The Secret of the Night. Гастон Леру

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СКАЧАТЬ me. Superb! My word, superb! To you all! The revolutionaries who are not of the police are of the same mind regarding our heroes. They may curse the tchinownicks who execute the terrible orders given them by those higher up, but those who are not of the police (there are some, I believe)—these surely recognize that men like the Chief of the Surete our dead friend, are brave.”

      “Certainly,” endorsed the general. “Counting all things, they need more heroism for a promenade in a salon than a soldier on a battle-field.”

      “I have met some of these men,” continued Athanase in exalted vein. “I have found in all their homes the same—imprudence, as our young French friend calls it. A few days after the assassination of the Chief of Police in Moscow I was received by his successor in the same place where the assassination had occurred. He did not take the slightest precaution with me, whom he did not know at all, nor with men of the middle class who came to present their petitions, in spite of the fact that it was under precisely identical conditions that his predecessor had been slain. Before I left I looked over to where on the floor there had so recently occurred such agony. They had placed a rug there and on the rug a table, and on that table there was a book. Guess what book. ‘Women’s Stockings,’ by Willy! And—and then—Your health, Matrena Petrovna. What’s the odds!”

      “You yourselves, my friends,” declared the general, “prove your great courage by coming to share the hours that remain of my life with me.”

      “Not at all, not at all! It is war.”

      “Yes, it is war.”

      “Oh, there’s no occasion to pat us on the shoulder, Athanase,” insisted Thaddeus modestly. “What risk do we run? We are well guarded.”

      “We are protected by the finger of God,” declared Athanase, “because the police—well, I haven’t any confidence in the police.”

      Michael Korsakoff, who had been for a turn in the garden, entered during the remark.

      “Be happy, then, Athanase Georgevitch,” said he, “for there are now no police around the villa.”

      “Where are they?” inquired the timber-merchant uneasily.

      “An order came from Koupriane to remove them,” explained Matrena Petrovna, who exerted herself to appear calm.

      “And are they not replaced?” asked Michael.

      “No. It is incomprehensible. There must have been some confusion in the orders given.” And Matrena reddened, for she loathed a lie and it was in tribulation of spirit that she used this fable under Rouletabille’s directions.

      “Oh, well, all the better,” said the general. “It will give me pleasure to see my home ridded for a while of such people.”

      Athanase was naturally of the same mind as the general, and when Thaddeus and Ivan Petrovitch and the orderlies offered to pass the night at the villa and take the place of the absent police, Feodor Feodorovitch caught a gesture from Rouletabille which disapproved the idea of this new guard.

      “No, no,” cried the general emphatically. “You leave at the usual time. I want now to get back into the ordinary run of things, my word! To live as everyone else does. We shall be all right. Koupriane and I have arranged the matter. Koupriane is less sure of his men, after all, than I am of my servants. You understand me. I do not need to explain further. You will go home to bed—and we will all sleep. Those are the orders. Besides, you must remember that the guard-post is only a step from here, at the corner of the road, and we have only to give a signal to bring them all here. But—more secret agents or special police—no, no! Good-night. All of us to bed now!”

      They did not insist further. When Feodor had said, “Those are the orders,” there was room for nothing more, not even in the way of polite insistence.

      But before going to their beds all went into the veranda, where liqueurs were served by the brave Ermolai, as always. Matrena pushed the wheel-chair of the general there, and he kept repeating, “No, no. No more such people. No more police. They only bring trouble.”

      “Feodor! Feodor!” sighed Matrena, whose anxiety deepened in spite of all she could do, “they watched over your dear life.”

      “Life is dear to me only because of you, Matrena Petrovna.”

      “And not at all because of me, papa?” said Natacha.

      “Oh, Natacha!”

      He took both her hands in his. It was an affecting glimpse of family intimacy.

      From time to time, while Ermolai poured the liqueurs, Feodor struck his band on the coverings over his leg.

      “It gets better,” said he. “It gets better.”

      Then melancholy showed in his rugged face, and he watched night deepen over the isles, the golden night of St. Petersburg. It was not quite yet the time of year for what they call the golden nights there, the “white nights,” nights which never deepen to darkness, but they were already beautiful in their soft clarity, caressed, here by the Gulf of Finland, almost at the same time by the last and the first rays of the sun, by twilight and dawn.

      From the height of the veranda one of the most beautiful bits of the isles lay in view, and the hour was so lovely that its charm thrilled these people, of whom several, as Thaddeus, were still close to nature. It was he, first, who called to Natacha:

      “Natacha! Natacha! Sing us your ‘Soir des Iles.’”

      Natacha’s voice floated out upon the peace of the islands under the dim arched sky, light and clear as a night rose, and the guzla of Boris accompanied it. Natacha sang:

      “This is the night of the Isles—at the north of the world. The sky presses in its stainless arms the bosom of earth, Night kisses the rose that dawn gave to the twilight. And the night air is sweet and fresh from across the shivering gulf, Like the breath of young girls from the world still farther north. Beneath the two lighted horizons, sinking and rising at once, The sun rolls rebounding from the gods at the north of the world. In this moment, beloved, when in the clear shadows of this rose-stained evening I am here alone with you, Respond, respond with a heart less timid to the holy, accustomed cry of ‘Good-evening.’”

      Ah, how Boris Nikolaievitch and Michael Korsakoff watched her as she sang! Truly, no one ever can guess the anger or the love that broods in a Slavic heart under a soldier’s tunic, whether the soldier wisely plays at the guzla, as the correct Boris, or merely lounges, twirling his mustache with his manicured and perfumed fingers, like Michael, the indifferent.

      Natacha ceased singing, but all seemed to be listening to her still—the convivial group on the terrace appeared to be held in charmed attention, and the porcelain statuettes of men on the lawn, according to the mode of the Iles, seemed to lift on their short legs the better to hear pass the sighing harmony of Natacha in the rose nights at the north of the world.

      Meanwhile Matrena wandered through the house from cellar to attic, watching over her husband like a dog on guard, ready to bite, to throw itself in the way of danger, to receive the blows, to die for its master—and hunting for Rouletabille, who had disappeared again.

      III. THE WATCH

      She went out to caution the servants to a strict watch, armed to the teeth, before the gate all night long, and she crossed the deserted garden. Under the veranda the schwitzar was spreading a mattress for Ermolai. She asked him if he had seen the young СКАЧАТЬ