The Secret of the Night
disappear, to die!
Thus the unhappy Rouletabille muttered as he walked along the bank of
the Neva, not far from the ruins of the poor datcha, where the joyous
friends of Feodor Feodorovitch would have no more good dinners, never;
so he soliloquized, his head on fire.
And, all at once, he recovered trace of the young girl, that trace lost
earlier, a trace left at her moment of flight, after the poisoning and
before the explosion. And had he not in that a terrible coincidence?
Because the poison might well have been only in preparation for the
final attack, the pretext for the tragic arrival of the two false
doctors. Natacha, Natacha, the living mystery surrounded already by so
many dead!
Not far from the ruins of the datcha Rouletabille soon made sure that a
group of people had been there the night before, coming from the woods
near-by, and returning to them. He was able to be sure of this because
the boundaries of the datcha had been guarded by troops and police as
soon as the explosion took place, under orders to keep back the crowd
that hurried to Eliaguine. He looked attentively at the grass, the
ferns, the broken and trampled twigs. Certainly a struggle had occurred
there. He could distinguish clearly in the soft earth of a narrow glade
the prints of Natacha’s two little boots among all the large footprints.
He continued his search with his heart heavier and heavier, he had a
presentiment that he was on the point of discovering a new misfortune.
The footprints passed steadily under the branches along the side of the
Neva. From a bush he picked a shred of white cloth, and it seemed to
him a veritable battle had taken place there. Torn branches strewed the
grass. He went on. Very close to the bank he saw by examination of the
soil, where there was no more trace of tiny heels and little soles,
that the woman who had been found there was carried, and carried, into a
boat, of which the place of fastening to the bank was still visible.
“They have carried off Natacha,” he cried in a surge of anguish.
“bungler that I am, that is my fault too--all my fault--all my fault!
They wished to avenge Michael Nikolaievitch’s death, for which they hold
Natacha responsible, and they have kidnapped her.”
His eyes searched the great arm of the river for a boat. The river was
deserted. Not a sail, nothing visible on the dead waters! “What shall I
do? What shall I do? I must save her.”
He resumed his course along the river. Who could give him any useful
information? He drew near a little shelter occupied by a guard. The
guard was speaking to an officer. Perhaps he had noticed something
during his watch that evening along the river. That branch of the river
was almost always deserted after the day was over. A boat plying
between these shores in the twilight would certainly attract attention.
Rouletabille showed the guard the paper Koupriane had given him in the
beginning, and with the officer (who turned out to be a police officer)
as interpreter, he asked his questions. As a matter of fact the guard
had been sufficiently puzzled by the doings and comings of a light boat
which, after disappearing for an instant, around the bend of the river,
had suddenly rowed swiftly out again and accosted a sailing-yacht which
appeared at the opening of the gulf. It was one of those small but rapid
and elegant sailing craft such as are seen in the Lachtka regattas.
Lachtka! “The Bay of Lachtka!”
The word was a ray of light for the reporter, who recalled now the
counsel Gounsovski had given him. “Watch the Bay of Lachtka, and tell
me then if you still believe Natacha is innocent!” Gounsovski must have
known when he said this that Natacha had embarked in company with the
Nihilists, but evidently he was ignorant that she had gone with them
under compulsion, as their prisoner.
Was it too late to save Natacha? In any case, before he died, he would
try in every way possible, so as at least to have kept her as much as he
could from the disaster for which he held himself responsible. He ran to
the Barque, near the Point.
His voice was firm as he hailed the canoe of the floating restaurant
where, thanks to him, Koupriane had been thwarted in impotent anger. He
had himself taken to just below Staria-Derevnia and jumped out at the
spot where he saw little Katharina disappear a few days before. He
landed in the mud and climbed on hands and knees up the slope of a
roadway which followed the bank. This bank led to the Bay of Lachtka,
not far from the frontier of Finland.
On Rouletabille’s left lay the sea, the immense gulf with slight waves;
to his right was the decaying stretch of the marsh. Stagnant water
stretching to the horizon, coarse grass and reeds, an extraordinary
tangle of water-plants, small ponds whose greenish scum did not stir
under the stiff breeze, water that was heavy and dirty. Along this
narrow strip of land thrust thus between the marsh, the sky and the sea,
he hurried, with many stumblings, his eyes fixed on the deserted gulf.
Suddenly he turned his head at a singular noise. At first he didn’t see
anything, but heard in the distance a vague clamoring while a sort of
vapor commenced to rise from the marsh. And then he noticed, nearer
him, the high marsh grasses undulating. Finally he saw a countless flock
rising from the bed of the marshes. Beasts, groups of beasts, whose
horns one saw like bayonets, jostled each other trying to keep to the
firm land. Many of them swam and on the backs of some were naked men,
stark naked, with hair falling to their shoulders and streaming
behind them like manes. They shouted war-cries and waved their clubs.
Rouletabille stopped short before this prehistoric invasion. He would
never have imagined that a few miles from the Nevsky Prospect he could
have found himself in the midst of such a spectacle. These savages had
not even a loin-cloth. Where did they come from with their herd? From
what remote place in the world or in old and gone history had they
emerged? What was this new invasion? What prodigious slaughter-house
awaited these unruly herds? They made a noise like thunder in the marsh.
Here were a thousand unkempt haunches undulating in the marsh like the
ocean as a storm approaches. The stark-naked men jumped along the route,
waving their clubs, crying gutturally in a way the beasts seemed to
understand. They worked their way out from the marsh and turned toward
the city, leaving behind, to swathe the view of them a while and then
fade away, a pestilential haze that hung like an aura about the naked,
long-haired men. It was terrible and magnificent. In order not to be
shoved into the water, Rouletabille had climbed a small rock that stood
beside the route, and had waited there as though petrified himself.
When the barbarians had finally passed by he climbed down again, but the
route had become a bog of trampled filth.
Happily, he heard the noise of a primitive conveyance behind him. It
was a telega. Curiously primitive, the telega is four-wheeled, with two
planks thrown crudely across the axle-trees. Rouletabille gave the man
who was seated in it three roubles, and jumped into the planks beside
him, and the two little Finnish horses, whose manes hung clear to the
mud, went like the wind. Such crude conveyances are necessary on such
crude roads, but it requires a strong constitution to make a journey on
them. Still, the reporter felt none of the jolting, he was so intent
on the sea and the coast of Lachtka Bay. The vehicle finally reached
a wooden bridge, across a murky creek. As the day commenced to fade
colorlessly, Rouletabille jumped off onto the shore and his rustic
equipage crossed to the Sestroriesk side. It was a corner of land black
and somber as his thoughts that he surveyed now. “Watch the Bay of
Lachtka!” The reporter knew that this desolate plain, this impenetrable
marsh, this sea which offered the fugitive refuge in innumerable fords,
had always been a useful retreat for Nihilistic adventurers. A hundred
legends circulated in St. Petersburg about the mysteries of Lachtka
marshes. And that gave him his last hope. Maybe he would be able to run
across some revolutionaries to whom he could explain about Natacha, as
prudently as possible; he might even see Natacha herself. Gounsovski
could not have spoken vain words to him.
Between the Lachtkrinsky marsh and the strand he perceived on the edge
of the forests which run as far as Sestroriesk a little wooden house
whose walls were painted a reddish-brown, and its roof green. It was
not the Russian isba, but the Finnish touba. However, a Russian sign
announced it to be a restaurant. The young man had to take only a few
steps to enter it. He was the only customer there. An old man,
with glasses and a long gray beard, evidently the proprietor of the
establishment, stood behind the counter, presiding over the zakouskis.
Rouletabille chose some little sandwiches which he placed on a plate. He
took a bottle of pivo and made the man understand that later, if it were
possible, he would like a good hot supper. The other made a sign that
he understood and showed him into an adjoining room which was used for
diners. Rouletabille was quite ready enough to die in the face of his
failures, but he did not wish to perish from hunger.
A table was placed beside a window looking out over the sea and over the
entrance to the bay. It could not have been better and, with his eye
now on the horizon, now on the estuary near-by, he commenced to eat with
gloomy avidity. He was inclined to feel sorry for himself, to indulge
in self-pity. “Just the same, two and two always make four,” he said to
himself; “but in my calculations perhaps I have forgotten the surd. Ah,
there was a time when I would not have overlooked anything. And even now
I haven’t overlooked anything, if Natacha is innocent!” Having literally
scoured the plate, he struck the table a great blow with his fist and
said: “She is!”
Just then the door opened. Rouletabille supposed the proprietor of the
place was entering.
It was Koupriane.
He rose, startled. He could not imagine by what mystery the Prefect of
Police had made his way there, but he rejoiced from the bottom of his
heart, for if he was trying to rescue Natacha from the hands of the
revolutionaries Koupriane would be a valuable ally. He clapped the
Prefect on the shoulder.
“Well, well!” he said, almost joyfully. “I certainly did not expect you
here. How is your wound?”
“Nitchevo! Not worth speaking about; it’s nothing.”
“And the general and--! Ah, that frightful night! And those two
unfortunates who--?”
“Nitchevo! Nitchevo!”
“And poor Ermolai!”
“Nitchevo! Nitchevo! It is nothing.”
Rouletabille looked him over. The Prefect of Police had an arm in a
sling, but he was bright and shining as a new ten-rouble piece, while
he, poor Rouletabille, was so abominably soiled and depressed. Where did
he come from? Koupriane understood his look and smiled.
“Well, I have just come from the Finland train; it is the best way.”
“But what can you have come here to do, Excellency?”
“The same thing as you.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Rouletabille, “do you mean to say that you have come
here to save Natacha?”
“How--to save her! I come to capture her.”
“To capture her?”
“Monsieur Rouletabille, I have a very fine little dungeon in Saints
Peter and Paul fortress that is all ready for her.”
“You are going to throw Natacha into a dungeon!”
“The Emperor’s order, Monsieur Rouletabille. And if you see me here in
person it is simply because His Majesty requires that the thing be done
as respectfully and discreetly as possible.”
“Natacha in prison!” cried the reporter, who saw in horror all obstacles
rising before him at one and the same time. “For what reasons, pray?”