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

Little Garden Table,  Telling Them Not To Forget To Tell You It Was

Necessary To Wash The Grapes As Doucet Expressly Recommended."

"But It Is Unbelievable!  It Is Terrible!" Quavered Matrena.  "Where

Can The Grapes Be?  We Must Know."

"Absolutely," Approved Rouletabille.

"We Must Ask Boris And Michael," Said Natacha.  "Good God! Surely

They Have Not Eaten Them!  Perhaps They Are Sick."

"Here They Are," Said The General.  All Turned.  Michael And Boris

Were Coming Up The Steps.  Rouletabille,  Who Was In A Shadowed

Corner Under The Main Staircase,  Did Not Lose A Single Play Of

Muscle On The Two Faces Which For Him Were Two Problems To Solve.

Both Faces Were Smiling; Too Smiling,  Perhaps.

"Michael!  Boris!  Come Here," Cried Feodor Feodorovitch.  "What

Have You Done With The Grapes From Monsieur Le Marechal?"

They Both Looked At Him Upon This Brusque Interrogation,  Seemed Not

To Understand,  And Then,  Suddenly Recalling,  They Declared Very

Naturally That They Had Left Them On The Garden Table And Had Not

Thought About Them.

"You Forgot My Caution,  Then?" Said Count Kaltzof Severely.

"What Caution?" Said Boris.  "Oh,  Yes,  The Washing Of The Grapes.

Doucet's Caution."

"Do You Know What Has Happened To Doucet With Those Grapes?  His

Eldest Son Is Dead,  Poisoned.  Do You Understand Now Why We Are

Anxious To Know What Has Become Of My Grapes?"

"But They Ought To Be Out There On The Table," Said Michael.

"No One Can Find Them Anywhere," Declared Matrena,  Who,  No Less Than

Rouletabille,  Watched Every Change In The Countenances Of The Two

Officers.  "How Did It Happen That You Went Away Yesterday Evening

Without Saying Good-Bye,  Without Seeing Us,  Without Troubling

Yourselves Whether Or Not The General Might Need You?"

"Madame," Said Michael,  Coldly,  In Military Fashion,  As Though He

Replied To His Superior Officer Himself,  "We Have Ample Excuse To

Offer You And The General.  It Is Necessary That We Make An

Admission,  And The General Will Pardon Us,  I Am Sure.  Boris And I,

Daring The Promenade,  Happened To Quarrel.  That Quarrel Was In Full

Swing When We Reached Here And We Were Discussing The Way To End It

Most Promptly When Monsieur Le Marechal Entered The Garden.  We Must

Make That Our Excuse For Giving Divided Attention To What He Had To

Say.  As Soon As He Was Gone We Had Only One Thought,  To Get Away

From Here To Settle Our Difference With Arms In Our Hands."

"Without Speaking To Me About It!" Interrupted Trehassof.  "I Never

Will Pardon That."

"You Fight At Such A Time,  When The General Is Threatened!  It Is

As Though You Fought Between Yourselves In The Face Of The Enemy.

It Is Treason!" Added  Matrena.

"Madame," Said Boris,  "We Did Not Fight.  Someone Pointed Out Our

Fault,  And I Offered My Excuses To Michael Nikolaievitch,  Who

Generously Accepted Them.  Is That Not So,  Michael Nikolaievitch?"

"And Who Is This That Pointed Out Your Fault?" Demanded The Marshal.

"Natacha."

"Bravo,  Natacha.  Come,  Embrace Me,  My Daughter."

The General Pressed His Daughter Effusively To His Broad Chest.

"And I Hope You Will Not Have Further Disputing," He Cried,  Looking

Over Natacha's Shoulder.

"We Promise You That,  General," Declared Boris.  "Our Lives Belong

To You."

"You Did Well,  My Love.  Let Us All Do As Well.  I Have Passed An

Excellent Night,  Messieurs.  Real Sleep!  I Have Had Just One Long

Sleep."

"That Is So," Said Matrena Slowly.  "The General Had No Need Of

Narcotic.  He Slept Like A Child And Did Not Touch His Potion."

"And My Leg Is Almost Well."

"All The Same,  It Is Singular That Those Grapes Should Have

Disappeared," Insisted The Marshal,  Following His Fixed Idea.

"Ermolai," Called Matrena.

The Old Servant Appeared.

"Yesterday Evening,  After These Gentlemen Had Left The House,  Did

You Notice A Small White Box On The Garden Table?"

"No,  Barinia."

"And The Servants?  Have Any Of Them Been Sick?  The Dvornicks?

The Schwitzar?  In The Kitchens? No One Sick?  No?  Go And See; Then

Come And Tell Me."

He Returned,  Saying,  "No One Sick."

Like The Marshal,  Matrena Petrovna And Feodor Feodorovitch Looked

At One Another,  Repeating In French,  "No One Sick! That Is Strange!"

Rouletabille Took A Long Walk Which Led Him To The Troitsky Bridge,

Then,  Re-Descending The Naberjnaia,  He Reached The Winter Palace.

He Seemed To Have Chased Away All Preoccupation,  And Took A Child's

Pleasure In The Different Aspects Of The Life That Characterizes

The City Of The Great Peter.  He Stopped Before The Winter Palace,

Walked Slowly Across The Square Where The Prodigious Monolith Of

The Alexander Column Rises From Its Bronze Socket,  Strolled Between

The Palace And The Colonnades,  Passed Under An Immense Arch:

Everything Seemed Cyclopean To Him,  And He Never Had Felt So Tiny,

So Insignificant.  None The Less He Was Happy In His Insignificance,

He Was Satisfied With Himself In The Presence Of These Colossal

Things; Everything Pleased Him This Morning.  The Speed Of The

Isvos,  The Bickering Humor Of The Osvotchicks,  The Elegance Of The

Women,  The Fine Presences Of The Officers And Their Easy Naturalness

Under Their Uniforms,  So Opposed To The Wooden Posturing Of The

Berlin Military Men Whom He Had Noticed At The "Tilleuls" And In

The Friederichstrasse Between Two Trains.  Everything Enchanted Him

- The Costume Even Of The Moujiks,  Vivid Blouses,  The Red Shirts

Over The Trousers,  The Full Legs And The Boots Up To The Knees,

Even The Unfortunates Who,  In Spite Of The Soft Atmosphere,  Were

Muffled Up In Sheepskin Coats,  All Impressed Him Favorably,

Everything Appeared To Him Original And Congenial.

Order Reigned In The City.   The Guards Were Polite,  Decorative And

Superb In Bearing.  The Passers-By In That Quarter Talked Gayly

Among Themselves,  Often In French,  And Had Manners As Civilized As

Anywhere In The World.  Where,  Then,  Was The Bear Of The North?  He

Never Had Seen Bears So Well Licked.  Was It This Very City That

Only Yesterday Was In Revolution?   This Was Certainly The Alexander

Park Where Troops A Few Weeks Before Had Fired On Children Who Had

Sought Refuge In The Trees,  Like Sparrows.  Was This The Very

Pavement Where The Cossacks Had Left So Many Bodies?  Finally He

Saw Before Him The Nevsky Prospect,  Where The Bullets Rained Like

Hail Not Long Since Upon A People Dressed For Festivities And Very

Joyous.  Nichevo!  Nichevo!  All That Was So Soon Forgotten.  They

Forgot Yesterday As They Forget To-Morrow.  The Nihilists?  Poets,

Who Imagined That A Bomb Could Accomplish Anything In That Babylon

Of The North More Important Than The Noise Of Its Explosion!  Look

At These People Who Pass.  They Have No More Thought For The Old

Attack Than For Those Now Preparing In The Shadow Of The "Tracktirs."

Happy Men,  Full Of Serenity In This Bright Quarter,  Who Move About

Their Affairs And Their Pleasures In The Purest Air,  The Lightest,

The Most Transparent On Earth.  No,  No; No One Knows The Joy Of

Mere Breathing If He Has Not Breathed The Air There,  The Finest In

The North Of The World,  Which Gives Food And Drink Of Beautiful

White Eau-De-Vie And Yellow Pivo,  And Strikes The Blood And Makes

One A Beast Vigorous And Joyful And Fatalistic,  And Mocks At The

Nihilists And,  As Well,  At The Ten Thousand Eyes Of The Police

Staring From Under The Porches Of Houses,  From Under The Skulls Of

Dvornicks - All Police,  The Dvornicks; All Police,  Also The Joyous

Concierges With Extended Hands.  Ah,  Ah,  One Mocks At It All In

Such Air,  Provided One Has Roubles In One's Pockets,  Plenty Of

Roubles,  And That One Is Not Besotted By Reading Those Extraordinary

Books That Preach The Happiness Of All Humanity To Students And To

Poor Girl-Students Too.  Ah,  Ah,  Seed Of The Nihilists,  All That!

These Poor Little Fellows And Poor Little Girls Who Have Their Heads

Turned By Lectures That They Cannot Digest!  That Is All The Trouble,

The Digestion.  The Digestion Is Needed.  Messieurs The Commercial

Travelers For Champagne,  Who Talk Together Importantly In The

Lobbies Of The Grand Morskaia Hotel And Who Have Studied The Russian

People Even In The Most Distant Cities Where Champagne Is Sold,  Will

Tell You That Over Any Table Of Hors-D'oeuvres,  And Will Regulate

The Whole Question Of The Revolution Between Two Little Glasses Of

Vodka,  Swallowed Properly,  Quickly,  Elbow Up,  At A Single Draught,

In The Russian Manner.  Simply An Affair Of Digestion,  They Tell

You.  Who Is The Fool That Would Dare Compare A Young Gentleman Who

Has Well Digested A Bottle Of Champagne Or Two,  And Another Young

Man Who Has Poorly Digested The Lucubrations Of,  Who Shall We Say?

- The Lucubrations Of The Economists?  The Economists?  The

Economists!  Fools Who Compete Which Can Make The Most Violent

Statements!  Those Who Read Them And Don't Understand Them Go Off

Like A Bomb!  Your Health!  Nichevo!  The World Goes Round Still,

Doesn't It?

Discussion Political,  Economic,  Revolutionary,  And Other In The

Room Where They Munch Hors-D'oeuvres!  You Will Hear It All As You

Pass Through The Hotel To Your Chamber,  Young Rouletabille.  Get

Quickly Now To The Home Of Koupriane,  If You Don't Wish To Arrive

There At Luncheon-Time; Then You Would Have To Put Off These Serious

Affairs Until Evening.

The Department Of Police.  Massive Entrance,  Heavily Guarded,  A

Great Lobby,  Halls With Swinging Doors,  Many Obsequious Schwitzars

On The Lookout For Tips,  Many Poor Creatures Sitting Against The

Walls On Dirty Benches,  Desks And Clerks,  Brilliant Boots And

Epaulets Of Gay Young Officers Who Are Telling Tales Of The Aquarium

With Great Relish.

"Monsieur Rouletabille!   Ah,  Yes.  Please Be Seated.  Delighted,

M. Koupriane Will Be Very Happy To Receive You,  But Just At This

Moment He Is At Inspection.  Yes,  The