The Secret of the Night Part 33

When they arrived at police-headquarters, Rouletabille jumped from Koupriane's carriage and without saying a word hailed an empty isvotchick that was pa.s.sing. He had himself driven back to Pere Alexis. His doubt mastered his will; he could not bear to wait away. Under the arch of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok he saw once more the man Koupriane had placed there with the order to bring him Alexis's message. The man looked at him in astonishment. Rouletabille crossed the court and entered the dingy old room once more. Pere Alexis was not there, naturally, engaged as he was in his laboratory. But a person whom he did not recognize at first sight attracted the reporter's attention. In the half-light of the shop a melancholy shadow leaned over the ikons on the counter. It was only when he straightened up, with a deep sigh, and a little light, deflected and yellow from pa.s.sing through window-panes that had known no touch of cleaning since they were placed there, fell faintly on the face, that Rouletabille ascertained he was face to face with Boris Mourazoff. It was indeed he, the erstwhile brilliant officer whose elegance and charm the reporter had admired as he saw him at beautiful Natacha's feet in the datcha at Eliaguine. Now, no more in uniform, he had thrown over his bowed shoulders a wretched coat, whose sleeves swayed listlessly at his sides, in accord with his mood of languid desperation, a felt hat with the rim turned down hid a little the misery in his face in these few days, these not-many hours, how he was changed! But, even as he was, he still concerned Rouletabille. What was he doing there? Was he not going to go away, perhaps? He had picked up an ikon from the counter and carried it over to the window to examine its oxidized silver, giving such close attention to it that the reporter hoped he might reach the door of the laboratory without being noticed. He already had his hand on the k.n.o.b of that door, which was behind the counter, when he heard his name called.

"It is you, Monsieur Rouletabille," said the low, sad voice of Boris. "What has brought you here, then?"

"Well, well, Monsieur Boris Mourazoff, unless I'm mistaken? I certainly didn't expect to find you here in Pere Alexis's place."

"Why not, Monsieur Rouletabille? One can find anything here in Pere Alexis's stock. See; here are two old ikons in wood, carved with sculptures, which came direct from Athos, and can't be equaled, I a.s.sure you, either at Gastini-Dvor nor even at Stchoukine-Dvor."

"Yes, yes, that is possible," said Rouletabille, impatiently. "Are you an amateur of such things?" he added, in order to say something.

"Oh, like anybody else. But I was going to tell you, Monsieur Rouletabille, I have resigned my commission. I have resolved to retire from the world; I am going on a long voyage." (Rouletabille thought: 'Why not have gone at once?') "And before going, I have come here to supply myself with some little gifts to send those of my friends I particularly care for, although now, my dear Monsieur Rouletabille, I don't care much for anything."

"You look desolate enough, monsieur."

Boris sighed like a child.

"How could it be otherwise?" he said. "I loved and believed myself beloved. But it proved to be-nothing, alas!"

"Sometimes one only imagines things," said Rouletabille, keeping his hand on the door.

"Oh, yes," said the other, growing more and more melancholy. "So a man suffers. He is his own tormentor; he himself makes the wheel on which, like his own executioner, he binds himself."

"It is not necessary, monsieur; it is not necessary," counseled the reporter.

"Listen," implored Boris in a voice that showed tears were not far away. "You are still a child, but still you can see things. Do you believe Natacha loves me?"

"I am sure of it, Monsieur Boris; I am sure of it."

"I am sure of it, too. But I don't know what to think now. She has let me go, without trying to detain me, without a word of hope."

"And where are you going like that?"

"I am returning to the Orel country, where I first saw her."

"That is good, very good, Monsieur Boris. At least there you are sure to see her again. She goes there every year with her parents for a few weeks. It is a detail you haven't overlooked, doubtless."

"Certainly I haven't. I will tell you that that prospect decided my place of retreat."

"See!"

"G.o.d gives me nothing, but He opens His treasures, and each takes what he can."

"Yes, yes; and Mademoiselle Natacha, does she know it is to Orel you have decided to retire?"

"I have no reason for concealing it from her, Monsieur Rouletabille."

"So far so good. You needn't feel so desolate, my dear Monsieur Boris. All is not lost. I will say even that I see a future for you full of hope."

"Ah, if you are able to say that truthfully, I am happy indeed to have met you. I will never forget this rope you have flung me when all the waters seemed closing over my head. 'What do you advise, then?"

"I advise you to go to Orel, monsieur, and as quickly as possible."

"Very well. You must have reasons for saying that. I obey you, monsieur, and go."

As Boris started towards the entrance-arch, Rouletabille slipped into the laboratory. Old Alexis was bent over his retorts. A wretched lamp barely lighted his obscure work. He turned at the noise the reporter made.

"Ah!-you, lad!"

"'Well?"

"Oh, nothing so quick. Still, I have already a.n.a.lyzed the two napkins, you know."

"Yes? The stains? Tell me, for the love of G.o.d!"

"Well, my boy, it is a.r.s.enate of soda again."

Rouletabille, stricken to the heart, uttered a low cry and everything seemed to dance around him. Pere Alexis in the midst of all the strange laboratory instruments seemed Satan himself, and he repulsed the kindly arms stretched forth to sustain him; in the gloom, where danced here and there the little blue flames from the crucibles, lively as flickering tongues, he believed he saw Michael Nikolaievitch's ghost come to cry, "The a.r.s.enate of soda continues, and I am dead." He fell against the door, which swung open, and he rolled as far as the counter, and struck his face against it. The shock, that might well have been fatal, brought him out of his intense nightmare and made him instantly himself again. He rose, jumped over the heap of boots and fol-de-rols, and leaped to the court. There Boris grabbed him by his coat. Rouletabille turned, furious:

"What do you want? You haven't started for the Orel yet?"

"Monsieur, I am going, but I will be very grateful if you will take these things yourself to-to Natacha." He showed him, still with despairing mien, the two ikons from Mount Athos, and Rouletabille took them from him, thrust them in his pocket, and hurried on, crying, "I understand."

Outside, Rouletabille tried to get hold of himself, to recover his coolness a little. Was it possible that he had made a mortal error? Alas, alas, how could he doubt it now! The a.r.s.enate of soda continued. He made, a superhuman effort to ward off the horror of that, even momentarily-the death of innocent Michael Nikolaievitch-and to think of nothing except the immediate consequences, which must be carefully considered if he wished to avoid some new catastrophe. Ah, the a.s.sa.s.sin was not discouraged. And that time, what a piece of work he had tried! What a hecatomb if he had succeeded! The general, Matrena Petrovna, Natacha and Rouletabille himself (who almost regretted, so far as he was concerned, that it had not succeeded)-and Koupriane! Koupriane, who should have been there for luncheon. What a bag for the Nihilists! That was it, that was it. Rouletabille understood now why they had not hesitated to poison everybody at once: Koupriane was among them.

Michael Nikolaievitch would have been avenged!

The attempt had failed this time, but what might they not expect now! From the moment he believed Michael Nikolaievitch no longer guilty, as he had imagined, Rouletabille fell into a bottomless abyss.

Where should he go? After a few moments he made the circuit of the Rotunda, which serves as the market for this quarter and is the finest ornament of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok. He made the circuit without knowing it, without stopping for anything, without seeing or understanding anything. As a broken-winded horse makes its way in the treadmill, so he walked around with the thought that he also was lost in a treadmill that led him nowhere. Rouletabille was no longer Rouletabille.

XIII. THE LIVING BOMBS

At random-because now he could only act at random-he returned to the datcha. Great disorder reigned there. The guard had been doubled. The general's friends, summoned by Treba.s.sof, surrounded the two poisoned sufferers and filled the house with their bustling devotion and their protestations of affection. However, an insignificant doctor from the common quarter of the Vasili-Ostrow, brought by the police, rea.s.sured everybody. The police had not found the general's household physician at home, but promised the immediate arrival of two specialists, whom they had found instead. In the meantime they had picked up on the way this little doctor, who was gay and talkative as a magpie. He had enough to do looking after Matrena Petrovna, who had been so sick that her husband, Feodor Feodorovitch, still trembled, "for the first time in his life," as the excellent Ivan Petrovitch said.

The reporter was astonished at not finding Natacha either in Matrena's apartment or Feodor's. He asked Matrena where her step-daughter was. Matrena turned a frightened face toward him. When they were alone, she said:

"We do not know where she is. Almost as soon as you left she disappeared, and no one has seen her since. The general has asked for her several times. I have had to tell him Koupriane took her with him to learn the details from her of what happened."

"She is not with Koupriane," said Rouletabille.

"Where is she? This disappearance is more than strange at the moment we were dying, when her father-O G.o.d! Leave me, my child; I am stifling; I am stifling."

Rouletabille called the temporary doctor and withdrew from the chamber. He had come with the idea of inspecting the house room by room, corner by corner, to make sure whether or not any possibility of entrance existed that he had not noticed before, an entrance would-be poisoners were continuing to use. But now a new fact confronted him and overshadowed everything: the disappearance of Natacha. How he lamented his ignorance of the Russian language-and not one of Koupriane's men knew French. He might draw something out of Ermolai.

Ermolai said he had seen Natacha just outside the gate for a moment, looking up and down the road. Then he had been called to the general, and so knew nothing further.