Gaston Leroux

by The Secret Of The Night (Pg) (V1. 1) [Txt]

  “But this man comes in as he pleases by day and by night? You don’t answer. You know who he is, perhaps?”

  “I know him, perhaps, but I am not sure who it is yet.”

  “You are not curious, little domovoi doukh! A friend of the house, certainly, and who enters the house as he wishes, by night, because someone opens the window for him. And who comes from the Krestowsky Villa! Boris or Michael! Ah, poor miserable Matrena! Why don’t they kill poor Matrena? Their general! Their general! And they are soldiers - soldiers who come at night to kill their general. Aided by - by whom? Do you believe that? You? Light of my eyes! you believe that! No, no, that is not possible! I want you to understand, monsieur le domovoi, that I am not able to believe anything so horrible. No, no, by Jesus Christ Who died on the Cross, and Who searches our hearts, I do not believe that Boris - who, however, has very advanced ideas, I admit - it is necessary not to forget that; very advanced; and who composes very advanced verses also, as I have always told him - I will not believe that Boris is capable of such a fearful crime. As to Michael, he is an honest man, and my daughter, my Natacha, is an honest girl. Everything looks very bad, truly, but I do not suspect either Michael or Boris or my pure and beloved Natacha (even though she has made a translation into French of very advanced verses, certainly most improper for the daughter of a general). That is what lies at the bottom of my mind, the bottom of my heart - you have understood me perfectly, little angel of paradise? Ah, it is you the general owes his life to, that Matrena owes her life. Without you this house would already be a coffin. How shall I ever reward you? You wish for nothing! I annoy you! You don’t even listen to me! A coffin - we would all be in our coffins! Tell me what you desire. All that I have belongs to you!”

  “I desire to smoke a pipe.

  “Ah, a pipe! Do you want some yellow perfumed tobacco that I receive every month from Constantinople, a treat right from the harem? I will get enough for you, if you like it, to smoke ten thousand pipes full.”

  “I prefer caporal,” replied Rouletabille. “But you are right. It is not wise to suspect anybody. See, watch, wait. There is always time, once the game is caught, to say whether it is a hare or a wild boar. Listen to me, then, my good mamma. We must know first what is in the phial. Where is it?”

  “Here it is.”

  She drew it from her sleeve. He stowed it in his pocket.

  “You wish the general a good appetite, for me. I am going out. I will be back in two hours at the latest. And, above all, don’t let the general know anything. I am going to see one of my friends who lives in the Aptiekarski pereolek.”*

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  * The little street of the apothecaries.

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  “Depend on me, and get back quickly for love of me. My blood clogs in my heart when you are not here, dear servant of God.”

  She mounted to the general’s room and came down at least ten times to see if Rouletabille had not returned. Two hours later he was around the villa, as he had promised. She could not keep herself from running to meet him, for which she was scolded.

  “Be calm. Be calm. Do you know what was in the phial?”

  “No.”

  “Arsenate of soda, enough to kill ten people.”

  “Holy Mary!”

  “Be quiet. Go upstairs to the general.”

  Feodor Feodorovitch was in charming humor. It was his first good night since the death of the youth of Moscow. He attributed it to his not having touched the narcotic and resolved, once more, to give up the narcotic, a resolve Rouletabille and Matrena encouraged. During the conversation there was a knock at the door of Matrena’s chamber. She ran to see who was there, and returned with Natacha, who wished to embrace her father. Her face showed traces of fatigue. Certainly she had not passed as good a night as her father, and the general reproached her for looking so downcast.

  “It is true. I had dreadful dreams. But you, papa, did you sleep well? Did you take your narcotic?”

  “No, no, I have not touched a drop of my potion.”

  “Yes, I see. Oh, well, that is all right; that is very good. Natural sleep must be coming back…”

  Matrena, as though hypnotized by Rouletabille, had taken the glass from the table and ostentatiously carried it to the dressing-room to throw it out, and she delayed there to recover her self-possession.

  Natacha continued:

  “You will see, papa, that you will be able to live just like everyone else finally. The great thing was to clear away the police, the atrocious police; wasn’t it, Monsieur Rouletabille?”

  “I have always said, for myself, that I am entirely of Mademoiselle Natacha’s mind. You can be entirely reassured now, and I shall leave you feeling reassured. Yes, I must think of getting my interviews done quickly, and departing. Ah well, I can only say what I think. Run things yourselves and you will not run any danger. Besides, the general gets much better, and soon I shall see you all in France, I hope. I must thank you now for your friendly hospitality.”

  “Ah, but you are not going? You are not going!” Matrena had already set herself to protest with all the strenuous torrent of words in her poor desolated heart, when a glance from the reporter cut short her despairing utterances.

  “I shall have to remain a week still in the city. I have engaged a chamber at the Hotel de France. It is necessary. I have so many people to see and to receive. I will come to make you a little visit from time to time.”

  “You are then quite easy,” demanded the general gravely, “at leaving me all alone?”

  “Entirely easy. And, besides, I don’t leave you all alone. I leave you with Madame Trebassof and Mademoiselle. I repeat: All three of you stay as I see you now. No more police, or, in any case, the fewest possible.”

  “He is right, he is right,” repeated Natacha again.

  At this moment there were fresh knocks at the door of Matrena’s chamber. It was Ermolai, who announced that his Excellency the Marshal of the Court, Count Keltzof, wished to see the general, acting for His Majesty.

  “Go and receive the Count, Natacha, and tell him that your father will be downstairs in a moment.”

  Natacha and Rouletabille went down and found the Count in the drawing-room. He was a magnificent specimen, handsome and big as one of the Swiss papal guard. He seemed watchful in all directions and all among the furniture, and was quite evidently disquieted. He advanced immediately to meet the young lady, inquiring the news.

  “It is all good news,” replied Natacha. “Everybody here is splendid. The general is quite gay. But what news have you, monsieur le marechal? You appear preoccupied.”

  The marshal had pressed Rouletabille’s hand.

  “And my grapes?” he demanded of Natacha.

  “How, your grapes? What grapes?”

  “If you have not touched them, so much the better. I arrived here very anxious. I brought you yesterday, from Krasnoie-Coelo, some of the Emperor’s grapes that Feodor Feodorovitch enjoyed so much. Now this morning I learned that the eldest son of Doucet, the French head-gardener of the Imperial conservatories at Krasnoie, had died from eating those grapes, which he had taken from those gathered for me to bring here. Imagine my dismay. I knew, however, that at the general’s table, grapes would not be eaten without having been washed, but I reproached myself for not having taken the precaution of leaving word that Doucet recommend that they be washed thoroughly. Still, I don’t suppose it would matter. I couldn’t see how my gift could be dangerous, but when I learned of little Doucet’s death this morning, I jumped into the first train and came straight here.”

  “But, your Excellency,” interrupted Natacha, “we have not seen your grapes.”

  “Ah, they have not been served yet? All the better. Thank goodness!”

  “The Emperor’s grapes are diseased, then?” interrogated Rouletabille. “Phylloxera pest has got into the conservatories?”


  “Nothing can stop it, Doucet told me. So he didn’t want me to leave last evening until he had washed the grapes. Unfortunately, I was pressed for time and I took them as they were, without any idea that the mixture they spray on the grapes to protect them was so deadly. It appears that in the vineyard country they have such accidents every year. They call it, I think, the … the mixture … “

  “The Bordeaux mixture,” was heard in Rouletabille’s trembling voice “And do you know what it is, Your Excellency, this Bordeaux mixture?”

  “Why, no.”

  At this moment the general came down the stairs, clinging to the banister and supported by Matrena Petrovna.

  “Well,” continued Rouletabille, watching Natacha, “the Bordeaux mixture which covered the grapes you brought the general yesterday was nothing more nor less than arsenate of soda.”

  “Ah, God!” cried Natacha.

  As for Matrena Petrovna, she uttered a low exclamation and let go the general, who almost fell down the staircase. Everybody rushed. The general laughed. Matrena, under the stringent look of Rouletabille, stammered that she had suddenly felt faint. At last they were all together in the veranda. The general settled back on his sofa and inquired:

  “Well, now, were you just saying something, my dear marshal, about some grapes you have brought me?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Natacha, quite frightened, “and what he said isn’t pleasant at all. The son of Doucet, the court gardener, has just been poisoned by the same grapes that monsieur le marschal, it appears, brought you.”

  “Where was this? Grapes? What grapes? I haven’t seen any grapes!” exclaimed Matrena. “I noticed you, yesterday, marshal, out in the garden, but you went away almost immediately, and I certainly was surprised that you did not come in. What is this story?”

  “Well, we must clear this matter up. It is absolutely necessary that we know what happened to those grapes.”

  “Certainly,” said Rouletabille, “they could cause a catastrophe.”

  “If it has not happened already,” fretted the marshal.

  “But how? Where are they? Whom did you give them to?”

  “I carried them in a white cardboard box, the first one that came to hand in Doucet’s place. I came here the first time and didn’t find you. I returned again with the box, and the general was just lying down. I was pressed for my train and Michael Nikolaievitch and Boris Alexandrovitch were in the garden, so I asked them to execute my commission, and I laid the box down near them on the little garden table, telling them not to forget to tell you it was necessary to wash the grapes as Doucet expressly recommended.”

  “But it is unbelievable! It is terrible!” quavered Matrena. “Where can the grapes be? We must know.”

  “Absolutely,” approved Rouletabille.

  “We must ask Boris and Michael,” said Natacha. “Good God! surely they have not eaten them! Perhaps they are sick.”

  “Here they are,” said the general. All turned. Michael and Boris were coming up the steps. Rouletabille, who was in a shadowed corner under the main staircase, did not lose a single play of muscle on the two faces which for him were two problems to solve. Both faces were smiling; too smiling, perhaps.

  “Michael! Boris! Come here,” cried Feodor Feodorovitch. “What have you done with the grapes from monsieur le marechal?”

  They both looked at him upon this brusque interrogation, seemed not to understand, and then, suddenly recalling, they declared very naturally that they had left them on the garden table and had not thought about them.

  “You forgot my caution, then?” said Count Kaltzof severely.

  “What caution?” said Boris. “Oh, yes, the washing of the grapes. Doucet’s caution.”

  “Do you know what has happened to Doucet with those grapes? His eldest son is dead, poisoned. Do you understand now why we are anxious to know what has become of my grapes?”

  “But they ought to be out there on the table,” said Michael.

  “No one can find them anywhere,” declared Matrena, who, no less than Rouletabille, watched every change in the countenances of the two officers. “How did it happen that you went away yesterday evening without saying good-bye, without seeing us, without troubling yourselves whether or not the general might need you?”

  “Madame,” said Michael, coldly, in military fashion, as though he replied to his superior officer himself, “we have ample excuse to offer you and the general. It is necessary that we make an admission, and the general will pardon us, I am sure. Boris and I, daring the promenade, happened to quarrel. That quarrel was in full swing when we reached here and we were discussing the way to end it most promptly when monsieur le marechal entered the garden. We must make that our excuse for giving divided attention to what he had to say. As soon as he was gone we had only one thought, to get away from here to settle our difference with arms in our hands.”

  “Without speaking to me about it!” interrupted Trehassof. “I never will pardon that.”

  “You fight at such a time, when the general is threatened! It is as though you fought between yourselves in the face of the enemy. It is treason!” added Matrena.

  “Madame,” said Boris, “we did not fight. Someone pointed out our fault, and I offered my excuses to Michael Nikolaievitch, who generously accepted them. Is that not so, Michael Nikolaievitch?”

  “And who is this that pointed out your fault?” demanded the marshal.

  “Natacha.”

  “Bravo, Natacha. Come, embrace me, my daughter.”

  The general pressed his daughter effusively to his broad chest.

  “And I hope you will not have further disputing,” he cried, looking over Natacha’s shoulder.

  “We promise you that, General,” declared Boris. “Our lives belong to you.”

  “You did well, my love. Let us all do as well. I have passed an excellent night, messieurs. Real sleep! I have had just one long sleep.”

  “That is so,” said Matrena slowly. “The general had no need of narcotic. He slept like a child and did not touch his potion.”

  “And my leg is almost well.”

  “All the same, it is singular that those grapes should have disappeared,” insisted the marshal, following his fixed idea.

  “Ermolai,” called Matrena.

  The old servant appeared.

  “Yesterday evening, after these gentlemen had left the house, did you notice a small white box on the garden table?”

  “No, Barinia.”

  “And the servants? Have any of them been sick? The dvornicks? The schwitzar? In the kitchens? No one sick? No? Go and see; then come and tell me.”

  He returned, saying, “No one sick.”

  Like the marshal, Matrena Petrovna and Feodor Feodorovitch looked at one another, repeating in French, “No one sick! That is strange!”

  Rouletabille came forward and gave the only explanation that was plausible - for the others.

  “But, General, that is not strange at all. The grapes have been stolen and eaten by some domestic, and if the servant has not been sick it is simply that the grapes monsieur le marechal brought escaped the spraying of the Bordeaux mixture. That is the whole mystery.”

  “The little fellow must be right,” cried the delighted marshal.

  “He is always right, this little fellow,” beamed Matrena, as proudly as though she had brought him into the world.

  But “the little fellow,” taking advantage of the greetings as Athanase Georgevitch and Ivan Petrovitch arrived, left the villa, gripping in his pocket the phial which held what is required to make grapes flourish or to kill a general who is in excellent health. When he had gone a few hundred steps toward the bridges one must cross to go into the city, he was overtaken by a panting dvornick, who brought him a letter that had just come by courier. The writing on the envelope was entirely unknown to him. He tore it open and read, in excellent French:

  “Request to M. Joseph Rouletabille not to mix in matters that do not concern him
. The second warning will be the last.” It was signed: “The Central Revolutionary Committee.”

  “So, ho!” said Rouletabille, slipping the paper into his pocket, “that’s the line it takes, is it! Happily I have nothing more to occupy myself with at all. It is Koupriane’s turn now! Now to go to Koupriane’s!”

  On this date, Rouletabille’s notebook: “Natacha to her father: ‘But you, papa, have you had a good night? Did you take your narcotic?’

  “Fearful, and (lest I confuse heaven and hell) I have no right to take any further notes.”*

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  *As a matter of fact, after this day no more notes are found in Rouletabille’s memorandum-book. The last one is that above, bizarre and romantic, and necessary, as Sainclair, the Paris advocate and friend of Rouletabille, indicates opposite it in the papers from which we have taken all the details of this story.

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