The Secret Of The Night(Fiscle Part 3) by Gaston Leroux (readera ebook reader txt) 📕

"Barinia,  The Young Stranger Has Arrived."

"Where Is He?"

"Oh,  He Is Waiting At The Lodge."

"I Told You To Show Him To Natacha's Sitting-Room.  Didn't You

Understand Me,  Ermolai?"

"Pardon,  Barinia,  But The Young Stranger,  When I Asked To Search

Him,  As You Directed,  Flatly Refused To Let Me."

"Did You Explain To Him That Everybody Is Searched Before Being

Allowed To Enter,  That It Is The Order,  And That Even My Mother

Herself Has Submitted To It?"

"I Told Him All That,  Barinia; And I Told Him About Madame Your

Mother."

"What Did He Say To That?"

"That He Was Not Madame Your Mother.  He Acted Angry."

"Well,  Let Him Come In Without Being Searched."

"The Chief Of Police Won't Like It."

"Do As I Say."

Ermolai Bowed And Returned To The Garden.  The "Barinia" Left The

Veranda,  Where She Had Come For This Conversation With The Old

Servant Of General Trebassof,  Her Husband,  And Returned To The

Dining-Room In The Datcha Des Iles,  Where The Gay Councilor Ivan

Petrovitch Was Regaling His Amused Associates With His Latest

Exploit At Cubat's Resort.  They Were A Noisy Company,  And Certainly

The Quietest Among Them Was Not The General,  Who Nursed On A Sofa

The Leg Which Still Held Him Captive After The Recent Attack,  That

To His Old Coachman And His Two Piebald Horses Had Proved Fatal.

The Story Of The Always-Amiable Ivan Petrovitch (A Lively,  Little,

Elderly Man With His Head Bald As An Egg) Was About The Evening

Before.  After Having,  As He Said,  "Recure La Bouche" For These

Gentlemen Spoke French Like Their Own Language And Used It Among

Themselves To Keep Their Servants From Understanding - After Having

Wet His Whistle With A Large Glass Of Sparkling Rosy French Wine,

He Cried:

Went Out Onto The River-Bank To Stretch Our Legs And Cool Our Faces

In The Freshness Of The Dawn,  When A Company Of Cossacks Of The

Guard Came Along.  I Knew The Officer In Command And Invited Him To

Come Along With Us And Drink The Emperor's Health At Cubat's Place.

That Officer,  Feodor Feodorovitch,  Is A Man Who Knows Vintages And

Boasts That He Has Never Swallowed A Glass Of Anything So Common As

Crimean Wine.  When I Named Champagne He Cried,  'Vive L'empereur!'

A True Patriot.  So We Started,  Merry As School-Children.  The

Entire Company Followed,  Then All The Diners Playing Little Whistles,

And All The Servants Besides,  Single File.  At Cubat's I Hated To

Leave The Companion-Officers Of My Friend At The Door,  So I Invited

Them In,  Too.  They Accepted,  Naturally.  But The Subalterns Were

Thirsty As Well.  I Understand Discipline.  You Know,  Feodor

Feodorovitch,  That I Am A Stickler For Discipline.  Just Because

One Is Gay Of A Spring Morning,  Discipline Should Not Be Forgotten.

I Invited The Officers To Drink In A Private Room,  And Sent The

Subalterns Into The Main Hall Of The Restaurant.  Then The Soldiers

Were Thirsty,  Too,  And I Had Drinks Served To Them Out In The

Courtyard.  Then,  My Word,  There Was A Perplexing Business,  For Now

The Horses Whinnied.  The Brave Horses,  Feodor Feodorovitch,  Who

Also Wished To Drink The Health Of The Emperor.  I Was Bothered

About The Discipline.  Hall,  Court,  All Were Full.  And I Could Not

Put The Horses In Private Rooms.  Well,  I Made Them Carry Out

Champagne In Pails And Then Came The Perplexing Business I Had Tried

So Hard To Avoid,  A Grand Mixture Of Boots And Horse-Shoes That Was

Certainly The Liveliest Thing I Have Ever Seen In My Life.  But The

Horses Were The Most Joyous,  And Danced As If A Torch Was Held Under

Their Nostrils,  And All Of Them,  My Word! Were Ready To Throw Their

Riders Because The Men Were Not Of The Same Mind With Them As To

The Route To Follow!  From Our Window We Laughed Fit To Kill At Such

A Mixture Of Sprawling Boots And Dancing Hoofs.  But The Troopers

Finally Got All Their Horses To Barracks,  With Patience,  For The

Emperor's Cavalry Are The Best Riders In The World,  Feodor

Feodorovitch.  And We Certainly Had A Great Laugh! - Your Health,

Matrena Petrovna."

[*The "Barque" Is A Restaurant On A Boat,  Among The Isles,

Near The Gulf Of Finland,  On A Bank Of The Neva.]

These Last Graceful Words Were Addressed To Madame Trebassof,  Who

Shrugged Her Shoulders At The Undesired Gallantry Of The Gay

Councilor.   She Did Not Join In The Conversation,  Excepting To

Calm The General,  Who Wished To Send The Whole Regiment To The

Guard-House,  Men And Horses.  And While The Roisterers Laughed Over

The Adventure She Said To Her Husband In The Advisory Voice Of The

Helpful Wife:

"Feodor,  You Must Not Attach Importance To What That Old Fool Ivan

Tells You.  He Is The Most Imaginative Man In The Capital When He

Has Had Champagne."

"Ivan,  You Certainly Have Not Had Horses Served With Champagne In

Pails," The Old Boaster,  Athanase Georgevitch,  Protested Jealously.

He Was An Advocate,  Well-Known For His Table-Feats,  Who Claimed The

Hardest Drinking Reputation Of Any Man In The Capital,  And He

Regretted Not To Have Invented That Tale.

"On My Word!   And The Best Brands!  I Had Won Four Thousand

Roubles.  I Left The Little Fete With Fifteen Kopecks."

Matrena Petrovna Was Listening To Ermolai,  The Faithful Country

Servant Who Wore Always,  Even Here In The City,  His Habit Of Fresh

Nankeen,  His Black Leather Belt,  His Large Blue Pantaloons And His

Boots Glistening Like Ice,  His Country Costume In His Master's City

Home.  Madame Matrena Rose,  After Lightly Stroking The Hair Of Her

Step-Daughter Natacha,  Whose Eyes Followed Her To The Door,

Indifferent Apparently To The Tender Manifestations Of Her Father's

Orderly,  The Soldier-Poet,  Boris Mourazoff,  Who Had Written

Beautiful Verses On The Death Of The Moscow Students,  After Having

Shot Them,  In The Way Of Duty,  On Their Barricades.

Ermolai Conducted His Mistress To The Drawing-Room And Pointed

Across To A Door That He Had Left Open,  Which Led To The

Sitting-Room Before Natacha's Chamber.

"He Is There," Said Ermolai In A Low Voice.

Ermolai Need Have Said Nothing,  For That Matter,  Since Madame

Matrena Was Aware Of A Stranger's Presence In The Sitting-Room

By The Extraordinary Attitude Of An Individual In A Maroon

Frock-Coat Bordered With False Astrakhan,  Such As Is On The Coats

Of All The Russian Police Agents And Makes The Secret Agents

Recognizable At First Glance.  This Policeman Was On His Knees

In The Drawing-Room Watching What Passed In The Next Room Through

The Narrow Space Of Light In The Hinge-Way Of The Door.  In This

Manner,  Or Some Other,  All Persons Who Wished To Approach General

Trebassof Were Kept Under Observation Without Their Knowing It,

After Having Been First Searched At The Lodge,  A Measure Adopted

Since The Latest Attack.

Madame Matrena Touched The Policeman's Shoulder With That Heroic

Hand Which Had Saved Her Husband's Life And Which Still Bore Traces

Of The Terrible Explosion In The Last Attack,  When She Had Seized

The Infernal Machine Intended For The General With Her Bare Hand.

The Policeman Rose And Silently Left The Room,  Reached The Veranda

And Lounged There On A Sofa,  Pretending To Be Asleep,  But In

Reality Watching The Garden Paths.

Matrena Petrovna Took His Place At The Hinge-Vent.  This Was Her

Rule; She Always Took The Final Glance At Everything And Everybody.

She Roved At All Hours Of The Day And Night Round About The General,

Like A Watch-Dog,  Ready To Bite,  To Throw Itself Before The Danger,

To Receive The Blows,  To Perish For Its Master.  This Had Commenced

At Moscow After The Terrible Repression,  The Massacre Of

Revolutionaries Under The Walls Of Presnia,  When The Surviving

Nihilists Left Behind Them A Placard Condemning The Victorious

General Trebassof To Death.  Matrena Petrovna Lived Only For The

General.  She Had Vowed That She Would Not Survive Him.  So She Had

Double Reason To Guard Him.

But She Had Lost All Confidence Even Within The Walls Of Her Own

Home.

Things Had Happened Even There That Defied Her Caution,  Her

Instinct,  Her Love.  She Had Not Spoken Of These Things Save To The

Chief Of Police,  Koupriane,  Who Had Reported Them To The Emperor.

And Here Now Was The Man Whom The Emperor Had Sent,  As The Supreme

Resource,  This Young Stranger - Joseph Rouletabille,  Reporter.

"But He Is A Mere Boy!" She Exclaimed,  Without At All Understanding

The Matter,  This Youthful Figure,  With Soft,  Rounded Cheeks,  Eyes

Clear And,  At First View,  Extraordinarily Naive,  The Eyes Of An

Infant.  True,  At The Moment Rouletabille's Expression Hardly

Suggested Any Superhuman Profundity Of Thought,  For,  Left In View

Of A Table,  Spread With Hors-D'oeuvres,  The Young Man Appeared

Solely Occupied In Digging Out With A Spoon All The Caviare That

Remained In The Jars.  Matrena Noted The Rosy Freshness Of His

Cheeks,  The Absence Of Down On His Lip And Not A Hint Of Beard,  The

Thick Hair,  With The Curl Over The Forehead.  Ah,  That Forehead

- The Forehead Was Curious,  With Great Over-Hanging Cranial Lumps

Which Moved Above The Deep Arcade Of The Eye-Sockets While The Mouth

Was Busy - Well,  One Would Have Said That Rouletabille Had Not

Eaten For A Week.  He Was Demolishing A Great Slice Of Volgan

Sturgeon,  Contemplating At The Same Time With Immense Interest A

Salad Of Creamed Cucumbers,  When Matrena Petrovna Appeared.

He Wished To Excuse Himself At Once And Spoke With His Mouth Full.

"I Beg Your Pardon,  Madame,  But The Czar Forgot To Invite Me To

Breakfast."

Madame Matrena Smiled And Gave Him A Hearty Handshake As She Urged

Him To Be Seated.

"You Have Seen His Majesty?"

"I Come From Him,  Madame.  It Is To Madame Trebassof That I Have

The Honor Of Speaking?"

"Yes.  And You Are Monsieur - ?"

"Joseph Rouletabille,  Madame.  I Do Not Add,  'At Your Service

- Because I Do Not Know About That Yet.  That Is What I Said Just

Now To His Majesty."

"Then?" Asked Madame Matrena,  Rather Amused By The Tone The

Conversation Had Taken And The Slightly Flurried Air Of Rouletabille.

"Why,  Then,  I Am A Reporter,  You See.  That Is What I Said At Once

To My Editor In Paris,  'I Am Not Going To Take Part In Revolutionary