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

Could Hardly Say.  Who Else Could,  Then?  A Tag Of Sleep Here And

There,  Over The Arm Of A Chair,  Or Leaning Against The Wall,  Waked

Always By Some Noise That She Heard Or Dreamed,  Some Warning,

Perhaps,  That She Alone Had Heard.  And To-Night,  To-Night There Is

Rouletabille's Alert Guard To Help Her,  And She Feels A Little Less

The Aching Terror Of Watchfulness,  Until There Surges Back Into Her

Mind The Recollection That The Police Are No Longer There.  Was He

Right,  This Young Man?  Certainly She Could Not Deny That Some Way

She Feels More Confidence Now That The Police Are Gone.  She Does

Not Have To Spend Her Time Watching Their Shadows In The Shadows,

Searching The Darkness,  The Arm-Chairs,  The Sofas,  To Rouse Them,

To Appeal In Low Tones To All They Held Binding,  By Their Own Name

And The Name Of Their Father,  To Promise Them A Bonus That Would

Amount To Something If They Watched Well,  To Count Them In Order To

Know Where They All Were,  And,  Suddenly,  To Throw Full In Their

Face The Ray Of Light From Her Little Dark-Lantern In Order To Be

Sure,  Absolutely Sure,  That She Was Face To Face With Them,  One Of

The Police,  And Not With Some Other,  Some Other With An Infernal

Machine Under His Arm.  Yes,  She Surely Had Less Work Now That She

Had No Longer To Watch The Police.  And She Had Less Fear!

She Thanked The Young Reporter For That.  Where Was He?  Did He

Remain In The Pose Of A Porcelain Statue All This Time Out There

On The Lawn?  She Peered Through The Lattice Of The Veranda Shutters

And Looked Anxiously Out Into The Darkened Garden.  Where Could

He Be?  Was That He,  Down Yonder,  That Crouching Black Heap With An

Unlighted Pipe In His Mouth?  No,  No.  That,  She Knew Well,  Was The

Dwarf She Genuinely Loved,  Her Little Domovoi-Doukh,  The Familiar

Spirit Of The House,  Who Watched With Her Over The General's Life

And Thanks To Whom Serious Injury Had Not Yet Befallen Feodor

Feodorovitch - One Could Not Regard A Mangled Leg That Seriously.

Ordinarily In Her Own Country (She Was From The Orel District) One

Did Not Care To See The Domovoi-Doukh Appear In Flesh And Blood.

When She Was Little She Was Always Afraid That She Would Come Upon

Him Around A Turn Of The Path In Her Father's Garden.  She Always

Thought Of Him As No Higher Than That,  Seated Back On His Haunches

And Smoking His Pipe.  Then,  After She Was Married,  She Had Suddenly

Run Across Him At A Turning In The Bazaar At Moscow.  He Was Just

As She Had Imagined Him,  And She Had Immediately Bought Him,  Carried

Him Home Herself And Placed Him,  With Many Precautions,  For He Was

Of Very Delicate Porcelain,  In The Vestibule Of The Palace.  And In

Leaving Moscow She Had Been Careful Not To Leave Him There.  She

Had Carried Him Herself In A Case And Had Placed Him Herself On The

Lawn Of The Datcha Des Iles,  That He Might Continue To Watch Over

Her Happiness And Over The Life Of Her Feodor.  And In Order That

He Should Not Be Bored,  Eternally Smoking His Pipe All Alone,  She

Had Surrounded Him With A Group Of Little Porcelain Genii,  After

The Fashion Of The Jardins Des Iles.  Lord! How That Young Frenchman

Had Frightened Her,  Rising Suddenly Like That,  Without Warning,  On

The Lawn.  She Had Believed For A Moment That It Was The

Breathed Freely Now.  It Seemed To Her,  This Night,  That There Were

Two Little Familiar Genii Watching Over The House.  And That Was

Worth More Than All The Police In The World,  Surely.  How Wily That

Little Fellow Was To Order All Those Men Away.  There Was Something

It Was Necessary To Know; It Was Necessary Therefore That Nothing

Should Be In The Way Of Learning It.  As Things Were Now,  The

Mystery Could Operate Without Suspicion Or Interference.  Only One

Man Watched It,  And He Had Not The Air Of Watching.  Certainly

Rouletabille Had Not The Air Of Constantly Watching Anything.  He

Had The Manner,  Out In The Night,  Of An Easy Little Man In Porcelain,

Neither More Nor Less,  Yet He Could See Everything - If Anything

Were There To See - And He Could Hear Everything - If There Were

Anything To Hear.  One Passed Beside Him Without Suspecting Him,

And Men Might Talk To Each Other Without An Idea That He Heard

Them,  And Even Talk To Themselves According To The Habit People

Have Sometimes When They Think Themselves Quite Alone.  All The

Guests Had Departed Thus,  Passing Close By Him,  Almost Brushing

Him,  Had Exchanged Their "Adieus," Their "Au Revoirs," And All

Their Final,  Drawn-Out Farewells.  That Dear Little Living Domovoi

Certainly Was A Rogue!  Oh,  That Dear Little Domovoi Who Had Been

So Affected By The Tears Of Matrena Petrovna! The Good,  Fat,

Sentimental,  Heroic Woman Longed To Hear,  Just Then,  His

Reassuring Voice.

"It Is I.  Here I Am," Said The Voice Of Her Little Living Familiar

Spirit At That Instant,  And She Felt Her Skirt Grasped.  She Waited

For What He Should Say.  She Felt No Fear.  Yet She Had Supposed He

Was Outside The House.  Still,  After All,  She Was Not Too Astonished

That He Was Within.  He Was So Adroit!  He Had Entered Behind Her,

In The Shadow Of Her Skirts,  On All-Fours,  And Had Slipped Away

Without Anyone Noticing Him,  While She Was Speaking To Her Enormous,

Majestic Schwitzar.

"So You Were Here?" She Said,  Taking His Hand And Pressing It

Nervously In Hers.

"Yes,  Yes.  I Have Watched You Closing The House.  It Is A Task

Well-Done,  Certainly.  You Have Not Forgotten Anything."

"But Where Were You,  Dear Little Demon?  I Have Been Into All The

Corners,  And My Hands Did Not Touch You."

"I Was Under The Table Set With Hors-D'oeuvres In The Sitting-Room."

"Ah,  Under The Table Of Zakouskis!  I Have Forbidden Them Before

Now To Spread A Long Hanging Cloth There,  Which Obliges Me To Kick

My Foot Underneath Casually In Order To Be Sure There Is No One

Beneath.  It Is Imprudent,  Very Imprudent,  Such Table-Cloths.  And

Under The Table Of Zakouskis Have You Been Able To See Or Hear

Anything?"

"Madame,  Do You Think That Anyone Could Possibly See Or Hear

Anything In The Villa When You Are Watching It Alone,  When The

General Is Asleep And Your Step-Daughter Is Preparing For Bed?"

"No.  No.  I Do Not Believe So.  I Do Not.  No,  Oh,  Christ!"

They Talked Thus Very Low In The Dark,  Both Seated In A Corner Of

The Sofa,  Rouletabille's Hand Held Tightly In The Burning Hands Of

Matrena Petrovna.

She Sighed Anxiously.  "And In The Garden - Have You Heard Anything?"

"I Heard The Officer Boris Say To The Officer Michael,  In French,

'Shall We Return At Once To The Villa?'  The Other Replied In

Russian In A Way I Could See Was A Refusal.  Then They Had A

Discussion In Russian Which I,  Naturally,  Could Not Understand.

But From The Way They Talked I Gathered That They Disagreed And

That No Love Was Lost Between Them."

"No,  They Do Not Love Each Other.  They Both Love Natacha."

"And She,  Which One Of Them Does She Love?  It Is Necessary To Tell

Me."

"She Pretends That She Loves Boris,  And I Believe She Does,  And Yet

She Is Very Friendly With Michael And Often She Goes Into Nooks And

Corners To Chat With Him,  Which Makes Boris Mad With Jealousy.  She

Has Forbidden Boris To Speak To Her Father About Their Marriage,  On

The Pretext That She Does Not Wish To Leave Her Father Now,  While

Each Day,  Each Minute The General's Life Is In Danger."

"And You,  Madame - Do You Love Your Step-Daughter?" Brutally

Inquired The Reporter.

"Yes - Sincerely," Replied Matrena Petrovna,  Withdrawing Her Hand

From Those Of Rouletabille.

"And She - Does She Love You?"

"I Believe So,  Monsieur,  I Believe So Sincerely.  Yes,  She Loves Me,

And There Is Not Any Reason Why She Should Not Love Me.  I Believe

- Understand Me Thoroughly,  Because It Comes From My Heart - That

We All Here In This House Love One Another.  Our Friends Are Old

Proved Friends.  Boris Has Been Orderly To My Husband For A Very

Long Time.  We Do Not Share Any Of His Too-Modern Ideas,  And There

Were Many Discussions On The Duty Of Soldiers At The Time Of The

Massacres.  I Reproached Him With Being As Womanish As We Were In

Going Down On His Knees To The General Behind Natacha And Me,  When

It Became Necessary To Kill All Those Poor Moujiks Of Presnia.  It

Was Not His Role.  A Soldier Is A Soldier.  My Husband Raised Him

Roughly And Ordered Him,  For His Pains,  To March At The Head Of The

Troops.  It Was Right.  What Else Could He Do?  The General Already

Had Enough To Fight Against,  With The Whole Revolution,  With His

Conscience,  With The Natural Pity In His Heart Of A Brave Man,  And

With The Tears And Insupportable Moanings,  At Such A Moment,  Of His

Daughter And His Wife.  Boris Understood And Obeyed Him,  But,  After

The Death Of The Poor Students,  He Behaved Again Like A Woman In

Composing Those Verses On The Heroes Of The Barricades; Don't You

Think So?  Verses That Natacha And He Learned By Heart,  Working

Together,  When They Were Surprised At It By The General.  There

Was A Terrible Scene.  It Was Before The Next-To-The-Last Attack.

The General Then Had The Use Of Both Legs.  He Stamped His Feet And

Fairly Shook The House."

"Madame," Said Rouletabille,  "A Propos Of The Attacks,  You Must

Tell Me About The Third."

As He Said This,  Leaning Toward Her,  Matrena Petrovna Ejaculated A

"Listen!" That Made Him Rigid In The Night With Ear Alert.  What

Had She Heard?  For Him,  He Had Heard Nothing.

"You Hear Nothing?" She Whispered To Him With An Effort.  "A

Tick-Tack?"

"No,  I Hear Nothing."

"You Know - Like The Tick-Tack Of A Clock.  Listen."

"How Can You Hear The Tick-Tack?  I've Noticed That No Clocks Are

Running Here."

"Don't You Understand?  It Is So That We Shall Be Able To Hear The

Tick-Tack Better."

"Oh,  Yes,  I Understand.  But I Do Not Hear Anything."

"For Myself,  I Think I Hear The Tick-Tack All The Time Since The

Last Attempt.  It