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.”