________________________________________________
_ Rouletabille let himself be led by Matrena through the night, but
he stumbled and his awkward hands struck against various things.
The ascent to the first floor was accomplished in profound silence.
Nothing broke it except that restless moaning which had so affected
the young man just before.
The tepid warmth, the perfume of a woman's boudoir, then, beyond,
through two doors opening upon the dressing-room which lay between
Matrena's chamber and Feodor's, the dim luster of a night-lamp
showed the bed where was stretched the sleeping tyrant of Moscow.
Ah, he was frightening to see, with the play of faint yellow light
and diffused shadows upon him. Such heavy-arched eyebrows, such
an aspect of pain and menace, the massive jaw of a savage come from
the plains of Tartary to be the Scourge of God, the stiff, thick,
spreading beard. This was a form akin to the gallery of old nobles
at Kasan, and young Rouletabille imagined him as none other than
Ivan the Terrible himself. Thus appeared as he slept the excellent
Feodor Feodorovitch, the easy, spoiled father of the family table,
the friend of the advocate celebrated for his feats with knife and
fork and of the bantering timber-merchant and amiable bear-hunter,
the joyous Thaddeus and Athanase; Feodor, the faithful spouse of
Matrena Petrovna and the adored papa of Natacha, a brave man who
was so unfortunate as to have nights of cruel sleeplessness or
dreams more frightful still.
At that moment a hoarse sigh heaved his huge chest in an uneven
rhythm, and Rouletabille, leaning in the doorway of the
dressing-room, watched - but it was no longer the general that he
watched, it was something else, lower down, beside the wall, near
the door, and it was that which set him tiptoeing so lightly across
the floor that it gave no sound. There was no slightest sound in
the chamber, except the heavy breathing lifting the rough chest.
Behind Rouletabille Matrena raised her arms, as though she wished
to hold him back, because she did not know where he was going.
What was he doing? Why did he stoop thus beside the door and why
did he press his thumb all along the floor at the doorway? He rose
again and returned. He passed again before the bed, where rumbled
now, like the bellows of a forge, the respiration of the sleeper.
Matrena grasped Rouletabille by the hand. And she had already
hurried him into the dressing-room when a moan stopped them.
"The youth of Moscow is dead!"
It was the sleeper speaking. The mouth which had given the
stringent orders moaned. And the lamentation was still a menace.
In the haunted sleep thrust upon that man by the inadequate narcotic
the words Feodor Feodorovitch spoke were words of mourning and pity.
This perfect fiend of a soldier, whom neither bullets nor bombs
could intimidate, had a way of saying words which transformed their
meaning as they came from his terrible mouth. The listeners could
not but feel absorbed in the tones of the brutal victor.
Matrena Petrovna and Rouletabille had leant their two shadows,
blended one into the other, against the open doorway just beyond
the gleam of the night-lamp, and they heard with horror:
"The youth of Moscow is dead! They have cleared
away the corpses. There is nothing but ruin left. The Kremlin
itself has shut its gates - that it may not see. The youth of
Moscow is dead!"
Feodor Feodorovitch's fist shook above his bed; it seemed that he
was about to strike, to kill again, and Rouletabille felt Matrena
trembling against him, while he trembled as well before the
fearful vision of the killer in the Red Week!
Feodor heaved an immense sigh and his breast descended under the
bed-clothes, the fist relaxed and fell, the great head lay over on
its ear. There was silence. Had he repose at last? No, no. He
sighed, he choked anew, he tossed on his couch like the damned in
torment, and the words written by his daughter - by his daughter
- blazed in his eyes, which now were wide open - words written on
the wall, that he read on the wall, written in blood.
"The youth of Moscow is dead! They had gone so young into the
fields and into the mines,
And they had not found a single corner of the Russian land where
there were not moanings.
Now the youth of Moscow is dead and no more moanings are heard,
Because those for whom all youth died do not dare even to moan
any more.
But - what? The voice of Feodor lost its threatening tone. His
breath came as from a weeping child. And it was with sobs in his
throat that he said the last verse, the verse written by his
daughter in the album, in red letters:
"The last barricade had standing there the girl of eighteen
winters, the virgin of Moscow, flower of the snow.
Who gave her kisses to the workmen struck by the bullets
from the soldiers of the Czar;
"She aroused the admiration of the very soldiers who, weeping,
killed her:
"What killing! All the houses shuttered, the windows with heavy
eyelids of plank in order not to see! -
"And the Kremlin itself has closed its gates - that it may
not see.
"The youth of Moscow is dead!"
"Feodor! Feodor!"
She had caught him in her arms, holding him fast, comforting him
while still he raved, "The youth of Moscow is dead," and appeared
to thrust away with insensate gestures a crowd of phantoms. She
crushed him to her breast, she put her hands over his mouth to make
him stop, but he, saying, "Do you hear? Do you hear? What do they
say? They say nothing, now. What a tangle of bodies under the
sleigh, Matrena! Look at those frozen legs of those poor girls we
pass, sticking out in all directions, like logs, from under their
icy, blooded skirts. Look, Matrena!"
And then came further delirium uttered in Russian, which was all the
more terrible to Rouletabille because he could not comprehend it.
Then, suddenly, Feodor became silent and thrust away Matrena
Petrovna.
"It is that abominable narcotic," he said with an immense sigh.
"I'll drink no more of it. I do not wish to drink it."
With one hand he pointed to a large glass on the table beside him,
still half full of a soporific mixture with which he moistened his
lips each time he woke; with the other hand he wiped the perspiration
from his face. Matrena Petrovna stayed trembling near him, suddenly
overpowered by the idea that he might discover there was someone
there behind the door, who had seen and heard the sleep of General
Trebassof! Ah, if he learned that, everything was over. She might
say her prayers; she should die.
But Rouletabille was careful to give no sign. He barely breathed.
What a nightmare! He understood now the emotion of the general's
friends when Natacha had sung in her low, sweet voice, "Good-night.
May your eyes have rest from tears and calm re-enter your heart
oppressed." The friends had certainly been made aware, by Matrena's
anxious talking, of the general's insomnia, and they could not
repress their tears as they listened to the poetic wish of charming
Natacha. "All the same," thought Rouletabille, "no one could
imagine what I have just seen. They are not dead for everyone in
the world, the youths of Moscow, and every night I know now a
chamber where in the glow of the night-lamp they rise - they rise
- they rise!" and the young man frankly, naively regretted to have
intruded where he was; to have penetrated, however unintentionally,
into an affair which, after all, concerned only the many dead and
the one living. Why had he come to put himself between the dead and
the living? It might be said to him: "The living has done his whole
heroic duty," but the dead, what else was it that they had done?
Ah, Rouletabille cursed his curiosity, for - he saw it now - it was
the desire to approach the mystery revealed by Koupriane and to
penetrate once more, through all the besetting dangers, an astounding
and perhaps monstrous enigma, that had brought him to the threshold
of the datcha des Iles, which had placed him in the trembling hands
of Matrena Petrovna in promising her his help. He had shown pity,
certainly, pity for the delirious distress of that heroic woman.
But there had been more curiosity than pity in his motives. And
now he must pay, because it was too late now to withdraw, to say
casually, "I wash my hands of it." He had sent away the police and
he alone remained between the general and the vengeance of the dead!
He might desert, perhaps! That one idea brought him to himself,
roused all his spirit. Circumstances had brought him into a camp
that he must defend at any cost, unless he was afraid!
The general slept now, or, at least, with eyelids closed simulated
sleep, doubtless in order to reassure poor Matrena who, on her knees
beside his pillow, had retained the hand of her terrible husband in
her own. Shortly she rose and rejoined Rouletabille in her chamber.
She took him then to a little guest-chamber where she urged him to
get some sleep. He replied that it was she who needed rest. But,
agitated still by what had just happened, she babbled:
"No, no! after such a scene I would have nightmares myself as well.
Ah, it is dreadful! Appalling! Appalling! Dear little monsieur,
it is the secret of the night. The poor man! Poor unhappy man!
He cannot tear his thoughts away from it. It is his worst and
unmerited punishment, this translation that Natacha has made of
Boris's abominable verses. He knows them by heart, they are in his
brain and on his tongue all night long, in spite of narcotics, and
he says over and over again all the time, 'It is my daughter who
has written that! - my daughter! - my daughter!' It is enough
to wring all the tears from one's body - that an aide-de-camp of a
general, who himself has killed the youth of Moscow, is allowed to
write such verses and that Natacha should take it upon herself to
translate them into lovely poetic French for her album. It is hard
to account for what they do nowadays, to our misery."
She ceased, for just then they heard the floor creak under a step
downstairs. Rouletabille stopped Matrena short and drew his
revolver. He wished to creep down alone, but he had not time. As
the floor creaked a second time, Matrena's anguished voice called
down the staircase in Russian, "Who is there?" and immediately the
calm voice of Natacha answered something in the same language.
Then Matrena, trembling more and more, and very much excited
keeping steadily to the same place as though she had been nailed
to the step of the stairway, said in French, "Yes, all is well;
your father is resting. Good-night, Natacha." They heard Natacha's
step cross the drawing-room and the sitting-room. Then the door of
her chamber closed. Matrena and Rouletabille descended, holding
their breath. They reached the dining-room and Matrena played her
dark-lantern on the sofa where the general always reclined. The
sofa was in its usual place on the carpet. She pushed it back and
raised the carpet, laying the floor bare. Then she got onto her
knees and examined the floor minutely. She rose, wiping the
perspiration from her brow, put the carpet hack in place, adjusted
the sofa and dropped upon it with a great sigh.
"Well?" demanded Rouletabille.
"Nothing at all," said she.
"Why did you call so openly?"
"Because there was no doubt that it could only be my step-daughter
on the ground-floor at that hour."
"And why this anxiety to examine the floor again?"
"I entreat you, my dear little child, do not see in my acts anything
mysterious, anything hard to explain. That anxiety you speak of
never leaves me. Whenever I have the chance I examine the flooring."
"Madame," demanded the young man, "what was your daughter doing in
this room?"
"She came for a glass of mineral water; the bottle is still on the
table."
"Madame, it is necessary that you tell me precisely what Koupriane
has only hinted to me, unless I am entirely mistaken. The first
time that you thought to examine the floor, was it after you heard
a noise on the ground-floor such as has just happened?"
"Yes. I will tell you all that is necessary. It was the night
after the attempt with the bouquet, my dear little monsieur, my
dear little domovoi; it seemed to me I heard a noise on the
ground-floor. I hurried downstairs and saw nothing suspicious at
first. Everything was shut tight. I opened the door of Natacha's
chamber softly. I wished to ask her if she had heard anything.
But she was so fast asleep that I had not the heart to awaken her.
I opened the door of the veranda, and all the police - all, you
understand - slept soundly. I took another turn around the
furniture, and, with my lantern in my hand, I was just going out
of the dining-room when I noticed that the carpet on the floor was
disarranged at one corner. I got down and my hand struck a great
fold of carpet near the general's sofa. You would have said that
the sofa had been rolled carelessly, trying to replace it in the
position it usually occupied. Prompted by a sinister presentiment,
I pushed away the sofa and I lifted the carpet. At first glance I
saw nothing, but when I examined things closer I saw that a strip
of wood did not lie well with the others on the floor. With a
knife I was able to lift that strip and I found that two nails
which had fastened it to the beam below had been freshly pulled out.
It was just so I could raise the end of the board a little without
being able to slip my hand under. To lift it any more it would be
necessary to pull at least half-a-dozen nails. What could it mean?
Was I on the point of discovering some new terrible and mysterious
plan? I let the board fall back into place. I spread the carpet
back again carefully, put the sofa in its place, and in the morning
sent for Koupriane."
Rouletabille interrupted.
"You had not, madame, spoken to anyone of this discovery?"
"To no one."
"Not even to your step-daughter?"
"No," said the husky voice of Matrena, "not even to my step-daughter."
"Why?" demanded Rouletabille.
"Because," replied Matrena, after a moment's hesitation, "there were
already enough frightening things about the house. I would not have
spoken to my daughter any more than I would have said a word to the
general. Why add to the disquiet they already .suffered so much,
in case nothing developed?"
"And what did Koupriane say?"
"We examined the, floor together, secretly. Koupriane slipped his
hand under more easily than I had done, and ascertained that under
the board, that is to say between the beam and the ceiling of the
kitchen, there was a hollow where any number of things might be
placed. For the moment the board was still too little released for
any maneuver to be possible. Koupriane, when he rose, said to me,
'You have happened, madame, to interrupt the person in her
operations. But we are prepared henceforth. We know what she does
and she is unaware that we know. Act as though you had not noticed
anything; do not speak of it to anyone whatever - and watch. Let
the general continue to sit in his usual place and let no one
suspect that we have discovered the beginnings of this attempt. It
is the only way we can plan so that they will continue. All the
same,' he added, 'I will give my agents orders to patrol the
ground-floor anew during the night. I would be risking too much to
let the person continue her work each night. She might continue it
so well that she would be able to accomplish it - you understand
me? But by day you arrange that the rooms on the ground-floor be
free from time to time - not for long, but from time to time.' I
don't know why, but what he said and the way he said it frightened
me more than ever. However, I carried out his program. Then, three
days later, about eight o'clock, when the night watch was not yet
started, that is to say at the moment when the police were still
all out in the garden or walking around the house, outside, and when
I had left the the ground-floor perfectly free while I helped the
general to bed, I felt drawn even against myself suddenly to the
dining-room. I lifted the carpet and examined the floor. Three
more nails had been drawn from the board, which lifted more easily
now, and under it, I could see that the normal cavity had been made
wider still!"
When she had said this, Matrena stopped, as if, overcome, she could
not tell more.
"Well?" insisted Rouletabille.
"Well, I replaced things as I found them and made rapid inquiries
of the police and their chief; no one had entered the ground-floor.
You understand me? - no one at all. Neither had anyone come out
from it."
"How could anyone come out if no one had entered?"
"I wish to say," said she with a sob, "that Natacha during this
space of time had been in her chamber, in her chamber on the
ground-floor."
"You appear to be very disturbed, madame, at this recollection.
Can you tell me further, and precisely, why you are agitated?"
"You understand me, surely," she said, shaking her head.
"If I understand you correctly, I have to understand that from the
previous time you examined the floor until the time that you noted
three more nails drawn out, no other person could have entered the
dining-room but you and your step-daughter Natacha."
Matrena took Rouletabille's hand as though she had reached an
important decision.
"My little friend," moaned she, "there are things I am not able to
think about and which I can no longer entertain when Natacha embraces
me. It is a mystery more frightful than all else. Koupriane tells
me that he is sure, absolutely sure, of the agents he kept here; my
sole consolation, do you see, my little friend can tell you frankly,
now that you have sent away those men - my sole consolation since
that day has been that Koupriane is less sure of his men than I am
of Natacha."
She broke down and sobbed.
When she was calmed, she looked for Rouletabille, and could not
find him. Then she wiped her eyes, picked up her dark-lantern,
and, furtively, crept to her post beside the general.
For that day these are the points in Rouletabille's notebook:
"Topography: Villa surrounded by a large garden on three sides.
The fourth side gives directly onto a wooded field that stretches
to the river Neva. On this side the level of the ground is much
lower, so low that the sole window opening in that wall (the window
of Natacha's sitting-room on the ground-floor) is as high from the
ground as though it were on the next floor in any other part of the
house. This window is closed by iron shutters, fastened inside by
a bar of iron.
"Friends: Athanase Georgevitch, Ivan Petrovitch, Thaddeus the
timber-merchant (peat boots), Michael and Boris (fine shoes).
Matrena, sincere love, blundering heroism. Natacha unknown. Against
Natacha: Never there during the attacks. At Moscow at the time of
the bomb in the sleigh, no one knows where she was, and it is she
who should have accompanied the general (detail furnished by
Koupriane that Matrena generously kept back). The night of the
bouquet is the only night Natacha has slept away from the house.
Coincidence of the disappearance of the nails and the presence all
alone on the ground-floor of Natacha, in case, of course, Matrena
did not pull them out herself. For Natacha: Her eyes when she looks
at her father."
And this bizarre phrase:
"We mustn't be rash. This evening I have not yet spoken to Matrena
Petrovna about the little hat-pin. That little hat-pin is the
greatest relief of my life." _
Read next: CHAPTER V - BY ROULETABILLE'S ORDER THE GENERAL PROMENADES
Read previous: CHAPTER III - THE WATCH
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