was not deeper than any I had known
hitherto. Because to whom, henceforth, could we trust ourselves?
what and whom could we believe? what and whom could we watch?
From that day, no other person but Natacha and me have the right to
go to the first floor. The general's chamber was forbidden to his
friends. Anyway, the general improved, and soon had the pleasure
of receiving them himself at his table. I carry the general down
and take him to his room again on my back. I do not wish anyone
to help. I am strong enough for that. I feel that I could carry
him to the end of the world if that would save him. Instead of
three police, we had ten; five outside, five inside. The days went
well enough, but the nights were frightful, because the shadows of
the police that I encountered always made me fear that I was face
to face with the Nihilists. One night I almost strangled one with
my hand. It was after that incident that we arranged with
Koupriane that the agents who watched at night, inside, should stay
placed in the veranda, after having, at the end of the evening,
made complete examination of everything. They were not to leave
the veranda unless they heard a suspicious noise or I called to
them. And it was after that arrangement that the incident of the
floor happened, that has puzzled so both Koupriane and me."
"Pardon, madame," interrupted Rouletabille, "but the agents, during
the examination of everything, never went to the bedroom floor?"
"No, my child, there is only myself and Natacha, I repeat, who,
since the bouquet, go there."
"Well, madame, it is necessary to take me there at once."
"At once!"
"Yes, into the general's chamber."
"But he is sleeping, my child. Let me tell you exactly how the
affair of the floor happened, and you will know as much of it as
I and as Koupriane."
"To the general's chamber at once."
She took both his hands and pressed them nervously. "Little friend!
Little friend! One hears there sometimes things which are the
secret of the night! You understand me?"
"To the general's chamber, at once, madame."
Abruptly she decided to take him there, agitated, upset as she was
by ideas and sentiments which held her without respite between the
wildest inquietude and the most imprudent audacity.
IV
"THE YOUTH OF MOSCOW IS DEAD"
Rouletabille let himself be led by Matrena through the night, but
he stumbled and his awkward hands struck against various things.
The ascent to the first floor was accomplished in profound silence.
Nothing broke it except that restless moaning which had so affected
the young man just before.
The tepid warmth, the perfume of a woman's boudoir, then, beyond,
through two doors opening upon the dressing-room which lay between
Matrena's chamber and Feodor's, the dim luster of a night-lamp
showed the bed where was stretched the sleeping tyrant of Moscow.
Ah, he was frightening to see, with the play of faint yellow light
and diffused shadows upon him. Such heavy-arched eyebrows, such
an aspect of pain and menace, the massive jaw of a savage come from
the plains of Tartary to be the Scourge of God, the stiff, thick,
spreading beard. This was a form akin to the gallery of old nobles
at Kasan, and young Rouletabille imagined him as none other than
Ivan the Terrible himself. Thus appeared as he slept the excellent
Feodor Feodorovitch, the easy, spoiled father of the family table,
the friend of the advocate celebrated for his feats with knife and
fork and of the bantering timber-merchant and amiable bear-hunter,
the joyous Thaddeus and Athanase; Feodor, the faithful spouse of
Matrena Petrovna and the adored papa of Natacha, a brave man who
was so unfortunate as to have nights of cruel sleeplessness or
dreams more frightful still.
At that moment a hoarse sigh heaved his huge chest in an uneven
rhythm, and Rouletabille, leaning in the doorway of the
dressing-room, watched - but it was no longer the general that he
watched, it was something else, lower down, beside the wall, near
the door, and it was that which set him tiptoeing so lightly across
the floor that it gave no sound. There was no slightest sound in
the chamber, except the heavy breathing lifting the rough chest.
Behind Rouletabille Matrena raised her arms, as though she wished
to hold him back, because she did not know where he was going.
What was he doing? Why did he stoop thus beside the door and why
did he press his thumb all along the floor at the doorway? He rose
again and returned. He passed again before the bed, where rumbled
now, like the bellows of a forge, the respiration of the sleeper.
Matrena grasped Rouletabille by the hand. And she had already
hurried him into the dressing-room when a moan stopped them.
"The youth of Moscow is dead!"
It was the sleeper speaking. The mouth which had given the
stringent orders moaned. And the lamentation was still a menace.
In the haunted sleep thrust upon that man by the inadequate narcotic
the words Feodor Feodorovitch spoke were words of mourning and pity.
This perfect fiend of a soldier, whom neither bullets nor bombs
could intimidate, had a way of saying words which transformed their
meaning as they came from his terrible mouth. The listeners could
not but feel absorbed in the tones of the brutal victor.
Matrena Petrovna and Rouletabille had leant their two shadows,
blended one into the other, against the open doorway just beyond
the gleam of the night-lamp, and they heard with horror:
"The youth of Moscow is dead! They have cleared
away the corpses. There is nothing but ruin left. The Kremlin
itself has shut its gates - that it may not see. The youth of
Moscow is dead!"
Feodor Feodorovitch's fist shook above his bed; it seemed that he
was about to strike, to kill again, and Rouletabille felt Matrena
trembling against him, while he trembled as well before the
fearful vision of the killer in the Red Week!
Feodor heaved an immense sigh and his breast descended under the
bed-clothes, the fist relaxed and fell, the great head lay over on
its ear. There was silence. Had he repose at last? No, no. He
sighed, he choked anew, he tossed on his couch like the damned in
torment, and the words written by his daughter - by his daughter
- blazed in his eyes, which now were wide open - words written on
the wall, that he read on the wall, written in blood.
"The youth of Moscow is dead! They had gone so young into the
fields and into the mines,
And they had not found a single corner of the Russian land where
there were not moanings.
Now the youth of Moscow is dead and no more moanings are heard,
Because those for whom all youth died do not dare even to moan
any more.
But - what? The voice of Feodor lost its threatening tone. His
breath came as from a weeping child. And it was with sobs in his
throat that he said the last verse, the verse written by his
daughter in the album, in red letters:
"The last barricade had standing there the girl of eighteen
winters, the virgin of Moscow, flower of the snow.
Who gave her kisses to the workmen struck by the bullets
from the soldiers of the Czar;
"She aroused the admiration of the very soldiers who, weeping,
killed her:
"What killing! All the houses shuttered, the windows with heavy
eyelids of plank in order not to see! -
"And the Kremlin itself has closed its gates - that it may
not see.
"The youth of Moscow is dead!"
"Feodor! Feodor!"
She had caught him in her arms, holding him fast, comforting him
while still he raved, "The youth of Moscow is dead," and appeared
to thrust away with insensate gestures a crowd of phantoms. She
crushed him to her breast, she put her hands over his mouth to make
him stop, but he, saying, "Do you hear? Do you hear? What do they
say? They say nothing, now. What a tangle of bodies under the
sleigh, Matrena! Look at those frozen legs of those poor girls we
pass, sticking out in all directions, like logs, from under their
icy, blooded skirts. Look, Matrena!"
And then came further delirium uttered in Russian, which was all the
more terrible to Rouletabille because he could not comprehend it.
Then, suddenly, Feodor became silent and thrust away Matrena
Petrovna.
"It is that abominable narcotic," he said with an immense sigh.
"I'll drink no more of it. I do not wish to drink it."
With one hand he pointed to a large glass on the table beside him,
still half full of a soporific mixture with which he moistened his
lips each time he woke; with the other hand he wiped the perspiration
from his face. Matrena Petrovna stayed trembling near him, suddenly
overpowered by the idea that he might discover there was someone
there behind the door, who had seen and heard the sleep of General
Trebassof! Ah, if he learned that, everything was over. She might
say her prayers; she should die.
But Rouletabille was careful to give no sign. He barely breathed.
What a nightmare! He understood now the emotion of the general's
friends when Natacha had sung in her low, sweet voice, "Good-night.
May your eyes have rest from tears and calm re-enter your heart
oppressed." The friends had certainly been made aware, by Matrena's
anxious talking, of the general's insomnia, and they could not
repress their tears as they listened to the poetic wish of charming
Natacha. "All the same," thought Rouletabille, "no one could
imagine what I have just seen. They are not dead for everyone in
the world, the youths of Moscow, and every night I know now a
chamber where in the glow of the night-lamp they rise - they rise
- they rise!" and the young man frankly, naively regretted to have
intruded where he was; to have penetrated, however unintentionally,
into an affair which, after all, concerned only the many dead and
the one living. Why had he come to put himself between the dead and
the living? It might be said to him: "The living has done his whole
heroic duty," but the dead, what else was it that they had done?
Ah, Rouletabille cursed his curiosity, for - he saw it now - it was
the desire to approach the mystery revealed by Koupriane and to
penetrate once more, through all the besetting dangers, an astounding
and perhaps monstrous enigma, that had brought him to the threshold
of the datcha des Iles, which had placed him in the trembling hands
of Matrena Petrovna in promising her his help. He had shown pity,
certainly, pity for the delirious distress of that heroic woman.
But there had been more curiosity than pity in his motives. And
now he must pay, because it was too late now to withdraw, to say
casually, "I wash my hands of it." He had sent away the police and
he alone remained between the general and the vengeance of the dead!
He might desert, perhaps! That one idea brought him to himself,
roused all his spirit. Circumstances had brought him into a camp
that he must defend at any cost, unless he was afraid!
The general slept now, or, at least, with eyelids closed simulated
sleep, doubtless in order to reassure poor Matrena who, on her knees
beside his pillow, had retained the hand of her terrible husband in
her own. Shortly she rose and rejoined Rouletabille in her chamber.
She took him then to a little guest-chamber where she urged him to
get some sleep. He replied that it was she who needed rest. But,
agitated still by what had just happened, she babbled:
"No, no! after such a scene I would have nightmares myself as well.
Ah, it is dreadful! Appalling! Appalling! Dear little monsieur,
it is the secret of the night. The poor man! Poor unhappy man!
He cannot tear his thoughts away from it. It is his worst and
unmerited punishment, this translation that Natacha has made of
Boris's abominable verses. He knows them by heart, they are in his
brain and on his tongue all night long, in spite of narcotics, and
he says over and over again all the time, 'It is my daughter who
has written that! - my daughter! - my daughter!' It is enough
to wring all the tears from one's body - that an aide-de-camp of a
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