The Secret of the Night
proper places in the chambers. That is the new mystery!”
“Certainly. But how were they taken out?”
“Shall we ever know? All we found was two feathers, this morning, in
the boudoir of the Empress, which leads us to think that the eider downs
were taken out that way. I am taking the two feathers to Koupriane.”
“Let me see them,” asked the reporter.
Rouletabille looked them over and handed them back.
“And what do you think the whole affair means?”
“We are inclined to regard it as a threat by the revolutionaries. If
they can carry away the eider downs, it would be quite as easy for them
to carry away...”
“The Imperial family? No, I don’t think it is that.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“I? Nothing any more. Not only do I not think any more, but I don’t wish
to. Tell me, Monsieur le Grand Marechal, it is useless, I suppose, to
try to see His Majesty before I go?”
“What good would it do, monsieur? We know everything now. This Natacha
that you defended against Koupriane is proved the culprit. The last
affair does not leave that in any reasonable doubt. And she is taken
care of from this time on. His Majesty wishes never to hear Natacha
spoken of again under any pretext.”
“And what are you going to do with that young girl?”
“The Tsar has decided that there shall not be any trial and that the
daughter of General Trebassof shall be sent, by administrative order,
to Siberia. The Tsar, monsieur, is very good, for he might have had her
hanged. She deserved it.”
“Yes, yes, the Tsar is very good.”
“You are very absorbed, Monsieur Rouletabille, and you are not eating.”
“I have no appetite, Monsieur le Marechal. Tell me,--the Emperor must be
rather bored at Tsarskoie-Coelo?”
“Oh, he has plenty of work. He rises at seven o’clock and has a light
English luncheon--tea and toast. At eight o’clock he starts and works
till ten. From ten to eleven he promenades.”
“In the jail-yard?” asked Rouletabille innocently.
“What’s that you say? Ah, you are an enfant terrible! Certainly we do
well to send you away. Until eleven he promenades in a pathway of the
park. From eleven to one he holds audience; luncheon at one; then he
spends the time until half-past two with his family.”
“What does he eat?”
“Soup. His Majesty is wonderfully fond of soup. He takes it at every
meal. After luncheon he smokes, but never a cigar--always cigarettes,
gifts of the Sultan; and he only drinks one liqueur, Maraschino. At
half-past two he goes out again for a little air--always in his park;
then he sets himself to work until eight o’clock. It is simply frightful
work, with heaps of useless papers and numberless signatures. No
secretary can spare him that ungrateful bureaucratic duty. He must sign,
sign, sign, and read, read, read the reports. And it is work without any
beginning or end; as soon as some reports go, others arrive. At eight
o’clock, dinner, and then more signatures, working right up to eleven
o’clock. At eleven o’clock he goes to bed.”
“And he sleeps to the rhythmical tramp of the guards on patrol,” added
Rouletabille, bluntly.
“O young man, young man!”
“Pardon me, Monsieur le Grand Marechal,” said the reporter, rising; “I
am, indeed, a disturbing spirit and I know that I have nothing more
to do in this country. You will not see me any more, Monsieur le Grand
Marechal; but before leaving I ought to tell you how much I have been
touched by the hospitality of your great nation. That hospitality is
sometimes a little dangerous, but it is always magnificent. No other
nation in the world knows like the Russians how to receive a man, Your
Excellency. I speak as I feel; and that isn’t affected by my manner of
quitting you, for you know also how to put a man to the door. Adieu,
then; without any rancor. My most respectful homage to His Majesty. Ah,
just one word more! You will recall that Natacha Feodorovna was engaged
to poor Boris Mourazoff, still another young man who has disappeared and
who, before disappearing, charged me to deliver to General Trebassof’s
daughter this last token--these two little ikons. I entrust you with
this mission, Monsieur le Grand Marechal. Your servant, Excellency.”
Rouletabille re-descended the great Kaniouche. “Now,” said he to
himself, “it is my turn to buy farewell presents.” And he made his
way slowly across la Place des Grandes-Ecuries and the bridge of the
Katharine canal. He entered Aptiekarski-Pereoulok and pushed open Pere
Alexis’s door, under the arch, at the back of the obscure court.
“Health and prosperity, Alexis Hutch!”
“Ah, you again, little man! Well? Koupriane has let you know the result
of my analyses?”
“Yes, yes. Tell me, Alexis Hutch, you are sure you are not mistaken? You
don’t think you might be mistaken? Think carefully before you answer. It
is a question of life or death.”
“For whom?”
“For me.”
“For you, good little friend! You want to make your old Pere Alexis
laugh--or weep!”
“Answer me.”
“No, I couldn’t be mistaken. The thing is as certain as that we two are
here--arsenate of soda in the stains on the two napkins and traces of
arsenate of soda in two of the four glasses; none in the carafe, none
in the little bottle, none in the two glasses. I say it before you and
before God.”
“So it is really true. Thank you, Alexis Hutch. Koupriane has not tried
to deceive me. There has been nothing of that sort. Well, do you know,
Alexis Hutch, who has poured the poison? It is she or I. And as it is
not I, it is she. And since it is she, well, I am going to die!”
“You love her, then?” inquired Pere Alexis.
“No,” replied Rouletabille, with a self-mocking smile. “No, I don’t love
her. But if it is she who poured the poison, then it was not Michael
Nikolaievitch, and it is I who had Michael Nikolaievitch killed. You can
see now that therefore I must die. Show me your finest images.
“Ah, my little one, if you will permit your old Alexis to make you a
gift, I would offer you these two poor ikons that are certainly from the
convent of Troitza at its best period. See how beautiful they are, and
old. Have you ever seen so beautiful a Mother of God? And this St.
Luke, would you believe that the hand had been mended, eh? Two little
masterpieces, little friend! If the old masters of Salonika returned to
the world they would be satisfied with their pupils at Troitza. But you
mustn’t kill yourself at your age!”
“Come, bat ouclzka (little father), I accept your gift, and, if I meet
the old Salonican masters on the road I am going to travel, I shan’t
fail to tell them there is no person here below who appreciates them
like a certain pere of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, Alexis Hutch.”
So saying Rouletabille wrapped up the two little ikons and put them
in his pocket. The Saint Luke would be sure to appeal to his friend
Sainclair. As to the Mother of God, that would be his dying gift to the
Dame en noir.
“Ah, you are sad, little son; and your voice, as it sounds now, hurts
me.”
Rouletabille turned his head at the sound of two moujiks who entered,
carrying a long basket.
“What do you want?” demanded Pere Alexis in Russian, “and what is that
you are bringing in? Do you intend to fill that huge basket with my
goods? In that case you are very welcome and I am your humble servant.”
But the two chuckled.
“Yes, yes, we have come to rid your shop of a wretched piece of goods
that litters it.”
“What is this you say?” inquired the old man, anxiously, and drawing
near Rouletabille. “Little friend, watch these men; I don’t recognize
their faces and I can’t understand why they have come here.”
Rouletabille looked at the new-comers, who drew near the counter, after
depositing their long basket close to the door. There was a sarcastic
and malicious mocking way about them that struck him from the first. But
while they kept up their jabbering with Pere Alexis he filled his pipe
and proceeded to light it. Just then the door was pushed open again and
three men entered, simply dressed, like respectable small merchants.
They also acted curiously and looked all around the shop. Pere Alexis
grew more and more alarmed and the others pulled rudely at his beard.
“I believe these men here have come to rob me,” he cried in French.
“What do you say, my son?--Shall I call the police?”
“Hold on,” replied Rouletabille impassively. “They are all armed; they
have revolvers in their pockets.”
Pere Alexis’s teeth commenced to chatter. As he tried to get near
the door he was roughly pushed back and a final personage entered,
apparently a gentleman, and dressed as such, save that he wore a visored
leather cap.
“Ah,” said he at once in French, “why, it is the young French journalist
of the Grand-Morskaia Hotel. Salutations and your good health! I see
with pleasure that you also appreciate the counsels of our dear Pere
Alexis.”
“Don’t listen to him, little friend; I don’t know him,” cried Alexis
Hutch.
But the gentleman of the Neva went on:
“He is a man close to the first principles of science, and therefore not
far from divine; he is a holy man, whom it is good to consult at moments
when the future appears difficult. He knows how to read as no one else
can--Father John of Cronstadt excepted, to be strictly accurate--on the
sheets of bull-hide where the dark angels have traced mysterious signs
of destiny.”
Here the gentleman picked up an old pair of boots, which he threw on the
counter in the midst of the ikons.
“Pere Alexis, perhaps these are not bull-hide, but good enough cow-hide.
Don’t you want to read on this cow-hide the future of this young man?”
But here Rouletabille advanced to the gentleman, and blew an enormous
cloud of smoke full in his face.
“It is useless, monsieur,” said Rouletabille, “to waste your time and
your breath. I have been waiting for you.”
XVI. BEFORE THE REVOLUTIONARY TRIBUNAL
Only, Rouletabille refused to be put into the basket. He would not let
them disarm him until they promised to call a carriage. The Vehicle
rolled into the court, and while Pere Alexis was kept back in his shop
at the point of a revolver, Rouletabille quietly got in, smoking his
pipe. The man who appeared to be the chief of the band (the gentleman of
the Neva) got in too and sat down beside him. The carriage windows were
shuttered, preventing all communication with the outside, and only a
tiny lantern lighted the interior. They started. The carriage was driven
by two men in brown coats trimmed with false astrakhan. The dvornicks
saluted, believing it a police affair. The concierge made the sign of
the cross.
The journey lasted several hours without other incidents than those
brought about by the tremendous jolts, which threw the two passengers
inside one on top of the other. This might have made an opening for
conversation; and the “gentleman of the Neva” tried it; but in vain.
Rouletabille would not respond. At one moment, indeed, the gentleman,
who was growing bored, became so pressing that the reporter finally said
in the curt tone he always used when he was irritated:
“I pray you, monsieur, let me smoke my pipe in peace.”
Upon which the gentleman prudently occupied himself in lowering one of
the windows, for it grew stifling.
Finally, after much jolting, there was a stop while the horses
were changed and the gentleman asked Rouletabille to let himself be
blindfolded. “The moment has come; they are going to hang me without
any form of trial,” thought the reporter, and when, blinded with the
bandage, he felt himself lifted under the arms, there was revolt of his
whole being, that being which, now that it was on the point of dying,
did not wish to cease. Rouletabille would have believed himself
stronger, more courageous, more stoical at least. But blind instinct