Koupriane jumped into his carriage and hurried toward St. Petersburg.
On the way he spoke to three agents who only he knew were posted in
the neighborhood of Eliaguine. They told him the route Rouletabille had
taken. The reporter had certainly returned into the city. He hurried
toward Troitski Bridge. There, at the corner of the Naberjnaia,
Koupriane saw the reporter in a hired conveyance. Rouletabille was
pounding his coachman in the back, Russian fashion, to make him go
faster, and was calling with all his strength one of the few words he
had had time to learn, “Naleva, naleva” (to the left). The driver was
forced to understand at last, for there was no other way to turn than to
the left. If he had turned to the right (naprava) he would have driven
into the river. The conveyance clattered over the pointed flints of a
neighborhood that led to a little street, Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, at
the corner of the Katharine canal. This “alley of the pharmacists” as a
matter of fact contained no pharmacists, but there was a curious sign
of a herbarium, where Rouletabille made the driver stop. As the carriage
rolled under the arch Rouletabille recognized Koupriane. He did not
wait, but cried to him, “Ah, here you are. All right; follow me.” He
still had the flask and the glasses in his hands. Koupriane couldn’t
help noticing how strange he looked. He passed through a court with him,
and into a squalid shop.
“What,” said Koupriane, “do you know Pere Alexis?”
They were in the midst of a curious litter. Clusters of dried herbs hung
from the ceiling, and all among them were clumps of old boots, shriveled
skins, battered pans, scrap-iron, sheep-skins, useless touloupes, and on
the floor musty old clothes, moth-eaten furs, and sheep-skin coats that
even a moujik of the swamps would not have deigned to wear. Here and
there were old teeth, ragged finery, dilapidated hats, and jars of
strange herbs ranged upon some rickety shelving. Between the set of
scales on the counter and a heap of little blocks of wood used for
figuring the accounts of this singular business were ungilded ikons,
oxidized silver crosses, and Byzantine pictures representing scenes from
the Old and New Testaments. Jars of alcohol with what seemed to be the
skeletons of frogs swimming in them filled what space was left. In a
corner of this large, murky room, under the vault of mossed stone, a
small altar stood and the light burned in a hanging glass of oil before
the holy images. A man was praying before the altar. He wore the costume
of old Russia, the caftan of green cloth, buttoned at the shoulder and
tucked in at the waist by a narrow belt. He had a bushy beard and his
hair fell to his shoulders. When he had finished his prayer he rose,
perceived Rouletabille and came over to take his hand. He spoke French
to the reporter:
“Well, here you are again, lad. Do you bring poison again to-day? This
will end by being found out, and the police...”
Just then he discerned Koupriane’s form in the shadow, drew close
to make out who it was, and fell to his knees as he saw who it was.
Rouletabille tried to raise him, but he insisted on prostrating himself.
He was sure the Prefect of Police had come to his house to hang him.
Finally he was reassured by Rouletabille’s positive assertions and the
great chief’s robust laugh. The Prefect wished to know how the young man
came to be acquainted with the “alchemist” of the police. Rouletabille
told him in a few words.
Maitre Alexis, in his youth, went to France afoot, to study pharmacy,
because of his enthusiasm for chemistry. But he always remained
countrified, very much a Russian peasant, a semi-Oriental bear, and did
not achieve his degree. He took some certificates, but the examinations
were too much for him. For fifty years he lived miserably as a
pharmacist’s assistant in the back of a disreputable shop in the Notre
Dame quarter. The proprietor of the place was implicated in the famous
affair of the gold ingots, which started Rouletabille’s reputation, and
was arrested along with his assistant, Alexis. It was Rouletabille who
proved, clear as day, that poor Alexis was innocent, and that he had
never been cognizant of his master’s evil ways, being absorbed in the
depths of his laboratory in trying to work out a naive alchemy which
fascinated him, though the world of chemistry had passed it by centuries
ago. At the trial Alexis was acquitted, but found himself in the street.
He shed what tears remained in his body upon the neck of the reporter,
assuring him of paradise if he got him back to his own country, because
he desired only the one thing more of life, that he might see his
birth-land before he died. Rouletabille advanced the necessary means
and sent him to St. Petersburg. There he was picked up at the end of two
days by the police, in a petty gambling-game, and thrown into prison,
where he promptly had a chance to show his talents. He cured some of his
companions in misery, and even some of the guards. A guard who had an
injured leg, whose healing he had despaired of, was cured by Alexis.
Then there was found to be no actual charge against him. They set him
free and, moreover, they interested themselves in him. They found meager
employment for him in the Stchoukine-dvor, an immense popular bazaar.
He accumulated a few roubles and installed himself on his own account
at the back of a court in the Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, where he gradually
piled up a heap of old odds and ends that no one wanted even in the
Stchoukine-dvor. But he was happy, because behind his shop he had
installed a little laboratory where he continued for his pleasure his
experiments in alchemy and his study of plants. He still proposed to
write a book that he had already spoken of in France to Rouletabille, to
prove the truth of “Empiric Treatment of Medicinal Herbs, the Science
of Alchemy, and the Ancient Experiments in Sorcery.” Between times
he continued to cure anyone who applied to him, and the police in
particular. The police guards protected him and used him. He had
splendid plasters for them after “the scandal,” as they called the
October riots. So when the doctors of the quarter tried to prosecute him
for illegal practice, a deputation of police-guards went to Koupriane,
who took the responsibility and discontinued proceedings against him.
They regarded him as under protection of the saints, and Alexis soon
came to be regarded himself as something of a holy man. He never failed
every Christmas and Easter to send his finest images to Rouletabille,
wishing him all prosperity and saying that if ever he came to St.
Petersburg he should be happy to receive him at Aptiekarski-Pereoulok,
where he was established in honest labor. Pere Alexis, like all the true
saints, was a modest man.
When Alexis had recovered a little from his emotion Rouletabille said to
him:
“Pere Alexis, I do bring you poison again, but you have nothing to fear,
for His Excellency the Chief of Police is with me. Here is what we want
you to do. You must tell us what poison these four glasses have held,
and what poison is still in this flask and this little phial.”
“What is that little phial?” demanded Koupriane, as he saw Rouletabille
pull a small, stoppered bottle out of his pocket.
The reporter replied, “I have put into this bottle the vodka that was
poured into Natacha’s glass and mine and that we barely touched.”
“Someone has tried to poison you!” exclaimed Pere Alexis.
“No, not me,” replied Rouletabille, in bored fashion. “Don’t think about
that. Simply do what I tell you. Then analyze these two napkins, as
well.”
And he drew from his coat two soiled napkins.
“Well,” said Koupriane, “you have thought of everything.”
“They are the napkins the general and his wife used.”
“Yes, yes, I understand that,” said the Chief of Police.
“And you, Alexis, do you understand?” asked the reporter. “When can we
have the result of your analysis?
“In an hour, at the latest.”
“Very well,” said Koupriane. “Now I need not tell you to hold your
tongue. I am going to leave one of my men here. You will write us a
note that you will seal, and he will bring it to head-quarters. Sure you
understand? In an hour?”
“In an hour, Excellency.”
They went out, and Alexis followed them, bowing to the floor. Koupriane
had Rouletabille get into his carriage. The young man did as he was
told. One would have said he did not know where he was or what he did.
He made no reply to the chief’s questions.
“This Pere Alexander,” resumed Koupriane, “is a character, really quite
a figure. And a bit of a schemer, I should say. He has seen how Father
John of Cronstadt succeeded, and he says to himself, ‘Since the sailors
had their Father John of Cronstadt, why shouldn’t the police-guard have
their Father Alexis of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok?’”
But Rouletabille did not reply at all, and Koupriane wound up by
demanding what was the matter with him.
“The matter is,” replied Rouletabille, unable longer to conceal his
anguish, “that the poison continues.”
“Does that astonish you?” returned Koupriane. “It doesn’t me.”
Rouletabille looked at him and shook his head. His lips trembled as he
said, “I know what you think. It is abominable. But the thing I have
done certainly is more abominable still.”
“What have you done, then, Monsieur Rouletabille?”
“Perhaps I have caused the death of an innocent man.”
“So long as you aren’t sure of it, you would better not fret about it,
my dear friend.”
“It is enough that the doubt has arisen,” said the reporter, “almost
to kill me;” and he heaved so gloomy a sigh that the excellent Monsieur
Koupriane felt pity for the lad. He tapped him on the knee.
“Come, come, young man, you ought to know one thing by this time--‘you
can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs,’ as they say, I think, in
Paris.”
Rouletabille turned away from him with horror in his heart. If there
should be another, someone besides Michael! If it was another hand than
his that appeared to Matrena and him in the mysterious night! If Michael
Nikolaievitch had been innocent! Well, he would kill himself, that was
all. And those horrible words that he had exchanged with Natacha rose in
his memory, singing in his ears as though they would deafen him.
“Do you doubt still?” he had asked her, “that Michael tried to poison
your father?”
And Natacha had replied, “I wish to believe it! I wish to believe it,
for your sake, my poor boy.” And then he recalled her other words, still
more frightful now! “Couldn’t someone have tried to poison my father
and not have come by the window?” He had faced such a hypothesis with
assurance then--but now, now that the poison continued, continued within
the house, where he believed himself so fully aware of all people and
things--continued now that Michael Nikolaievitch was dead--ah, where did
it come from, this poison?--and what was it? Pere Alexis would hurry his
analysis if he had any regard for poor Rouletabille.
For Rouletabille to doubt, and in an affair where already there was one
man dead through his agency, was torment worse than death.
When they arrived at police-headquarters, Rouletabille jumped from
Koupriane’s carriage and without saying a word hailed an empty
isvotchick that was passing. 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 passing 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 knob 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 assure
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!”
“God 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 analyzed the two napkins,
you know.”
“Yes? The stains? Tell me, for the love of God!”
“Well, my boy, it is arsenate 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 arsenate 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 arsenate 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 assassin
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.