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

Rouletabille's Directions.

"Oh,  Well,  All The Better," Said The General.  "It Will Give Me

Pleasure To See My Home Ridded For A While Of Such People."

Athanase Was Naturally Of The Same Mind As The General,  And When

Thaddeus And Ivan Petrovitch And The Orderlies Offered To Pass The

Night At The Villa And Take The Place Of The Absent Police,  Feodor

Feodorovitch Caught A Gesture From Rouletabille Which Disapproved

The Idea Of This New Guard.

"No,  No," Cried The General Emphatically.  "You Leave At The Usual

Time.  I Want Now To Get Back Into The Ordinary Run Of Things,  My

Word!  To Live As Everyone Else Does.  We Shall Be All Right.

Koupriane And I Have Arranged The Matter.  Koupriane Is Less Sure

Of His Men,  After All,  Than I Am Of My Servants.  You Understand

Me.  I Do Not Need To Explain Further.  You Will Go Home To Bed

- And We Will All Sleep.  Those Are The Orders.  Besides,  You Must

Remember That The Guard-Post Is Only A Step From Here,  At The Corner

Of The Road,  And We Have Only To Give A Signal To Bring Them All

Here.  But - More Secret Agents Or Special Police - No,  No!

Good-Night.  All Of Us To Bed Now!"

They Did Not Insist Further.  When Feodor Had Said,  "Those Are The

Orders," There Was Room For Nothing More,  Not Even In The Way Of

Polite Insistence.

But Before Going To Their Beds All Went Into The Veranda,  Where

Liqueurs Were Served By The Brave Ermolai,  As Always.  Matrena

Pushed The Wheel-Chair Of The General There,  And He Kept Repeating,

"No,  No.  No More Such People.  No More Police.  They Only Bring

Trouble."

"Feodor! Feodor!" Sighed Matrena,  Whose Anxiety Deepened In Spite

Of All She Could Do,  "They Watched Over Your Dear Life."

"Life Is Dear To Me Only Because Of You,  Matrena Petrovna."

"And Not At All Because Of Me,  Papa?" Said Natacha.

"Oh,  Natacha!"

He Took Both Her Hands In His.  It Was An Affecting Glimpse Of

Family Intimacy.

From Time To Time,  While Ermolai Poured The Liqueurs,  Feodor Struck

His Band On The Coverings Over His Leg.

"It Gets Better," Said He.  "It Gets Better."

Then Melancholy Showed In His Rugged Face,  And He Watched Night

Deepen Over The Isles,  The Golden Night Of St. Petersburg.  It Was

Not Quite Yet The Time Of Year For What They Call The Golden Nights

There,  The "White Nights," Nights Which Never Deepen To Darkness,

But They Were Already Beautiful In Their Soft Clarity,  Caressed,

Here By The Gulf Of Finland,  Almost At The Same Time By The Last

And The First Rays Of The Sun,  By Twilight And Dawn.

From The Height Of The Veranda One Of The Most Beautiful Bits Of

The Isles Lay In View,  And The Hour Was So Lovely That Its Charm

Thrilled These People,  Of Whom Several,  As Thaddeus,  Were Still

Close To Nature.  It Was He,  First,  Who Called To Natacha:

"Natacha!  Natacha!  Sing Us Your 'Soir Des Iles.'"

Natacha's Voice Floated Out Upon The Peace Of The Islands Under The

Dim Arched Sky,  Light And Clear As A Night Rose,  And The Guzla Of

Boris Accompanied It.  Natacha Sang:

"This Is The Night Of The Isles - At The North Of The World.

The Sky Presses In Its Stainless Arms The Bosom Of Earth,

Night Kisses The Rose That Dawn Gave To The Twilight.

And The Night Air Is Sweet And Fresh From Across The Shivering Gulf,

Like The Breath Of Young Girls From The World Still Farther North.

Beneath The Two Lighted Horizons,  Sinking And Rising At Once,

The Sun Rolls Rebounding From The Gods At The North Of The World.

In This Moment,  Beloved,  When In The Clear Shadows Of This

  Rose-Stained Evening I Am Here Alone With You,

Respond,  Respond With A Heart Less Timid To The Holy,  Accustomed

  Cry Of 'Good-Evening.'"

Ah,  How Boris Nikolaievitch And Michael Korsakoff Watched Her As

She Sang!  Truly,  No One Ever Can Guess The Anger Or The Love That

Broods In A Slavic Heart Under A Soldier's Tunic,  Whether The

Soldier Wisely Plays At The Guzla,  As The Correct Boris,  Or Merely

Lounges,  Twirling His Mustache With His Manicured And Perfumed

Fingers,  Like Michael,  The Indifferent.

Natacha Ceased Singing,  But All Seemed To Be Listening To Her Still

- The Convivial Group On The Terrace Appeared To Be Held In Charmed

Attention,  And The Porcelain Statuettes Of Men On The Lawn,

According To The Mode Of The Iles,  Seemed To Lift On Their Short

Legs The Better To Hear Pass The Sighing Harmony Of Natacha In The

Rose Nights At The North Of The World.

Meanwhile Matrena Wandered Through The House From Cellar To Attic,

Watching Over Her Husband Like A Dog On Guard,  Ready To Bite,  To

Throw Itself In The Way Of Danger,  To Receive The Blows,  To Die

For Its Master - And Hunting For Rouletabille,  Who Had Disappeared

Again.

She Went Out To Caution The Servants To A Strict Watch,  Armed To

The Teeth,  Before The Gate All Night Long,  And She Crossed The

Deserted Garden.  Under The Veranda The Schwitzar Was Spreading A

Mattress For Ermolai.  She Asked Him If He Had Seen The Young

Frenchman Anywhere,  And After The Answer,  Could Only Say To Herself,

"Where Is He,  Then?"  Where Had Rouletabille Gone?   The General,

Whom She Had Carried Up To His Room On Her Back,  Without Any Help,

And Had Helped Into Bed Without Assistance,  Was Disturbed By This

Singular Disappearance.   Had Someone Already Carried Off "Their"

Rouletabille?   Their Friends Were Gone And The Orderlies Had Taken

Leave Without Being Able To Say Where This Boy Of A Journalist Had

Gone.  But It Would Be Foolish To Worry About The Disappearance Of

A Journalist,  They Had Said.  That Kind Of Man - These Journalists

- Came,  Went,  Arrived When One Least Expected Them,  And Quitted

Their Company - Even The Highest Society - Without Formality.  It

Was What They Called In France "Leaving English Fashion."  However,

It Appeared It Was Not Meant To Be Impolite.  Perhaps He Had Gone

To Telegraph.  A Journalist Had To Keep In Touch With The Telegraph

At All Hours.  Poor Matrena Petrovna Roamed The Solitary Garden In

Tumult Of Heart.  There Was The Light In The General's Window On

The First Floor.  There Were Lights In The Basement From The

Kitchens.  There Was A Light On The Ground-Floor Near The

Sitting-Room,  From Natacha's Chamber Window.  Ah,  The Night Was

Hard To Bear.  And This Night The Shadows Weighed Heavier Than Ever

On The Valiant Breast Of Matrena.  As She Breathed She Felt As

Though She Lifted All The Weight Of The Threatening Night.  She

Examined Everything - Everything.  All Was Shut Tight,  Was Perfectly

Secure,  And There Was No One Within Excepting People She Was

Absolutely Sure Of - But Whom,  All The Same,  She Did Not Allow To

Go Anywhere In The House Excepting Where Their Work Called Them.

Each In His Place.  That Made Things Surer.  She Wished Each One

Could Remain Fixed Like The Porcelain Statues Of Men Out On The

Lawn.  Even As She Thought It,  Here At Her Feet,  Right At Her Very

Feet,  A Shadow Of One Of The Porcelain Men Moved,  Stretched Itself

Out,  Rose To Its Knees,  Grasped Her Skirt And Spoke In The Voice

Of Rouletabille.  Ah,  Good! It Was Rouletabille.  "Himself,  Dear

Madame; Himself."

"Why Is Ermolai In The Veranda?  Send Him Back To The Kitchens And

Tell The Schwitzar To Go To Bed.  The Servants Are Enough For An

Ordinary Guard Outside.  Then You Go In At Once,  Shut The Door,

And Don't Concern Yourself About Me,  Dear Madame.  Good-Night."

Rouletabille Had Resumed,  In The Shadows,  Among The Other Porcelain

Figures,  His Pose Of A Porcelain Man.

Matrena Petrovna Did As She Was Told,  Returned To The House,  Spoke

To The Schwitzar,  Who Removed To The Lodge With Ermolai,  And Their

Mistress Closed The Outside Door.  She Had Closed Long Before The

Door Of The Kitchen Stair Which Allowed The Domestics To Enter The

Villa From Below.  Down There Each Night The Devoted Gniagnia And

The Faithful Ermolai Watched In Turn.

Within The Villa,  Now Closed,  There Were On The Ground-Floor Only

Matrena Herself And Her Step-Daughter Natacha,  Who Slept In The

Chamber Off The Sitting-Room,  And,  Above On The First Floor,  The

General Asleep,  Or Who Ought To Be Asleep If He Had Taken His

Potion.  Matrena Remained In The Darkness Of The Drawing-Room,

Her Dark-Lantern In Her Hand.  All Her Nights Passed Thus,  Gliding

From Door To Door,  From Chamber To Chamber,  Watching Over The Watch

Of The Police,  Not Daring To Stop Her Stealthy Promenade Even To

Throw Herself On The Mattress That She Had Placed Across The

Doorway Of Her Husband's Chamber.