The Secret Of The Night(Fiscle Part 3) by Gaston Leroux (best business books of all time txt) 📖
- Author: Gaston Leroux
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"Barinia, The Young Stranger Has Arrived."
"Where Is He?"
"Oh, He Is Waiting At The Lodge."
"I Told You To Show Him To Natacha's Sitting-Room. Didn't You
Understand Me, Ermolai?"
"Pardon, Barinia, But The Young Stranger, When I Asked To Search
Him, As You Directed, Flatly Refused To Let Me."
"Did You Explain To Him That Everybody Is Searched Before Being
Allowed To Enter, That It Is The Order, And That Even My Mother
Herself Has Submitted To It?"
"I Told Him All That, Barinia; And I Told Him About Madame Your
Mother."
"What Did He Say To That?"
"That He Was Not Madame Your Mother. He Acted Angry."
"Well, Let Him Come In Without Being Searched."
"The Chief Of Police Won't Like It."
"Do As I Say."
Ermolai Bowed And Returned To The Garden. The "Barinia" Left The
Veranda, Where She Had Come For This Conversation With The Old
Servant Of General Trebassof, Her Husband, And Returned To The
Dining-Room In The Datcha Des Iles, Where The Gay Councilor Ivan
Petrovitch Was Regaling His Amused Associates With His Latest
Exploit At Cubat's Resort. They Were A Noisy Company, And Certainly
The Quietest Among Them Was Not The General, Who Nursed On A Sofa
The Leg Which Still Held Him Captive After The Recent Attack, That
To His Old Coachman And His Two Piebald Horses Had Proved Fatal.
The Story Of The Always-Amiable Ivan Petrovitch (A Lively, Little,
Elderly Man With His Head Bald As An Egg) Was About The Evening
Before. After Having, As He Said, "Recure La Bouche" For These
Gentlemen Spoke French Like Their Own Language And Used It Among
Themselves To Keep Their Servants From Understanding - After Having
Wet His Whistle With A Large Glass Of Sparkling Rosy French Wine,
He Cried:
Part 1 Chapter 1 (Gayety And Dynamite) Pg 2
Went Out Onto The River-Bank To Stretch Our Legs And Cool Our Faces
In The Freshness Of The Dawn, When A Company Of Cossacks Of The
Guard Came Along. I Knew The Officer In Command And Invited Him To
Come Along With Us And Drink The Emperor's Health At Cubat's Place.
That Officer, Feodor Feodorovitch, Is A Man Who Knows Vintages And
Boasts That He Has Never Swallowed A Glass Of Anything So Common As
Crimean Wine. When I Named Champagne He Cried, 'Vive L'empereur!'
A True Patriot. So We Started, Merry As School-Children. The
Entire Company Followed, Then All The Diners Playing Little Whistles,
And All The Servants Besides, Single File. At Cubat's I Hated To
Leave The Companion-Officers Of My Friend At The Door, So I Invited
Them In, Too. They Accepted, Naturally. But The Subalterns Were
Thirsty As Well. I Understand Discipline. You Know, Feodor
Feodorovitch, That I Am A Stickler For Discipline. Just Because
One Is Gay Of A Spring Morning, Discipline Should Not Be Forgotten.
I Invited The Officers To Drink In A Private Room, And Sent The
Subalterns Into The Main Hall Of The Restaurant. Then The Soldiers
Were Thirsty, Too, And I Had Drinks Served To Them Out In The
Courtyard. Then, My Word, There Was A Perplexing Business, For Now
The Horses Whinnied. The Brave Horses, Feodor Feodorovitch, Who
Also Wished To Drink The Health Of The Emperor. I Was Bothered
About The Discipline. Hall, Court, All Were Full. And I Could Not
Put The Horses In Private Rooms. Well, I Made Them Carry Out
Champagne In Pails And Then Came The Perplexing Business I Had Tried
So Hard To Avoid, A Grand Mixture Of Boots And Horse-Shoes That Was
Certainly The Liveliest Thing I Have Ever Seen In My Life. But The
Horses Were The Most Joyous, And Danced As If A Torch Was Held Under
Their Nostrils, And All Of Them, My Word! Were Ready To Throw Their
Riders Because The Men Were Not Of The Same Mind With Them As To
The Route To Follow! From Our Window We Laughed Fit To Kill At Such
A Mixture Of Sprawling Boots And Dancing Hoofs. But The Troopers
Finally Got All Their Horses To Barracks, With Patience, For The
Emperor's Cavalry Are The Best Riders In The World, Feodor
Feodorovitch. And We Certainly Had A Great Laugh! - Your Health,
Matrena Petrovna."
[*The "Barque" Is A Restaurant On A Boat, Among The Isles,
Near The Gulf Of Finland, On A Bank Of The Neva.]
These Last Graceful Words Were Addressed To Madame Trebassof, Who
Shrugged Her Shoulders At The Undesired Gallantry Of The Gay
Councilor. She Did Not Join In The Conversation, Excepting To
Calm The General, Who Wished To Send The Whole Regiment To The
Guard-House, Men And Horses. And While The Roisterers Laughed Over
The Adventure She Said To Her Husband In The Advisory Voice Of The
Helpful Wife:
"Feodor, You Must Not Attach Importance To What That Old Fool Ivan
Tells You. He Is The Most Imaginative Man In The Capital When He
Has Had Champagne."
"Ivan, You Certainly Have Not Had Horses Served With Champagne In
Part 1 Chapter 1 (Gayety And Dynamite) Pg 3Pails," The Old Boaster, Athanase Georgevitch, Protested Jealously.
He Was An Advocate, Well-Known For His Table-Feats, Who Claimed The
Hardest Drinking Reputation Of Any Man In The Capital, And He
Regretted Not To Have Invented That Tale.
"On My Word! And The Best Brands! I Had Won Four Thousand
Roubles. I Left The Little Fete With Fifteen Kopecks."
Matrena Petrovna Was Listening To Ermolai, The Faithful Country
Servant Who Wore Always, Even Here In The City, His Habit Of Fresh
Nankeen, His Black Leather Belt, His Large Blue Pantaloons And His
Boots Glistening Like Ice, His Country Costume In His Master's City
Home. Madame Matrena Rose, After Lightly Stroking The Hair Of Her
Step-Daughter Natacha, Whose Eyes Followed Her To The Door,
Indifferent Apparently To The Tender Manifestations Of Her Father's
Orderly, The Soldier-Poet, Boris Mourazoff, Who Had Written
Beautiful Verses On The Death Of The Moscow Students, After Having
Shot Them, In The Way Of Duty, On Their Barricades.
Ermolai Conducted His Mistress To The Drawing-Room And Pointed
Across To A Door That He Had Left Open, Which Led To The
Sitting-Room Before Natacha's Chamber.
"He Is There," Said Ermolai In A Low Voice.
Ermolai Need Have Said Nothing, For That Matter, Since Madame
Matrena Was Aware Of A Stranger's Presence In The Sitting-Room
By The Extraordinary Attitude Of An Individual In A Maroon
Frock-Coat Bordered With False Astrakhan, Such As Is On The Coats
Of All The Russian Police Agents And Makes The Secret Agents
Recognizable At First Glance. This Policeman Was On His Knees
In The Drawing-Room Watching What Passed In The Next Room Through
The Narrow Space Of Light In The Hinge-Way Of The Door. In This
Manner, Or Some Other, All Persons Who Wished To Approach General
Trebassof Were Kept Under Observation Without Their Knowing It,
After Having Been First Searched At The Lodge, A Measure Adopted
Since The Latest Attack.
Madame Matrena Touched The Policeman's Shoulder With That Heroic
Hand Which Had Saved Her Husband's Life And Which Still Bore Traces
Of The Terrible Explosion In The Last Attack, When She Had Seized
The Infernal Machine Intended For The General With Her Bare Hand.
The Policeman Rose And Silently Left The Room, Reached The Veranda
And Lounged There On A Sofa, Pretending To Be Asleep, But In
Reality Watching The Garden Paths.
Matrena Petrovna Took His Place At The Hinge-Vent. This Was Her
Rule; She Always Took The Final Glance At Everything And Everybody.
She Roved At All Hours Of The Day And Night Round About The General,
Like A Watch-Dog, Ready To Bite, To Throw Itself Before The Danger,
To Receive The Blows, To Perish For Its Master. This Had Commenced
At Moscow After The Terrible Repression, The Massacre Of
Revolutionaries Under The Walls Of Presnia, When The Surviving
Nihilists Left Behind Them A Placard Condemning The Victorious
Part 1 Chapter 1 (Gayety And Dynamite) Pg 4General Trebassof To Death. Matrena Petrovna Lived Only For The
General. She Had Vowed That She Would Not Survive Him. So She Had
Double Reason To Guard Him.
But She Had Lost All Confidence Even Within The Walls Of Her Own
Home.
Things Had Happened Even There That Defied Her Caution, Her
Instinct, Her Love. She Had Not Spoken Of These Things Save To The
Chief Of Police, Koupriane, Who Had Reported Them To The Emperor.
And Here Now Was The Man Whom The Emperor Had Sent, As The Supreme
Resource, This Young Stranger - Joseph Rouletabille, Reporter.
"But He Is A Mere Boy!" She Exclaimed, Without At All Understanding
The Matter, This Youthful Figure, With Soft, Rounded Cheeks, Eyes
Clear And, At First View, Extraordinarily Naive, The Eyes Of An
Infant. True, At The Moment Rouletabille's Expression Hardly
Suggested Any Superhuman Profundity Of Thought, For, Left In View
Of A Table, Spread With Hors-D'oeuvres, The Young Man Appeared
Solely Occupied In Digging Out With A Spoon All The Caviare That
Remained In The Jars. Matrena Noted The Rosy Freshness Of His
Cheeks, The Absence Of Down On His Lip And Not A Hint Of Beard, The
Thick Hair, With The Curl Over The Forehead. Ah, That Forehead
- The Forehead Was Curious, With Great Over-Hanging Cranial Lumps
Which Moved Above The Deep Arcade Of The Eye-Sockets While The Mouth
Was Busy - Well, One Would Have Said That Rouletabille Had Not
Eaten For A Week. He Was Demolishing A Great Slice Of Volgan
Sturgeon, Contemplating At The Same Time With Immense Interest A
Salad Of Creamed Cucumbers, When Matrena Petrovna Appeared.
He Wished To Excuse Himself At Once And Spoke With His Mouth Full.
"I Beg Your Pardon, Madame, But The Czar Forgot To Invite Me To
Breakfast."
Madame Matrena Smiled And Gave Him A Hearty Handshake As She Urged
Him To Be Seated.
"You Have Seen His Majesty?"
"I Come From Him, Madame. It Is To Madame Trebassof That I Have
The Honor Of Speaking?"
"Yes. And You Are Monsieur - ?"
"Joseph Rouletabille, Madame. I Do Not Add, 'At Your Service
- Because I Do Not Know About That Yet. That Is What I Said Just
Now To His Majesty."
"Then?" Asked Madame Matrena, Rather Amused By The Tone The
Conversation Had Taken And The Slightly Flurried Air Of Rouletabille.
"Why, Then, I Am A Reporter, You See. That Is What I Said At Once
To My Editor In Paris, 'I Am Not Going To Take Part In Revolutionary
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