The Secret of the Night
affair of the gold ingots, which started Rouletabille’s reputation, and
was arrested along with his assistant, Alexis. It was Rouletabille who
proved, clear as day, that poor Alexis was innocent, and that he had
never been cognizant of his master’s evil ways, being absorbed in the
depths of his laboratory in trying to work out a naive alchemy which
fascinated him, though the world of chemistry had passed it by centuries
ago. At the trial Alexis was acquitted, but found himself in the street.
He shed what tears remained in his body upon the neck of the reporter,
assuring him of paradise if he got him back to his own country, because
he desired only the one thing more of life, that he might see his
birth-land before he died. Rouletabille advanced the necessary means
and sent him to St. Petersburg. There he was picked up at the end of two
days by the police, in a petty gambling-game, and thrown into prison,
where he promptly had a chance to show his talents. He cured some of his
companions in misery, and even some of the guards. A guard who had an
injured leg, whose healing he had despaired of, was cured by Alexis.
Then there was found to be no actual charge against him. They set him
free and, moreover, they interested themselves in him. They found meager
employment for him in the Stchoukine-dvor, an immense popular bazaar.
He accumulated a few roubles and installed himself on his own account
at the back of a court in the Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, where he gradually
piled up a heap of old odds and ends that no one wanted even in the
Stchoukine-dvor. But he was happy, because behind his shop he had
installed a little laboratory where he continued for his pleasure his
experiments in alchemy and his study of plants. He still proposed to
write a book that he had already spoken of in France to Rouletabille, to
prove the truth of “Empiric Treatment of Medicinal Herbs, the Science
of Alchemy, and the Ancient Experiments in Sorcery.” Between times
he continued to cure anyone who applied to him, and the police in
particular. The police guards protected him and used him. He had
splendid plasters for them after “the scandal,” as they called the
October riots. So when the doctors of the quarter tried to prosecute him
for illegal practice, a deputation of police-guards went to Koupriane,
who took the responsibility and discontinued proceedings against him.
They regarded him as under protection of the saints, and Alexis soon
came to be regarded himself as something of a holy man. He never failed
every Christmas and Easter to send his finest images to Rouletabille,
wishing him all prosperity and saying that if ever he came to St.
Petersburg he should be happy to receive him at Aptiekarski-Pereoulok,
where he was established in honest labor. Pere Alexis, like all the true
saints, was a modest man.
When Alexis had recovered a little from his emotion Rouletabille said to
him:
“Pere Alexis, I do bring you poison again, but you have nothing to fear,
for His Excellency the Chief of Police is with me. Here is what we want
you to do. You must tell us what poison these four glasses have held,
and what poison is still in this flask and this little phial.”
“What is that little phial?” demanded Koupriane, as he saw Rouletabille
pull a small, stoppered bottle out of his pocket.
The reporter replied, “I have put into this bottle the vodka that was
poured into Natacha’s glass and mine and that we barely touched.”
“Someone has tried to poison you!” exclaimed Pere Alexis.
“No, not me,” replied Rouletabille, in bored fashion. “Don’t think about
that. Simply do what I tell you. Then analyze these two napkins, as
well.”
And he drew from his coat two soiled napkins.
“Well,” said Koupriane, “you have thought of everything.”
“They are the napkins the general and his wife used.”
“Yes, yes, I understand that,” said the Chief of Police.
“And you, Alexis, do you understand?” asked the reporter. “When can we
have the result of your analysis?
“In an hour, at the latest.”
“Very well,” said Koupriane. “Now I need not tell you to hold your
tongue. I am going to leave one of my men here. You will write us a
note that you will seal, and he will bring it to head-quarters. Sure you
understand? In an hour?”
“In an hour, Excellency.”
They went out, and Alexis followed them, bowing to the floor. Koupriane
had Rouletabille get into his carriage. The young man did as he was
told. One would have said he did not know where he was or what he did.
He made no reply to the chief’s questions.
“This Pere Alexander,” resumed Koupriane, “is a character, really quite
a figure. And a bit of a schemer, I should say. He has seen how Father
John of Cronstadt succeeded, and he says to himself, ‘Since the sailors
had their Father John of Cronstadt, why shouldn’t the police-guard have
their Father Alexis of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok?’”
But Rouletabille did not reply at all, and Koupriane wound up by
demanding what was the matter with him.
“The matter is,” replied Rouletabille, unable longer to conceal his
anguish, “that the poison continues.”
“Does that astonish you?” returned Koupriane. “It doesn’t me.”
Rouletabille looked at him and shook his head. His lips trembled as he
said, “I know what you think. It is abominable. But the thing I have
done certainly is more abominable still.”
“What have you done, then, Monsieur Rouletabille?”
“Perhaps I have caused the death of an innocent man.”
“So long as you aren’t sure of it, you would better not fret about it,
my dear friend.”
“It is enough that the doubt has arisen,” said the reporter, “almost
to kill me;” and he heaved so gloomy a sigh that the excellent Monsieur
Koupriane felt pity for the lad. He tapped him on the knee.
“Come, come, young man, you ought to know one thing by this time--‘you
can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs,’ as they say, I think, in
Paris.”
Rouletabille turned away from him with horror in his heart. If there
should be another, someone besides Michael! If it was another hand than
his that appeared to Matrena and him in the mysterious night! If Michael
Nikolaievitch had been innocent! Well, he would kill himself, that was
all. And those horrible words that he had exchanged with Natacha rose in
his memory, singing in his ears as though they would deafen him.
“Do you doubt still?” he had asked her, “that Michael tried to poison
your father?”
And Natacha had replied, “I wish to believe it! I wish to believe it,
for your sake, my poor boy.” And then he recalled her other words, still
more frightful now! “Couldn’t someone have tried to poison my father
and not have come by the window?” He had faced such a hypothesis with
assurance then--but now, now that the poison continued, continued within
the house, where he believed himself so fully aware of all people and
things--continued now that Michael Nikolaievitch was dead--ah, where did
it come from, this poison?--and what was it? Pere Alexis would hurry his
analysis if he had any regard for poor Rouletabille.
For Rouletabille to doubt, and in an affair where already there was one
man dead through his agency, was torment worse than death.
When they arrived at police-headquarters, Rouletabille jumped from
Koupriane’s carriage and without saying a word hailed an empty
isvotchick that was passing. He had himself driven back to Pere Alexis.
His doubt mastered his will; he could not bear to wait away. Under the
arch of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok he saw once more the man Koupriane had
placed there with the order to bring him Alexis’s message. The man
looked at him in astonishment. Rouletabille crossed the court and
entered the dingy old room once more. Pere Alexis was not there,
naturally, engaged as he was in his laboratory. But a person whom he did
not recognize at first sight attracted the reporter’s attention. In the
half-light of the shop a melancholy shadow leaned over the ikons on the
counter. It was only when he straightened up, with a deep sigh, and a
little light, deflected and yellow from passing through window-panes
that had known no touch of cleaning since they were placed there, fell
faintly on the face, that Rouletabille ascertained he was face to face
with Boris Mourazoff. It was indeed he, the erstwhile brilliant officer
whose elegance and charm the reporter had admired as he saw him at
beautiful Natacha’s feet in the datcha at Eliaguine. Now, no more in
uniform, he had thrown over his bowed shoulders a wretched coat, whose
sleeves swayed listlessly at his sides, in accord with his mood of
languid desperation, a felt hat with the rim turned down hid a little
the misery in his face in these few days, these not-many hours, how he
was changed! But, even as he was, he still concerned Rouletabille. What
was he doing there? Was he not going to go away, perhaps? He had picked
up an ikon from the counter and carried it over to the window to examine
its oxidized silver, giving such close attention to it that the reporter
hoped he might reach the door of the laboratory without being noticed.
He already had his hand on the knob of that door, which was behind the
counter, when he heard his name called.
“It is you, Monsieur Rouletabille,” said the low, sad voice of Boris.
“What has brought you here, then?”
“Well, well, Monsieur Boris Mourazoff, unless I’m mistaken? I certainly
didn’t expect to find you here in Pere Alexis’s place.”
“Why not, Monsieur Rouletabille? One can find anything here in Pere
Alexis’s stock. See; here are two old ikons in wood, carved with
sculptures, which came direct from Athos, and can’t be equaled, I assure
you, either at Gastini-Dvor nor even at Stchoukine-Dvor.”
“Yes, yes, that is possible,” said Rouletabille, impatiently. “Are you
an amateur of such things?” he added, in order to say something.
“Oh, like anybody else. But I was going to tell you, Monsieur
Rouletabille, I have resigned my commission. I have resolved to retire
from the world; I am going on a long voyage.” (Rouletabille thought:
‘Why not have gone at once?’) “And before going, I have come here to
supply myself with some little gifts to send those of my friends I
particularly care for, although now, my dear Monsieur Rouletabille, I
don’t care much for anything.”
“You look desolate enough, monsieur.”
Boris sighed like a child.
“How could it be otherwise?” he said. “I loved and believed myself
beloved. But it proved to be--nothing, alas!”
“Sometimes one only imagines things,” said Rouletabille, keeping his
hand on the door.
“Oh, yes,” said the other, growing more and more melancholy. “So a man
suffers. He is his own tormentor; he himself makes the wheel on which,
like his own executioner, he binds himself.”
“It is not necessary, monsieur; it is not necessary,” counseled the
reporter.
“Listen,” implored Boris in a voice that showed tears were not far away.
“You are still a child, but still you can see things. Do you believe
Natacha loves me?”
“I am sure of it, Monsieur Boris; I am sure of it.”
“I am sure of it, too. But I don’t know what to think now. She has let
me go, without trying to detain me, without a word of hope.”
“And where are you going like that?”
“I am returning to the Orel country, where I first saw her.”
“That is good, very good, Monsieur Boris. At least there you are sure
to see her again. She goes there every year with her parents for a few
weeks. It is a detail you haven’t overlooked, doubtless.”
“Certainly I haven’t. I will tell you that that prospect decided my
place of retreat.”
“See!”
“God gives me nothing, but He opens His treasures, and each takes what
he can.”
“Yes, yes; and Mademoiselle Natacha, does she know it is to Orel you
have decided to retire?”
“I have no reason for concealing it from her, Monsieur Rouletabille.”