The Secret of the Night
When--Someone--comes into the general’s chamber, in the morning, you
must quite openly and naturally throw out the potion, useless and vapid,
you see, and so Someone will have no right to be astonished that the
general continues to enjoy excellent health.”
“Yes, yes, little one; you are wiser than King Solomon. And what will I
do with the phial of poison?”
“Bring it to me.”
“Right away.”
She went for it and returned five minutes later.
“He is still asleep. I have put the glass on the table, out of his
reach. He will have to call me.”
“Very good. Then push the door to, close it; we have to talk things
over.”
“But if someone goes back up the servants’ staircase?”
“Be easy about that. They think the general is poisoned already. It is
the first care-free moment I have been able to enjoy in this house.”
“When will you stop making me shake with horror, little demon! You keep
your secret well, I must say. The general is sleeping better than if he
really were poisoned. But what shall we do about Natacha? I dare ask you
that--you and you alone.”
“Nothing at all.”
“How--nothing?”
“We will watch her...”
“Ah, yes, yes.”
“Still, Matrena, you let me watch her by myself.”
“Yes, yes, I promise you. I will not pay any attention to her. That
is promised. That is promised. Do as you please. Why, just now, when I
spoke of the Nihilists to you, did you say, ‘If it were only that!’? You
believe, then, that she is not a Nihilist? She reads such things--things
like on the barricades...”
“Madame, madame, you think of nothing but Natacha. You have promised me
not to watch her; promise me not to think about her.”
“Why, why did you say, ‘If it was only that!’?”
“Because, if there were only Nihilists in your affair, dear madame, it
would be too simple, or, rather, it would have been more simple. Can
you possibly believe, madame, that simply a Nihilist, a Nihilist who was
only a Nihilist, would take pains that his bomb exploded from a vase of
flowers?--that it would have mattered where, so long as it overwhelmed
the general? Do you imagine that the bomb would have had less effect
behind the door than in front of it? And the little cavity under the
floor, do you believe that a genuine revolutionary, such as you have
here in Russia, would amuse himself by penetrating to the villa only
to draw out two nails from a board, when one happens to give him
time between two visits to the dining-room? Do you suppose that a
revolutionary who wished to avenge the dead of Moscow and who could
succeed in getting so far as the door behind which General Trebassof
slept would amuse himself by making a little hole with a pin in order
to draw back the bolt and amuse himself by pouring poison into a glass?
Why, in such a case, he would have thrown his bomb outright, whether it
blew him up along with the villa, or he was arrested on the spot, or had
to submit to the martyrdom of the dungeons in the Fortress of SS. Peter
and Paul, or be hung at Schlusselburg. Isn’t that what always happens?
That is the way he would have done, and not have acted like a hotel-rat!
Now, there is someone in your home (or who comes to your home) who acts
like a hotel-rat because he does not wish to be seen, because he does
not wish to be discovered, because he does not wish to be taken in the
act. Now, the moment that he fears nothing so much as to be taken in
the act, so that he plays all these tricks of legerdemain, it is certain
that his object lies beyond the act itself, beyond the bomb, beyond
the poison. Why all this necessity for bombs of deferred explosion, for
clockwork placed where it will be confused with other things, and not on
a bare staircase forbidden to everybody, though you visit it twenty times
a day?”
“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.” *
* The little street of the apothecaries.
“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