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

"How Is Everybody At Maxim's?" Urged The Excellent Athanase

Georgevitch.

Thaddeus,  Too,  Had Been Once In Paris And He Returned With An

Enthusiastic Liking For The French Demoiselles.

"Vos Gogottes,  Monsieur," He Said,  Appearing Very Amiable And

Leaning On Each Word,  With A Guttural Emphasis Such As Is Common

In The Western Provinces,  "Ah,  Vos Gogottes!"

Matrena Perovna Tried To Silence Him,  But Thaddeus Insisted On His

Right To Appreciate The Fair Sex Away From Home.  He Had A Turgid,

Sentimental Wife,  Always Weeping And Cramming Her Religious Notions

Down His Throat.

Of Course Someone Asked Rouletabille What He Thought Of Russia,  But

He Had No More Than Opened His Mouth To Reply Than Athanase

Georgevitch Closed It By Interrupting:

"Permettez!  Permettez!  You Others,  Of The Young Generation,  What

Do You Know Of It?  You Need To Have Lived A Long Time And In All

Its Districts To Appreciate Russia At Its True Value.  Russia,

My Young Sir,  Is As Yet A Closed Book To You."

"Naturally," Rouletabille Answered,  Smiling.

"Well,  Well,  Here's Your Health!  What I Would Point Out To You

First Of All Is That It Is A Good Buyer Of Champagne,  Eh?" - And

He Gave A Huge Grin.  "But The Hardest Drinker I Ever Knew Was Born

On The Banks Of The Seine.  Did You Know Him,  Feodor Feodorovitch?

Poor Charles Dufour,  Who Died Two Years Ago At  Fete Of The Officers

Of The Guard.  He Wagered At The End Of The Banquet That He Could

Drink A Glassful Of Champagne To The Health Of Each Man There.

There Were Sixty When You Came To Count Them.  He Commenced The

Round Of The Table And The Affair Went Splendidly Up To The

Fifty-Eighth Man.  But At The Fifty-Ninth - Think Of The

Misfortune! - The Champagne Ran Out!  That Poor,  That Charming,

That Excellent Charles Took Up A Glass Of Vin Dore Which Was In The

Glass Of This Fifty-Ninth,  Wished Him Long Life,  Drained The Glass

At One Draught,  Had Just Time To Murmur,  'Tokay,  1807,' And Fell

Back Dead!  Ah,  He Knew The Brands,  My Word! And He Proved It To

His Last Breath!  Peace To His Ashes!  They Asked What He Died Of.

I Knew He Died Because Of The Inappropriate Blend Of Flavors.  There

Should Be Discipline In All Things And Not Promiscuous Mixing.  One

More Glass Of Champagne And He Would Have Been Drinking With Us

This Evening.  Your Health,  Matrena Petrovna.  Champagne,  Feodor

Feodorovitch!  Vive La France,  Monsieur!  Natacha,  My Child,  You

Must Sing Something.  Boris Will Accompany You On The Guzla.  Your

Father Will Enjoy It."

All Eyes Turned Toward Natacha As She Rose.

Rouletabille Was Struck By Her Serene Beauty.  That Was The First

Enthralling Impression,  An Impression So Strong It Astonished Him,

The Perfect Serenity,  The Supreme Calm,  The Tranquil Harmony Of Her

Noble Features.  Natacha Was Twenty.  Heavy Brown Hair Circled About

Er Forehead And Was Looped About Her Ears,  Which Were Half-Concealed.

Her Profile Was Clear-Cut; Her Mouth Was Strong And Revealed Between

Red,  Firm Lips The Even Pearliness Of Her Teeth.  She Was Of Medium

Height.  In Walking She Had The Free,  Light Step Of The Highborn

Maidens Who,  In Primal Times,  Pressed The Flowers As They Passed

Without Crushing Them.  But All Her True Grace Seemed To Be

Concentrated In Her Eyes,  Which Were Deep And Of A Dark Blue.

The Impression She Made Upon A Beholder Was Very Complex.  And It

Would Have Been Difficult To Say Whether The Calm Which Pervaded

Every Manifestation Of Her Beauty Was The Result Of Conscious

Control Or The Most Perfect Ease.

She Took Down The Guzla And Handed It To Boris,  Who Struck Some

Plaintive Preliminary Chords.

"What Shall I Sing?" She Inquired,  Raising Her Father's Hand From

The Back Of The Sofa Where He Rested And Kissing It With Filial

Tenderness.

"Improvise," Said The General.  "Improvise In French,  For The Sake

Of Our Guest."

"Oh,  Yes," Cried Boris; "Improvise As You Did The Other Evening."

He Immediately Struck A Minor Chord.

Natacha Looked Fondly At Her Father As She Sang:

  "When The Moment Comes That Parts Us At The Close Of Day,

  When The Angel Of Sleep Covers You With Azure Wings;

  "Oh,  May Your Eyes Rest From So Many Tears,  And Your Oppressed

        Heart Have Calm;

  "In Each Moment That We Have Together,  Father Dear,  Let Our

        Souls Feel Harmony Sweet And Mystical;

  "And When Your Thoughts May Have Flown To Other Worlds,  Oh,  May

        My Image,  At Least,  Nestle Within Your Sleeping Eyes."

Natacha's Voice Was Sweet,  And The Charm Of It Subtly Pervasive.

The Words As She Uttered Them Seemed To Have All The Quality Of A

Prayer And There Were Tears In All Eyes,  Excepting Those Of Michael

Korsakoff,  The Second Orderly,  Whom Rouletabille Appraised As A Man

With A Rough Heart Not Much Open To Sentiment.

"Feodor Feodorovitch," Said This Officer,  When The Young Girl's

Voice Had Faded Away Into The Blending With The Last Note Of The

Guzla,  "Feodor Feodorovitch Is A Man And A Glorious Soldier Who Is

Able To Sleep In Peace,  Because He Has Labored For His Country And

For His Czar."

"Yes,  Yes.  Labored Well!  A Glorious Soldier!" Repeated Athanase

Georgevitch And Ivan Petrovitch.  "Well May He Sleep Peacefully."

"Natacha Sang Like An Angel," Said Boris,  The First Orderly,  In A

Tremulous Voice.

"Like An Angel,  Boris Nikolaievitch.  But Why Did She Speak Of His

Heart Oppressed?  I Don't See That General Trebassof Has A Heart

Oppressed,  For My Part."  Michael Korsakoff Spoke Roughly As He

Drained His Glass.

"No,  That's So,  Isn't It?" Agreed The Others.

"A Young Girl May Wish Her Father A Pleasant Sleep,  Surely!" Said

Matrena Petrovna,  With A Certain Good Sense.  "Natacha Has Affected

Us All,  Has She Not,  Feodor?"

"Yes,  She Made Me Weep," Declared The General.  "But Let Us Have

Champagne To Cheer Us Up.  Our Young Friend Here Will Think We

Are Chicken-Hearted."

"Never Think That," Said Rouletabille.  "Mademoiselle Has Touched

Me Deeply As Well.  She Is An Artist,  Really A Great Artist.  And

A Poet."

"He Is From Paris; He Knows," Said The Others.

And All Drank.

Then They Talked About Music,  With Great Display Of Knowledge

Concerning Things Operatic.  First One,  Then Another Went To The

Piano And Ran Through Some Motif That The Rest Hummed A Little

First,  Then Shouted In A Rousing Chorus.  Then They Drank More,

Amid A Perfect Fracas Of Talk And Laughter.  Ivan Petrovitch And

Athanase Georgevitch Walked Across And Kissed The General.

Rouletabille Saw All Around Him Great Children Who Amused

Themselves With Unbelievable Naivete And Who Drank In A Fashion

More Unbelievable Still.  Matrena Petrovna Smoked Cigarettes Of

Yellow Tobacco Incessantly,  Rising Almost Continually To Make A

Hurried Round Of The Rooms,  And After Having Prompted The Servants

To Greater Watchfulness,  Sat And Looked Long At Rouletabille,  Who

Did Not Stir,  But Caught Every Word,  Every Gesture Of Each One

There.  Finally,  Sighing,  She Sat Down By Feodor And Asked How His

Leg Felt.  Michael And Natacha,  In A Corner,  Were Deep In

Conversation,  And Boris Watched Them With Obvious Impatience,  Still

Strumming The Guzla.  But The Thing That Struck Rouletabille's

Youthful Imagination Beyond All Else Was The Mild Face Of The

General.  He Had Not Imagined The Terrible Trebassof With So

Paternal And Sympathetic An Expression.  The Paris Papers Had

Printed Redoubtable Pictures Of Him,  More Or Less Authentic,  But

The Arts Of Photography And Engraving Had Cut Vigorous,  Rough

Features Of An Official - Who Knew No Pity.  Such Pictures Were In

Perfect Accord With The Idea One Naturally Had Of The Dominating

Figure Of The Government At Moscow,  The Man Who,  During Eight

Days - The Red Week - Had Made So Many Corpses Of Students And

Workmen That The Halls Of The University And The Factories Had

Opened Their Doors Since In Vain.  The Dead Would Have Had To Arise

For Those Places To Be Peopled!  Days Of Terrible Battle Where In

One Quarter Or Another Of The City There Was Naught But Massacre Or

Burnings,  Until Matrena Petrovna And Her Step-Daughter,  Natacha

(All The Papers Told Of It),  Had Fallen On Their Knees Before The

General And Begged Terms For The Last Of The Revolutionaries,  At

Bay In The Presnia Quarter,  And Had Been Refused By Him.  "War Is

War," Had Been His Answer,  With Irrefutable Logic.  "How Can You

Ask Mercy For These Men Who Never Give It?" Be It Said For The

Young Men Of The Barricades That They Never Surrendered,  And Equally

Be It Said For Trebassof That He Necessarily Shot Them.  "If I Had

Only Myself To Consider," The General Had Said To A Paris

Journalist,  "I Could Have Been Gentle As A Lamb With These

Unfortunates,  And So I Should Not Now Myself Be Condemned To Death.

After All,  I Fail To See What They Reproach Me With.  I Have Served

My Master As A Brave And Loyal Subject,  No More,  And,  After The

Fighting,  I Have Let Others Ferret Out The Children That Had Hidden

Under Their Mothers' Skirts.  Everybody Talks Of The Repression Of

Moscow,  But Let Us Speak,  My Friend,  Of The Commune.  There Was A

Piece Of Work I Would Not Have Done,  To Massacre Within A Court An

Unresisting Crowd Of Men,  Women And Children.  I Am A Rough And

Faithful Soldier Of His Majesty,  But I Am Not A Monster,  And I Have

The Feelings Of A Husband And Father,  My Dear Monsieur.  Tell Your

Readers That,  If You Care To,  And Do Not Surmise Further About

Whether I Appear To Regret Being Condemned To Death."

Certainly What Stupefied Rouletabille Now Was This Staunch Figure

Of The Condemned Man Who Appeared So Tranquilly To Enjoy His Life.

When The General Was Not Furthering The Gayety Of His Friends He

Was Talking With His Wife And Daughter,  Who Adored Him And

Continually Fondled Him,  And He Seemed Perfectly Happy.  With His

Enormous Grizzly Mustache,  His Ruddy Color,  His Keen,  Piercing

Eyes,  He Looked The Typical Spoiled Father.

The Reporter Studied All These Widely-Different Types And Made His

Observations While Pretending To A Ravenous Appetite,  Which Served,

Moreover,  To Fix Him In The Good Graces Of His Hosts Of The Datcha

Des Iles.  But,  In Reality,  He Passed The Food To An Enormous

Bull-Dog Under The Table,  In Whose Good Graces He Was Also Thus

Firmly Planting Himself.  As Trebassof Had Prayed His Companions To

Let His Young Friend Satisfy His Ravening Hunger In Peace,  They Did

Not Concern Themelves To