The Secret of the Night, Page 4

  IV. "THE YOUTH OF MOSCOW IS DEAD"

  Rouletabille let himself be led by Matrena through the night, but hestumbled and his awkward hands struck against various things. The ascentto the first floor was accomplished in profound silence. Nothing brokeit except that restless moaning which had so affected the young man justbefore.

  The tepid warmth, the perfume of a woman's boudoir, then, beyond,through two doors opening upon the dressing-room which lay betweenMatrena's chamber and Feodor's, the dim luster of a night-lamp showedthe bed where was stretched the sleeping tyrant of Moscow. Ah, he wasfrightening to see, with the play of faint yellow light and diffusedshadows upon him. Such heavy-arched eyebrows, such an aspect of pain andmenace, the massive jaw of a savage come from the plains of Tartary tobe the Scourge of God, the stiff, thick, spreading beard. This was aform akin to the gallery of old nobles at Kasan, and young Rouletabilleimagined him as none other than Ivan the Terrible himself. Thus appearedas he slept the excellent Feodor Feodorovitch, the easy, spoiled fatherof the family table, the friend of the advocate celebrated for his featswith knife and fork and of the bantering timber-merchant and amiablebear-hunter, the joyous Thaddeus and Athanase; Feodor, the faithfulspouse of Matrena Petrovna and the adored papa of Natacha, a braveman who was so unfortunate as to have nights of cruel sleeplessness ordreams more frightful still.

  At that moment a hoarse sigh heaved his huge chest in an unevenrhythm, and Rouletabille, leaning in the doorway of the dressing-room,watched--but it was no longer the general that he watched, it wassomething else, lower down, beside the wall, near the door, and it wasthat which set him tiptoeing so lightly across the floor that it gaveno sound. There was no slightest sound in the chamber, except the heavybreathing lifting the rough chest. Behind Rouletabille Matrena raisedher arms, as though she wished to hold him back, because she did notknow where he was going. What was he doing? Why did he stoop thus besidethe door and why did he press his thumb all along the floor at thedoorway? He rose again and returned. He passed again before the bed,where rumbled now, like the bellows of a forge, the respiration of thesleeper. Matrena grasped Rouletabille by the hand. And she had alreadyhurried 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 stringentorders moaned. And the lamentation was still a menace. In the hauntedsleep thrust upon that man by the inadequate narcotic the words FeodorFeodorovitch spoke were words of mourning and pity. This perfect fiendof a soldier, whom neither bullets nor bombs could intimidate, had a wayof saying words which transformed their meaning as they came from histerrible mouth. The listeners could not but feel absorbed in the tonesof the brutal victor.

  Matrena Petrovna and Rouletabille had leant their two shadows, blendedone into the other, against the open doorway just beyond the gleam ofthe night-lamp, and they heard with horror:

  "The youth of Moscow is dead! They have cleared away the corpses. Thereis nothing but ruin left. The Kremlin itself has shut its gates--that itmay not see. The youth of Moscow is dead!"

  Feodor Feodorovitch's fist shook above his bed; it seemed that he wasabout to strike, to kill again, and Rouletabille felt Matrena tremblingagainst him, while he trembled as well before the fearful vision of thekiller in the Red Week!

  Feodor heaved an immense sigh and his breast descended under thebed-clothes, the fist relaxed and fell, the great head lay over on itsear. There was silence. Had he repose at last? No, no. He sighed, hechoked anew, he tossed on his couch like the damned in torment, andthe 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 thewall, 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 breathcame as from a weeping child. And it was with sobs in his throat that hesaid the last verse, the verse written by his daughter in the album, inred 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 whilestill he raved, "The youth of Moscow is dead," and appeared to thrustaway with insensate gestures a crowd of phantoms. She crushed him toher 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 thosefrozen 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 themore 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'lldrink 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, stillhalf full of a soporific mixture with which he moistened his lips eachtime he woke; with the other hand he wiped the perspiration from hisface. Matrena Petrovna stayed trembling near him, suddenly overpoweredby the idea that he might discover there was someone there behind thedoor, who had seen and heard the sleep of General Trebassof! Ah, if helearned that, everything was over. She might say her prayers; she shoulddie.

  But Rouletabille was careful to give no sign. He barely breathed. Whata nightmare! He understood now the emotion of the general's friends whenNatacha had sung in her low, sweet voice, "Good-night. May your eyeshave rest from tears and calm re-enter your heart oppressed." Thefriends had certainly been made aware, by Matrena's anxious talking, ofthe general's insomnia, and they could not repress their tears as theylistened to the poetic wish of charming Natacha. "All the same," thoughtRouletabille, "no one could imagine what I have just seen. They are notdead for everyone in the world, the youths of Moscow, and every night Iknow now a chamber where in the glow of the night-lamp they rise--theyrise--they rise!" and the young man frankly, naively regretted to haveintruded where he was; to have penetrated, however unintentionally, intoan affair which, after all, concerned only the many dead and the oneliving. 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 thedesire to approach the mystery revealed by Koupriane and to penetrateonce more, through all the besetting dangers, an astounding and perhapsmonstrous enigma, that had brought him to the threshold of the datchades Iles, which had placed him in the trembling hands of MatrenaPetrovna in promising her his help. He had shown pity, certainly, pityfor the delirious distress of that heroic woman. But there had been morecuriosity than pity in his motives. And now he must pay, because it wastoo late now to withdraw, to say casually, "I wash my hands of it." Hehad sent away the police and he alone remained between the generaland the vengeance of the dead! He might desert, perhaps! That one ideabrought him to himself, roused all his spirit. Circumstances had broughthim into a camp that he must defend at any cost, unless he was afraid!

  The general slept now, or, at least, with eyelids closed simulatedsleep, doubtless in order to reassure poor Matrena who, on her knees
beside his pillow, had retained the hand of her terrible husband in herown. Shortly she rose and rejoined Rouletabille in her chamber. Shetook him then to a little guest-chamber where she urged him to get somesleep. He replied that it was she who needed rest. But, agitated stillby 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 thesecret of the night. The poor man! Poor unhappy man! He cannot tear histhoughts away from it. It is his worst and unmerited punishment, thistranslation that Natacha has made of Boris's abominable verses. He knowsthem 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, 'Itis my daughter who has written that!--my daughter!--my daughter!' It isenough to wring all the tears from one's body--that an aide-de-camp of ageneral, who himself has killed the youth of Moscow, is allowed to writesuch verses and that Natacha should take it upon herself to translatethem into lovely poetic French for her album. It is hard to account forwhat they do nowadays, to our misery."

  She ceased, for just then they heard the floor creak under a stepdownstairs. Rouletabille stopped Matrena short and drew his revolver. Hewished to creep down alone, but he had not time. As the floor creakeda second time, Matrena's anguished voice called down the staircasein Russian, "Who is there?" and immediately the calm voice of Natachaanswered something in the same language. Then Matrena, trembling moreand more, and very much excited keeping steadily to the same place asthough she had been nailed to the step of the stairway, said in French,"Yes, all is well; your father is resting. Good-night, Natacha." Theyheard Natacha's step cross the drawing-room and the sitting-room. Thenthe door of her chamber closed. Matrena and Rouletabille descended,holding their breath. They reached the dining-room and Matrena playedher dark-lantern on the sofa where the general always reclined. The sofawas in its usual place on the carpet. She pushed it back and raised thecarpet, laying the floor bare. Then she got onto her knees and examinedthe floor minutely. She rose, wiping the perspiration from her brow, putthe carpet hack in place, adjusted the sofa and dropped upon it with agreat 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 onthe 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 anythingmysterious, anything hard to explain. That anxiety you speak of neverleaves me. Whenever I have the chance I examine the flooring."

  "Madame," demanded the young man, "what was your daughter doing in thisroom?"

  "She came for a glass of mineral water; the bottle is still on thetable."

  "Madame, it is necessary that you tell me precisely what Koupriane hasonly hinted to me, unless I am entirely mistaken. The first time thatyou thought to examine the floor, was it after you heard a noise on theground-floor such as has just happened?"

  "Yes. I will tell you all that is necessary. It was the night afterthe attempt with the bouquet, my dear little monsieur, my dear littledomovoi; it seemed to me I heard a noise on the ground-floor. I hurrieddownstairs and saw nothing suspicious at first. Everything was shuttight. I opened the door of Natacha's chamber softly. I wished to askher if she had heard anything. But she was so fast asleep that I had notthe heart to awaken her. I opened the door of the veranda, and all thepolice--all, you understand--slept soundly. I took another turn aroundthe furniture, and, with my lantern in my hand, I was just going outof the dining-room when I noticed that the carpet on the floor wasdisarranged at one corner. I got down and my hand struck a great foldof carpet near the general's sofa. You would have said that the sofa hadbeen rolled carelessly, trying to replace it in the position it usuallyoccupied. Prompted by a sinister presentiment, I pushed away the sofaand I lifted the carpet. At first glance I saw nothing, but when Iexamined things closer I saw that a strip of wood did not lie well withthe others on the floor. With a knife I was able to lift that strip andI found that two nails which had fastened it to the beam below had beenfreshly pulled out. It was just so I could raise the end of the board alittle without being able to slip my hand under. To lift it any more itwould be necessary to pull at least half-a-dozen nails. What could itmean? Was I on the point of discovering some new terrible and mysteriousplan? I let the board fall back into place. I spread the carpet backagain carefully, put the sofa in its place, and in the morning sent forKoupriane."

  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 werealready enough frightening things about the house. I would not havespoken to my daughter any more than I would have said a word to thegeneral. Why add to the disquiet they already suffered so much, in casenothing developed?"

  "And what did Koupriane say?"

  "We examined the floor together, secretly. Koupriane slipped his handunder 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, therewas a hollow where any number of things might be placed. For the momentthe board was still too little released for any maneuver to be possible.Koupriane, when he rose, said to me, 'You have happened, madame, tointerrupt the person in her operations. But we are prepared henceforth.We know what she does and she is unaware that we know. Act as thoughyou had not noticed anything; do not speak of it to anyone whatever--andwatch. Let the general continue to sit in his usual place and let no onesuspect that we have discovered the beginnings of this attempt. It isthe only way we can plan so that they will continue. All the same,' headded, 'I will give my agents orders to patrol the ground-floor anewduring the night. I would be risking too much to let the person continueher work each night. She might continue it so well that she would beable to accomplish it--you understand me? But by day you arrange thatthe 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 wayhe said it frightened me more than ever. However, I carried out hisprogram. Then, three days later, about eight o'clock, when the nightwatch was not yet started, that is to say at the moment when the policewere 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 helpedthe general to bed, I felt drawn even against myself suddenly to thedining-room. I lifted the carpet and examined the floor. Three morenails had been drawn from the board, which lifted more easily now, andunder 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 nottell more.

  "Well?" insisted Rouletabille.

  "Well, I replaced things as I found them and made rapid inquiries ofthe police and their chief; no one had entered the ground-floor. Youunderstand 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 oftime had been in her chamber, in her chamber on the ground-floor."

  "You appear to be very disturbed, madame, at this recollection. Can youtell 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 theprevious time you examined the floor until the time that you noted threemore nails drawn out, no other person could have entered the dining-roombut you and your step-daughter Natacha."

  Matrena took Rouletabille's hand as though she had reached an importantdecision.

  "My little friend," mo
aned she, "there are things I am not able to thinkabout and which I can no longer entertain when Natacha embraces me. Itis a mystery more frightful than all else. Koupriane tells me that he issure, absolutely sure, of the agents he kept here; my sole consolation,do you see, my little friend can tell you frankly, now that you havesent away those men--my sole consolation since that day has been thatKoupriane 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 notfind 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. Thefourth side gives directly onto a wooded field that stretches to theriver Neva. On this side the level of the ground is much lower, solow that the sole window opening in that wall (the window of Natacha'ssitting-room on the ground-floor) is as high from the ground as thoughit were on the next floor in any other part of the house. This window isclosed by iron shutters, fastened inside by a bar of iron.

  "Friends: Athanase Georgevitch, Ivan Petrovitch, Thaddeus thetimber-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 inthe sleigh, no one knows where she was, and it is she who should haveaccompanied the general (detail furnished by Koupriane that Matrenagenerously kept back). The night of the bouquet is the only nightNatacha has slept away from the house. Coincidence of the disappearanceof 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 MatrenaPetrovna about the little hat-pin. That little hat-pin is the greatestrelief of my life."