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

By Ideas And Sentiments Which Held Her Without Respite Between The

Wildest Inquietude And The Most Imprudent Audacity.

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