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

"Since The Person Is Nowhere Else,  The Person Must Be There."

But Rouletabille Continued Obstinately:

"No,  No.  Perhaps He Is Gone."

"Gone!  And Everything Locked On The Inside!"

"That Is Not A Reason," He Replied.

But She Could Not Follow His Thoughts Any Further.  She Wished

Absolutely To Make Her Way Into Natacha's Chamber.  The Obsession

Of That Was Upon Her.

"If You Enter There," Said He,  "And If (As Is Most Probable) You

Don't Find What You Seek There,  All Is Lost!  And As To Me,  I Give

Up The Whole Thing."

She Sank In A Heap Onto A Chair.

"Don't Despair," He Murmured.  "We Don't Know For Sure Yet."

She Shook Her Poor Old Head Dejectedly.

"We Know That Only She Is Here,  Since No One Has Been Able To Enter

And Since No One Has Been Able To Leave."

That,  In Truth,  Filled Her Brain,  Prevented Her From Discerning In

Any Corner Of Her Mind The Thought Of Rouletabille.  Then The

Impossible Dialogue Resumed.

"I Repeat That We Do Not Know But That The Person Has Gone," Repeated

The Reporter,  And Demanded Her Keys.

"Foolish," She Said.  "What Do You Want Them For?"

"To Search Outside As We Have Searched Inside."

"Why,  Everything Is Locked On The Inside!"

"Madame,  Once More,  That Is No Reason That The Person May Not Be

Outside."

He Consumed Five Minutes Opening The Door Of The Veranda,  So Many

Were His Precautions.  She Watched Him Impatiently.

He Whispered To Her:

"I Am Going Out,  But Don't You Lose Sight Of The Little Sitting-Room.

At The Least Movement Call Me; Fire A Revolver If You Need To."

He Slipped Into The Garden With The Same Precautions For Silence.

From The Corner That She Kept To,  Through The Doors Left Open,

Matrena Could Follow All The Movements Of The Reporter And Watch

Natacha's Chamber At The Same Time.  The Attitude Of Rouletabille

Continued To Confuse Her Beyond All Expression.  She Watched What

He Did As If She Thought Him Besotted.  The Dyernick On Guard Out

In The Roadway Also Watched The Young Man Through The Bars Of The

Gate In Consternation,  As Though He Thought Him A Fool.  Along The

Paths Of Beaten Earth Or Cement Which Offered No Chance For

Footprints Rouletabille Hurried Silently.  Around Him He Noted That

The Grass Of The Lawn Had Not Been Trodden.  And Then He Paid No

More Attention To His Steps.  He Seemed To Study Attentively The

Rosy Color In The East,  Breathing The Delicacy Of Dawning Morning

In The Isles,  Amid The Silence Of The Earth,  Which Still Slumbered.

Bare-Headed,  Face Thrown Back,  Hands Behind His Back,  Eyes Raised

And Fixed,  He Made A Few Steps,  Then Suddenly Stopped As If He Had

Been Given An Electric Shock.  As Soon As He Seemed To Have

Recovered From That Shock He Turned Around And Went A Few Steps

Back To Another Path,  Into Which He Advanced,  Straight Ahead,  His

Face High,  With The Same Fixed Look That He Had Had Up To The Time

He So Suddenly Stopped,  As If Something Or Someone Advised Or Warned

Him Not To Go Further.  He Continually Worked Back Toward The House,

And Thus He Traversed All The Paths That Led From The Villa,  But In

All These Excursions He Took Pains Not To Place Himself In The Field

Of Vision From Natacha's Window,  A Restricted Field Because Of Its

Location Just Around An Abutment Of The Building.  To Ascertain

About This Window He Crept On All-Fours Up To The Garden-Edge That

Ran Along The Foot Of The Wall And Had Sufficient Proof That No One

Had Jumped Out That Way.  Then He Went To Rejoin Matrena In The

Veranda.

"No One Has Come Into The Garden This Morning," Said He,  "And No

One Has Gone Out Of The Villa Into The Garden.  Now I Am Going To

Look Outside The Grounds.  Wait Here; I'll Be Back In Five Minutes."

He Went Away,  Knocked Discreetly On The Window Of The Lodge And

Waited Some Seconds.  Ermolai Came Out And Opened The Gate For Him.

Matrena Moved To The Threshold Of The Little Sitting-Room And

Watched Natacha's Door With Horror.  She Felt Her Legs Give Under

Her,  She Could Not Stand Up Under The Diabolic Thought Of Such A

Crime.  Ah,  That Arm,  That Arm! Reaching Out,  Making Its Way,  With

A Little Shining Phial In Its Hand.  Pains Of Christ!  What Could

There Be In The Damnable Books Over Which Natacha And Her Companions

Pored That Could Make Such Abominable Crimes Possible?  Ah,  Natacha,

Natacha! It Was From Her That She Would Have Desired The Answer,

Straining Her Almost To Stifling On Her Rough Bosom And Strangling

Her With Her Own Strong Hand That She Might Not Hear The Response.

Ah,  Natacha,  Natacha,  Whom She Had Loved So Much!  She Sank To The

Floor,  Crept Across The Carpet To The Door,  And Lay There,  Stretched

Like A Beast,  And Buried Her Head In Her Arms While She Wept Over

Her Daughter.  Natacha,  Natacha,  Whom She Had Cherished As Her Own

Child,  And Who Did Not Hear Her.  Ah,  What Use That The Little

Fellow Had Gone To Search Outside When The Whole Truth Lay Behind

This Door?  Thinking Of Him,  She Was Embarrassed Lest He Should

Find Her In That Animalistic Posture,  And She Rose To Her Knees And

Worked Her Way Over To The Window That Looked Out Upon The Neva.

The Angle Of The Slanting Blinds Let Her See Well Enough What

Passed.  Outside,  And What She Saw Made Her Spring To Her Feet.

Below Her The Reporter Was Going Through The Same Incomprehensible

Maneuvers That She Had Seen Him Do In The Garden.  Three Pathways

Led To The Little Road That Ran Along The Wall Of The Villa By The

Bank Of The Neva.  The Young Man,  Still With His Hands Behind His

Back And With His Face Up,  Took Them One After The Other.  In The

First He Stopped At The First Step.  He Didn't Take More Than Two

Steps In The Second.  In The Third,  Which Cut Obliquely Toward The

Right And Seemed To Run To The Bank Nearest Krestowsky Ostrow,  She

Saw Him Advance Slowly At First,  Then More Quickly Among The Small

Trees And Hedges.  Once Only He Stopped And Looked Closely At The

Trunk Of A Tree Against Which He Seemed To Pick Out Something

Invisible,  And Then He Continued To The Bank.  There He Sat Down

On A Stone And Appeared To Reflect,  And Then Suddenly He Cast Off

His Jacket And Trousers,  Picked Out A Certain Place On The Bank

Across From Him,  Finished Undressing And Plunged Into The Stream.

She Saw At Once That He Swam Like A Porpoise,  Keeping Beneath And

Showing His Head From Time To Time,  Breathing,  Then Diving Below

The Surface Again.  He Reached Krestowsky Ostrow In A Clump Of Reeds.

Then He Disappeared.  Below Him,  Surrounded By Trees,  Could Be Seen

The Red Tiles Of The Villa Which Sheltered Boris And Michael.  From

That Villa A Person Could See The Window Of The Sitting-Room In

General Trebassof's Residence,  But Not What Might Occur Along The

Bank Of The River Just Below Its Walls.  An Isvotchick Drove Along

The Distant Route Of Krestowsky,  Conveying In His Carriage A Company

Of Young Officers And Young Women Who Had Been Feasting And Who Sang

As They Rode; Then Deep Silence Ensued.  Matrena's Eyes Searched For

Rouletabille,  But Could Not Find Him.  How Long Was He Going To Stay

Hidden Like That?  She Pressed Her Face Against The Chill Window.

What Was She Waiting For?  She Waited Perhaps For Someone To Make A

Move On This Side,  For The Door Near Her To Open And The Traitorous

Figure Of The Other To Appear.

A Hand Touched Her Carefully.  She Turned.

Rouletabille Was There,  His Face All Scarred By Red Scratches,

Without Collar Or Neck-Tie,  Having Hastily Resumed His Clothes.  He

Appeared Furious As He Surprised Her In His Disarray.  She Let Him

Lead Her As Though She Were A Child.  He Drew Her To His Room And

Closed The Door.

"Madame," He Commenced,  "It Is Impossible To Work With You.  Why

In The World Have You Wept Not Two Feet From Your Step-Daughter's

Door?  You And Your Koupriane,  You Commence To Make Me Regret The

Faubourg Poissoniere,  You Know.  Your Step-Daughter Has Certainly

Heard You.  It Is Lucky That She Attaches No Importance At All To

Your Nocturnal Phantasmagorias,  And That She Has Been Used To Them

A Long Time.  She Has More Sense Than You,  Mademoiselle Natacha Has.

She Sleeps,  Or At Least She Pretends To Sleep,  Which Leaves

Everybody In Peace.  What Reply Will You Give Her If It Happens

That She Asks You The Reason To-Day For Your Marching And

Counter-Marching Up And Down The Sitting-Room And Complains That

You Kept Her From Sleeping?"

Matrena Only Shook Her Old,  Old Head.

"No,  No,  She Has Not Heard Me.  I Was There Like A Shadow,  Like A

Shadow Of Myself.  She Will Never Hear Me.  No One Hears A Shadow."

Rouletabille Felt Returning Pity For Her And Spoke More Gently.

"In Any Case,  It Is Necessary,  You Must Understand,  That She

Should Attach No More Importance To What You Have Done To-Night

Than To The Things She Knows Of Your Doing Other Nights.  It Is Not

The First Time,  Is It,  That You Have Wandered In The Sitting-Room?

You Understand Me?  And To-Morrow,  Madame,  Embrace Her As You

Always Have."

"No,  Not That," She Moaned.  "Never That.  I Could Not."

"Why Not?"

Matrena Did Not Reply.