The Secret of the Night Part 18

"Michael! Boris! Come here," cried Feodor Feodorovitch. "What have you done with the grapes from monsieur le marechal?"

They both looked at him upon this brusque interrogation, seemed not to understand, and then, suddenly recalling, they declared very naturally that they had left them on the garden table and had not thought about them.

"You forgot my caution, then?" said Count Kaltzof severely.

"What caution?" said Boris. "Oh, yes, the was.h.i.+ng of the grapes. Doucet's caution."

"Do you know what has happened to Doucet with those grapes? His eldest son is dead, poisoned. Do you understand now why we are anxious to know what has become of my grapes?"

"But they ought to be out there on the table," said Michael.

"No one can find them anywhere," declared Matrena, who, no less than Rouletabille, watched every change in the countenances of the two officers. "How did it happen that you went away yesterday evening without saying good-bye, without seeing us, without troubling yourselves whether or not the general might need you?"

"Madame," said Michael, coldly, in military fas.h.i.+on, as though he replied to his superior officer himself, "we have ample excuse to offer you and the general. It is necessary that we make an admission, and the general will pardon us, I am sure. Boris and I, daring the promenade, happened to quarrel. That quarrel was in full swing when we reached here and we were discussing the way to end it most promptly when monsieur le marechal entered the garden. We must make that our excuse for giving divided attention to what he had to say. As soon as he was gone we had only one thought, to get away from here to settle our difference with arms in our hands."

"Without speaking to me about it!" interrupted Treha.s.sof. "I never will pardon that."

"You fight at such a time, when the general is threatened! It is as though you fought between yourselves in the face of the enemy. It is treason!" added Matrena.

"Madame," said Boris, "we did not fight. Someone pointed out our fault, and I offered my excuses to Michael Nikolaievitch, who generously accepted them. Is that not so, Michael Nikolaievitch?"

"And who is this that pointed out your fault?" demanded the marshal.

"Natacha."

"Bravo, Natacha. Come, embrace me, my daughter."

The general pressed his daughter effusively to his broad chest.

"And I hope you will not have further disputing," he cried, looking over Natacha's shoulder.

"We promise you that, General," declared Boris. "Our lives belong to you."

"You did well, my love. Let us all do as well. I have pa.s.sed an excellent night, messieurs. Real sleep! I have had just one long sleep."

"That is so," said Matrena slowly. "The general had no need of narcotic. He slept like a child and did not touch his potion."

"And my leg is almost well."

"All the same, it is singular that those grapes should have disappeared," insisted the marshal, following his fixed idea.

"Ermolai," called Matrena.

The old servant appeared.

"Yesterday evening, after these gentlemen had left the house, did you notice a small white box on the garden table?"

"No, Barinia."

"And the servants? Have any of them been sick? The dvornicks? The schwitzar? In the kitchens? No one sick? No? Go and see; then come and tell me."

He returned, saying, "No one sick."

Like the marshal, Matrena Petrovna and Feodor Feodorovitch looked at one another, repeating in French, "No one sick! That is strange!"

Rouletabille came forward and gave the only explanation that was plausible-for the others.

"But, General, that is not strange at all. The grapes have been stolen and eaten by some domestic, and if the servant has not been sick it is simply that the grapes monsieur le marechal brought escaped the spraying of the Bordeaux mixture. That is the whole mystery."

"The little fellow must be right," cried the delighted marshal.

"He is always right, this little fellow," beamed Matrena, as proudly as though she had brought him into the world.

But "the little fellow," taking advantage of the greetings as Athanase Georgevitch and Ivan Petrovitch arrived, left the villa, gripping in his pocket the phial which held what is required to make grapes flourish or to kill a general who is in excellent health. When he had gone a few hundred steps toward the bridges one must cross to go into the city, he was overtaken by a panting dvornick, who brought him a letter that had just come by courier. The writing on the envelope was entirely unknown to him. He tore it open and read, in excellent French:

"Request to M. Joseph Rouletabille not to mix in matters that do not concern him. The second warning will be the last." It was signed: "The Central Revolutionary Committee."

"So, ho!" said Rouletabille, slipping the paper into his pocket, "that's the line it takes, is it! Happily I have nothing more to occupy myself with at all. It is Koupriane's turn now! Now to go to Koupriane's!"

On this date, Rouletabille's note-book: "Natacha to her father: 'But you, papa, have you had a good night? Did you take your narcotic?'

"Fearful, and (lest I confuse heaven and h.e.l.l) I have no right to take any further notes."*

* As a matter of fact, after this day no more notes are found in Rouletabille's memorandum-book. The last one is that above, bizarre and romantic, and necessary, as Sainclair, the Paris advocate and friend of Rouletabille, indicates opposite it in the papers from which we have taken all the details of this story.

VIII. THE LITTLE CHAPEL OF THE GUARDS

Rouletabille took a long walk which led him to the Troitsky Bridge, then, re-descending the Naberjnaia, he reached the Winter Palace. He seemed to have chased away all preoccupation, and took a child's pleasure in the different aspects of the life that characterizes the city of the Great Peter. He stopped before the Winter Palace, walked slowly across the square where the prodigious monolith of the Alexander Column rises from its bronze socket, strolled between the palace and the colonnades, pa.s.sed under an immense arch: everything seemed Cyclopean to him, and he never had felt so tiny, so insignificant. None the less he was happy in his insignificance, he was satisfied with himself in the presence of these colossal things; everything pleased him this morning. The speed of the isvos, the bickering humor of the osvotchicks, the elegance of the women, the fine presences of the officers and their easy naturalness under their uniforms, so opposed to the wooden posturing of the Berlin military men whom he had noticed at the "Tilleuls" and in the Friederichstra.s.se between two trains. Everything enchanted him-the costume even of the moujiks, vivid blouses, the red s.h.i.+rts over the trousers, the full legs and the boots up to the knees, even the unfortunates who, in spite of the soft atmosphere, were m.u.f.fled up in sheepskin coats, all impressed him favorably, everything appeared to him original and congenial.

Order reigned in the city. The guards were polite, decorative and superb in bearing. The pa.s.sers-by in that quarter talked gayly among themselves, often in French, and had manners as civilized as anywhere in the world. Where, then, was the Bear of the North? He never had seen bears so well licked. Was it this very city that only yesterday was in revolution? This was certainly the Alexander Park where troops a few weeks before had fired on children who had sought refuge in the trees, like sparrows. Was this the very pavement where the Cossacks had left so many bodies? Finally he saw before him the Nevsky Prospect, where the bullets rained like hail not long since upon a people dressed for festivities and very joyous. Nichevo! Nichevo! All that was so soon forgotten. They forgot yesterday as they forget to-morrow. The Nihilists? Poets, who imagined that a bomb could accomplish anything in that Babylon of the North more important than the noise of its explosion! Look at these people who pa.s.s. They have no more thought for the old attack than for those now preparing in the shadow of the "tracktirs." Happy men, full of serenity in this bright quarter, who move about their affairs and their pleasures in the purest air, the lightest, the most transparent on earth. No, no; no one knows the joy of mere breathing if he has not breathed the air there, the finest in the north of the world, which gives food and drink of beautiful white eau-de-vie and yellow pivo, and strikes the blood and makes one a beast vigorous and joyful and fatalistic, and mocks at the Nihilists and, as well, at the ten thousand eyes of the police staring from under the porches of houses, from under the skulls of dvornicks-all police, the dvornicks; all police, also the joyous concierges with extended hands. Ah, ah, one mocks at it all in such air, provided one has roubles in one's pockets, plenty of roubles, and that one is not besotted by reading those extraordinary books that preach the happiness of all humanity to students and to poor girl-students too. Ah, ah, seed of the Nihilists, all that! These poor little fellows and poor little girls who have their heads turned by lectures that they cannot digest! That is all the trouble, the digestion. The digestion is needed. Messieurs the commercial travelers for champagne, who talk together importantly in the lobbies of the Grand Morskaia Hotel and who have studied the Russian people even in the most distant cities where champagne is sold, will tell you that over any table of hors-d'oeuvres, and will regulate the whole question of the Revolution between two little gla.s.ses of vodka, swallowed properly, quickly, elbow up, at a single draught, in the Russian manner. Simply an affair of digestion, they tell you. Who is the fool that would dare compare a young gentleman who has well digested a bottle of champagne or two, and another young man who has poorly digested the lucubrations of, who shall we say?-the lucubrations of the economists? The economists? The economists! Fools who compete which can make the most violent statements! Those who read them and don't understand them go off like a bomb! Your health! Nichevo! The world goes round still, doesn't it?

Discussion political, economic, revolutionary, and other in the room where they munch hors-d'oeuvres! You will hear it all as you pa.s.s through the hotel to your chamber, young Rouletabille. Get quickly now to the home of Koupriane, if you don't wish to arrive there at luncheon-time; then you would have to put off these serious affairs until evening.

The Department of Police. Ma.s.sive entrance, heavily guarded, a great lobby, halls with swinging doors, many obsequious schwitzars on the lookout for tips, many poor creatures sitting against the walls on dirty benches, desks and clerks, brilliant boots and epaulets of gay young officers who are telling tales of the Aquarium with great relish.

"Monsieur Rouletabille! Ah, yes. Please be seated. Delighted, M. Koupriane will be very happy to receive you, but just at this moment he is at inspection. Yes, the inspection of the police dormitories in the barracks. We will take you there. His own idea! He doesn't neglect anything, does he? A great Chief. Have you seen the police-guards' dormitory? Admirable! The first dormitories of the world. We say that without wis.h.i.+ng to offend France. We love France. A great nation! I will take you immediately to M. Koupriane. I shall be delighted."

"I also," said Rouletabille, who put a rouble into the honorable functionary's hand.

"Permit me to precede you."

Bows and salutes. For two roubles he would have walked obsequiously before him to the end of the world.

"These functionaries are admirable," thought Rouletabille as he was led to the barracks. He felt he had not paid too much for the services of a personage whose uniform was completely covered with lace. They tramped, they climbed, they descended. Stairways, corridors. Ah, the barracks at last. He seemed to have entered a convent. Beds very white, very narrow, and images of the Virgin and saints everywhere, monastic neatness and the most absolute silence. Suddenly an order sounded in the corridor outside, and the police-guard, who sprang from no one could tell where, stood to attention at the head of their beds. Koupriane and his aide appeared. Koupriane looked at everything closely, spoke to each man in turn, called them by their names, inquired about their needs, and the men stammered replies, not knowing what to answer, reddening like children. Koupriane observed Rouletabille. He dismissed his aide with a gesture. The inspection was over. He drew the young man into a little room just off the dormitory. Rouletabille, frightened, looked about him. He found himself in a chapel. This little chapel completed the effect of the guards' dormitory. It was all gilded, decorated in marvelous colors, thronged with little ikons that bring happiness, and, naturally, with the portrait of the Tsar, the dear Little Father.