The Secret of the Night
ipecac was in the medicine-closet. She lied! And if she lied, all is
explained.
“It was the striking of a watch, Sire, with a striking apparatus and a
sound like the general’s, there in the quarters of the revolutionaries,
that roused my memory and indicated to me in a second this argument of
the time.
“I got down from my gallows-scaffold, Your Majesty, to experiment on
that time-limit. Oh, nothing and nobody could have prevented my making
that experiment before I died, to prove to myself that Rouletabille had
all along been right. I had studied the grounds around the datcha enough
to be perfectly exact about the distances. I found in the court where I
was to be hanged the same number of steps that there were from the
kiosk to the steps of the veranda, and, as the staircase of the
revolutionaries had fewer steps, I lengthened my journey a few steps by
walking around a chair. Finally, I attended to the opening and closing
of the doors that Matrena would have had to do. I had looked at a watch
when I started. When I returned, Sire, and looked at the watch again, I
had taken three minutes to cover the distance--and it is not for me to
boast, but I am a little livelier than the excellent Matrena.
“Matrena had lied. Matrena had simulated the poisoning of the general.
Matrena had coolly poured ipecac in the general’s glass while we were
illustrating with matches a curious-enough theory of the nature of the
constitution of the empire.”
“But this is abominable!” cried the Emperor, this time definitely
convinced by the intricate argument of Rouletabille. “And what end could
this imitation serve?’”
“The end of preventing the real crime! The end that she believed herself
to have attained, Sire, to have Natacha removed forever--Natacha whom
she believed capable of any crime.”
“Oh, it is monstrous! Feodor Feodorovitch has often told me that Matrena
loved Natacha sincerely.”
“She loved her sincerely up to the day that she believed her
guilty. Matrena Petrovna was sure of Natacha’s complicity in Michael
Nikolaievitch’s attempt to poison the general. I shared her stupor, her
despair, when Feodor Feodorovitch took his daughter in his arms after
that tragic night, and embraced her. He seemed to absolve her. It was
then that Matrena resolved within herself to save the general in spite
of himself, but I remain persuaded that, if she had dared such a plan
against Natacha, it would only be because of what she believed definite
proof of her step-daughter’s infamy. These papers, Sire, that you have
shown me, and which show, if nothing more, an understanding between
Natacha and the revolutionaries, could only have been in the possession
of Michael or of Natacha. Nothing was found in Michael’s quarters. Tell
me, then, that Matrena found them in Natacha’s apartment. Then, she did
not hesitate!”
“If one outlined her crime to her, do you believe she would confess it?”
asked the Emperor.
“I am so sure of it that I have had her brought here. By now Koupriane
should be here at the chateau, with Matrena Petrovna.”
“You think of everything, monsieur.”
The Tsar moved to ring a bell. Rouletabille raised his hand.
“Not yet, Sire. I ask that you permit me not to be present at the
confusion of that brave, heroic, good woman who has loved me much. But
before I go, Sire--do you promise me?”
The Emperor believed he had not heard correctly or did not grasp the
meaning. He repeated what Rouletabille had said. The young reporter
repeated it once more:
“Do you promise? No, Sire, I am not mad. I dare to ask you that. I have
confided my honor to Your Majesty. I have told you Natacha’s secret.
Well, now, before Matrena’s confession, I dare to ask you: Promise me
to forget that secret. It will not suffice merely to give Natacha back
again to her father. It is necessary to leave her course open to her--if
you really wish to save General Trebassof. What do you decide, Sire?”
“It is the first time anyone has questioned me, monsieur.”
“Ah, well, it will be the last. But I humbly beg Your Majesty to reply.”
“That would be many millions given to the Revolution.”
“Oh, Sire, they are not given yet. The general is sixty-five, but he has
many years ahead of him, if you wish it. By the time he dies--a natural
death, if you wish it--your enemies will have disarmed.”
“My enemies!” murmured the Tsar in a low voice. “No, no; my enemies
never will disarm. Who, then, will be able to disarm them?” added he,
melancholily, shaking his head.
“Progress, Sire! If you wish it.”
The Tsar turned red and looked at the audacious young man, who met the
gaze of His Majesty frankly.
“It is kind of you to say that, my young friend. But you speak as a
child.”
“As a child of France to the Father of the Russian people.”
It was said in a voice so solemn and, at the same time, so naively
touching, that the Tsar started. He gazed again for some time in silence
at this boy who, this time, turned away his brimming eyes.
“Progress and pity, Sire.”
“Well,” said the Emperor, “it is promised.”
Rouletabille was not able to restrain a joyous movement hardly in
keeping.
“You can ring now, Sire.”
And the Tsar rang.
The reporter passed into a little salon, where he found the Marshal,
Koupriane and Matrena Petrovna, who was “in a state.”
She threw a suspicious glance at Rouletabille, who was not treated this
morning as the dear little domovoi-doukh. She permitted herself to be
conducted, already trembling, before the Emperor.
“What happened?” asked Koupriane agitatedly.
“It so happened, my dear Monsieur Koupriane, that I have the pardon of
the Emperor for all the crimes you have charged against me, and that I
wish to shake hands before I go, without any rancor. Monsieur Koupriane,
the Emperor will tell you himself that General Trebassof is saved,
and that his life will never be in danger any more. Do you know what
follows? It follows that you must at once set Matiew free, whom I have
taken, if you remember, under my protection. Tell him that he is going
to make his way in France. I will find him a place on condition that he
forgets certain lashes.”
“Such a promise! Such an attitude toward me!” cried Koupriane. “But I
will wait for the Emperor to tell me all these fine things. And your
Natacha, what do you do with her?”
“We release her also, monsieur. Natacha never has been the monster that
you think.”
“How can you say that? Someone at least is guilty.”
“There are two guilty. The first, Monsieur le Marechal.”
“What!” cried the Marshal.
“Monsieur le Marechal, who had the imprudence to bring such dangerous
grapes to the datcha des Iles, and--and--”
“And the other?” asked Koupriane, more and more anxiously.
“Listen there,” said Rouletabille, pointing toward the Emperor’s
cabinet.
The sound of tears and sobs reached them. The grief and the remorse
of Matrena Petrovna passed the walls of the cabinet. Koupriane was
completely disconcerted.
Suddenly the Emperor appeared. He was in a state of exaltation such as
had never been known in him. Koupriane, dismayed, drew back.
“Monsieur,” said the Tsar to him, “I require that Natacha Feodorovna
be here within the next two hours, and that she be conducted with the
honors due to her rank. Natacha is innocent, and we must make reparation
to her.”
Then, turning toward Rouletabille:
“I have learned what she knows and what she owes to you--we owe to you,
my young friend.”
The Tsar said “my young friend.” Rouletabille, at this last moment
before his departure, spoke Russian?
“Then she knows nothing, Sire. That is better, Sire, because Your
Majesty and me, we must forget right from to-day that we know anything.”
“You are right,” said the Tsar thoughtfully. “But, my friend, what am I
to do for you?”
“Sire, one favor. Do not let me miss the train at 10:55.”
And he threw himself on his knees.
“Remain on your knees, my friend. You are ready, thus. Monsieur le
Marechal will prepare at once a brevet, which I will immediately sign.
Meantime, Monsieur le Marechal, find me, in my own closet, one of my St.
Anne’s collars.”
And it was thus that Joseph Rouletabille, of “L’Epoque,” was created
officer of St. Anne of Russia by the Emperor himself, who gave him the
accolade.
“They combine the whole course of time in this country,” thought
Rouletabille, pressing his hand to his eyes to hold back the tears.
For the train at 10:55 everybody had crowded at Tsarskoie-Coelo
station. Among those who had come from St. Petersburg to press the young
reporter’s hand when they learned of his impending departure were
Ivan Petrovitch, the jolly Councilor of the Emperor, and Athanase
Georgevitch, the lively advocate so well known for his famous exploits
with knife and fork. They had come naturally with all their bandages and
dressings, which made them look like glorious ruins. They brought the
greetings of Feodor Feodorovitch, who still had a little fever, and of
Thaddeus Tchitchnikoff, the Lithuanian, who had both legs broken.
Even after he was in his compartment Rouletabille had to drink his last
drink of champagne. When nothing remained in the bottle and everyone
had embraced and re-embraced him, as the train did not start quite yet,
Athanase Georgevitch opened a second “last” bottle. It was then that
Monsieur le Grand Marechal arrived, out of breath. They invited him
to drink, and he accepted. But he had need to speak to Rouletabille in
private, and he drew the reporter, after excuses, out into the corridor.
“It is the Emperor himself who has sent me,” said the high dignitary
with emotion. “He has sent me about the eider downs. You forgot to
explain the eider downs to him.”
“Niet!” replied Rouletabille, laughing. “That is nothing. Nitchevo! His
Majesty’s eider downs are of the finest eider, as one of the feathers
that you have shown me demonstrates. Well, open them now. They are a
cheap imitation, as the second feather proves. The return of the
false eider downs, before evening, proves then that they hoped the
substitution would pass undetected. That is all. Caracho! Collapse of
the hoax. Your health! Vive le Tsar!”
“Caracho! Caracho!”
The locomotive was puffing when a couple were seen running, a man and a
woman. It was Monsieur and Madame Gounsovski.
Gounsovski stood on the running-board.
“Madame Gounsovski has insisted upon shaking hands. You are very
congenial.”
“Compliments, madame.”
“Tell me, young man, you did wrong to fail for dinner at my house
yesterday.”
“I would have certainly escaped a disagreeable little journey into
Finland. I do not regret it, monsieur.”
The train trembled and moved. They cried, “Vive la France! Vive la
Russe!” Athanase Georgevitch wept. Matrena Petrovna, at a window of the
station, whither she had timidly retired, waved a handkerchief to the
little domovoi-doukh, who had made her see everything in the right
light, and whom she did not dare to embrace after the terrible affair of
the false poison and the Tsar’s anger.
The reporter threw her a respectful kiss.
As he said to Gounsovski, there was nothing to be regretted.
All the same, as the train took its way toward the frontier,
Rouletabille threw himself back on the cushions, and said:
“Ouf!”