The Secret of the Night by Gaston Leroux (ebook reader for surface pro txt) 📗

the police-guard have their Father Alexis of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok?’”

But Rouletabille did not reply at all, and Koupriane wound up by demanding what was the matter with him.

“The matter is,” replied Rouletabille, unable longer to conceal his anguish, “that the poison continues.”

“Does that astonish you?” returned Koupriane. “It doesn’t me.”

Rouletabille looked at him and shook his head. His lips trembled as he said, “I know what you think. It is abominable. But the thing I have done certainly is more abominable still.”

“What have you done, then, Monsieur Rouletabille?”

“Perhaps I have caused the death of an innocent man.”

“So long as you aren’t sure of it, you would better not fret about it, my dear friend.”

“It is enough that the doubt has arisen,” said the reporter, “almost to kill me;” and he heaved so gloomy a sigh that the excellent Monsieur Koupriane felt pity for the lad. He tapped him on the knee.

“Come, come, young man, you ought to know one thing by this time—‘you can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs,’ as they say, I think, in Paris.”

Rouletabille turned away from him with horror in his heart. If there should be another, someone besides Michael! If it was another hand than his that appeared to Matrena and him in the mysterious night! If Michael Nikolaievitch had been innocent! Well, he would kill himself, that was all. And those horrible words that he had exchanged with Natacha rose in his memory, singing in his ears as though they would deafen him.

“Do you doubt still?” he had asked her, “that Michael tried to poison your father?”

And Natacha had replied, “I wish to believe it! I wish to believe it, for your sake, my poor boy.” And then he recalled her other words, still more frightful now! “Couldn’t someone have tried to poison my father and not have come by the window?” He had faced such a hypothesis with assurance then—but now, now that the poison continued, continued within the house, where he believed himself so fully aware of all people and things—continued now that Michael Nikolaievitch was dead—ah, where did it come from, this poison?—and what was it? Pere Alexis would hurry his analysis if he had any regard for poor Rouletabille.

For Rouletabille to doubt, and in an affair where already there was one man dead through his agency, was torment worse than death.

When they arrived at police-headquarters, Rouletabille jumped from Koupriane’s carriage and without saying a word hailed an empty isvotchick that was passing. He had himself driven back to Pere Alexis. His doubt mastered his will; he could not bear to wait away. Under the arch of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok he saw once more the man Koupriane had placed there with the order to bring him Alexis’s message. The man looked at him in astonishment. Rouletabille crossed the court and entered the dingy old room once more. Pere Alexis was not there, naturally, engaged as he was in his laboratory. But a person whom he did not recognize at first sight attracted the reporter’s attention. In the half-light of the shop a melancholy shadow leaned over the ikons on the counter. It was only when he straightened up, with a deep sigh, and a little light, deflected and yellow from passing through window-panes that had known no touch of cleaning since they were placed there, fell faintly on the face, that Rouletabille ascertained he was face to face with Boris Mourazoff. It was indeed he, the erstwhile brilliant officer whose elegance and charm the reporter had admired as he saw him at beautiful Natacha’s feet in the datcha at Eliaguine. Now, no more in uniform, he had thrown over his bowed shoulders a wretched coat, whose sleeves swayed listlessly at his sides, in accord with his mood of languid desperation, a felt hat with the rim turned down hid a little the misery in his face in these few days, these not-many hours, how he was changed! But, even as he was, he still concerned Rouletabille. What was he doing there? Was he not going to go away, perhaps? He had picked up an ikon from the counter and carried it over to the window to examine its oxidized silver, giving such close attention to it that the reporter hoped he might reach the door of the laboratory without being noticed. He already had his hand on the knob of that door, which was behind the counter, when he heard his name called.

“It is you, Monsieur Rouletabille,” said the low, sad voice of Boris. “What has brought you here, then?”

“Well, well, Monsieur Boris Mourazoff, unless I’m mistaken? I certainly didn’t expect to find you here in Pere Alexis’s place.”

“Why not, Monsieur Rouletabille? One can find anything here in Pere Alexis’s stock. See; here are two old ikons in wood, carved with sculptures, which came direct from Athos, and can’t be equaled, I assure you, either at Gastini-Dvor nor even at Stchoukine-Dvor.”

“Yes, yes, that is possible,” said Rouletabille, impatiently. “Are you an amateur of such things?” he added, in order to say something.

“Oh, like anybody else. But I was going to tell you, Monsieur Rouletabille, I have resigned my commission. I have resolved to retire from the world; I am going on a long voyage.” (Rouletabille thought: ‘Why not have gone at once?’) “And before going, I have come here to supply myself with some little gifts to send those of my friends I particularly care for, although now, my dear Monsieur Rouletabille, I don’t care much for anything.”

“You look desolate enough, monsieur.”

Boris sighed like a child.

“How could it be otherwise?” he said. “I loved and believed myself beloved. But it proved to be—nothing, alas!”

“Sometimes one only imagines things,” said Rouletabille, keeping his hand on the door.

“Oh, yes,” said the other, growing more and more melancholy. “So a man suffers. He is his own tormentor; he himself makes the wheel on which, like his own executioner, he binds himself.”

“It is not necessary, monsieur; it is not necessary,” counseled the reporter.

“Listen,” implored Boris in a voice that showed tears were not far away. “You are still a child, but still you can see things. Do you believe Natacha loves me?”

“I am sure of it, Monsieur Boris; I am sure of it.”

“I am sure of it, too. But I don’t know what to think now. She has let me go, without trying to detain me, without a word of hope.”

“And where are you going like that?”

“I am returning to the Orel country, where I first saw her.”

“That is good, very good, Monsieur Boris. At least there you are sure to see her again. She goes there every year with her parents for a few weeks. It is a detail you haven’t overlooked, doubtless.”

“Certainly I haven’t. I will tell you that that prospect decided my place of retreat.”

“See!”