The Secret of the Night Page 12

  XII. PERE ALEXIS

  Koupriane jumped into his carriage and hurried toward St. Petersburg.On the way he spoke to three agents who only he knew were posted inthe neighborhood of Eliaguine. They told him the route Rouletabille hadtaken. The reporter had certainly returned into the city. He hurriedtoward Troitski Bridge. There, at the corner of the Naberjnaia,Koupriane saw the reporter in a hired conveyance. Rouletabille waspounding his coachman in the back, Russian fashion, to make him gofaster, and was calling with all his strength one of the few words hehad had time to learn, "Naleva, naleva" (to the left). The driver wasforced to understand at last, for there was no other way to turn than tothe left. If he had turned to the right (naprava) he would have driveninto the river. The conveyance clattered over the pointed flints of aneighborhood that led to a little street, Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, atthe corner of the Katharine canal. This "alley of the pharmacists" as amatter of fact contained no pharmacists, but there was a curious signof a herbarium, where Rouletabille made the driver stop. As the carriagerolled under the arch Rouletabille recognized Koupriane. He did notwait, but cried to him, "Ah, here you are. All right; follow me." Hestill had the flask and the glasses in his hands. Koupriane couldn'thelp noticing how strange he looked. He passed through a court with him,and into a squalid shop.

  "What," said Koupriane, "do you know Pere Alexis?"

  They were in the midst of a curious litter. Clusters of dried herbs hungfrom the ceiling, and all among them were clumps of old boots, shriveledskins, battered pans, scrap-iron, sheep-skins, useless touloupes, and onthe floor musty old clothes, moth-eaten furs, and sheep-skin coats thateven a moujik of the swamps would not have deigned to wear. Here andthere were old teeth, ragged finery, dilapidated hats, and jars ofstrange herbs ranged upon some rickety shelving. Between the set ofscales on the counter and a heap of little blocks of wood used forfiguring the accounts of this singular business were ungilded ikons,oxidized silver crosses, and Byzantine pictures representing scenes fromthe Old and New Testaments. Jars of alcohol with what seemed to be theskeletons of frogs swimming in them filled what space was left. In acorner of this large, murky room, under the vault of mossed stone, asmall altar stood and the light burned in a hanging glass of oil beforethe holy images. A man was praying before the altar. He wore the costumeof old Russia, the caftan of green cloth, buttoned at the shoulder andtucked in at the waist by a narrow belt. He had a bushy beard and hishair fell to his shoulders. When he had finished his prayer he rose,perceived Rouletabille and came over to take his hand. He spoke Frenchto the reporter:

  "Well, here you are again, lad. Do you bring poison again to-day? Thiswill end by being found out, and the police..."

  Just then he discerned Koupriane's form in the shadow, drew closeto make out who it was, and fell to his knees as he saw who it was.Rouletabille tried to raise him, but he insisted on prostrating himself.He was sure the Prefect of Police had come to his house to hang him.Finally he was reassured by Rouletabile's positive assertions and thegreat chief's robust laugh. The Prefect wished to know how the young mancame to be acquainted with the "alchemist" of the police. Rouletabilletold him in a few words.

  Maitre Alexis, in his youth, went to France afoot, to study pharmacy,because of his enthusiasm for chemistry. But he always remainedcountrified, very much a Russian peasant, a semi-Oriental bear, and didnot achieve his degree. He took some certificates, but the examinationswere too much for him. For fifty years he lived miserably as apharmacist's assistant in the back of a disreputable shop in the NotreDame quarter. The proprietor of the place was implicated in the famousaffair of the gold ingots, which started Rouletabille's reputation, andwas arrested along with his assistant, Alexis. It was Rouletabille whoproved, clear as day, that poor Alexis was innocent, and that he hadnever been cognizant of his master's evil ways, being absorbed in thedepths of his laboratory in trying to work out a naive alchemy whichfascinated him, though the world of chemistry had passed it by centuriesago. At the trial Alexis was acquitted, but found himself in the street.He shed what tears remained in his body upon the neck of the reporter,assuring him of paradise if he got him back to his own country, becausehe desired only the one thing more of life, that he might see hisbirth-land before he died. Rouletabille advanced the necessary meansand sent him to St. Petersburg. There he was picked up at the end of twodays by the police, in a petty gambling-game, and thrown into prison,where he promptly had a chance to show his talents. He cured some of hiscompanions in misery, and even some of the guards. A guard who had aninjured leg, whose healing he had despaired of, was cured by Alexis.Then there was found to be no actual charge against him. They set himfree and, moreover, they interested themselves in him. They found meageremployment for him in the Stchoukine-dvor, an immense popular bazaar.He accumulated a few roubles and installed himself on his own accountat the back of a court in the Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, where he graduallypiled up a heap of old odds and ends that no one wanted even in theStchoukine-dvor. But he was happy, because behind his shop he hadinstalled a little laboratory where he continued for his pleasure hisexperiments in alchemy and his study of plants. He still proposed towrite a book that he had already spoken of in France to Rouletabille, toprove the truth of "Empiric Treatment of Medicinal Herbs, the Scienceof Alchemy, and the Ancient Experiments in Sorcery." Between timeshe continued to cure anyone who applied to him, and the police inparticular. The police guards protected him and used him. He hadsplendid plasters for them after "the scandal," as they called theOctober riots. So when the doctors of the quarter tried to prosecute himfor illegal practice, a deputation of police-guards went to Koupriane,who took the responsibility and discontinued proceedings against him.They regarded him as under protection of the saints, and Alexis sooncame to be regarded himself as something of a holy man. He never failedevery Christmas and Easter to send his finest images to Rouletabille,wishing him all prosperity and saying that if ever he came to St.Petersburg he should be happy to receive him at Aptiekarski-Pereoulok,where he was established in honest labor. Pere Alexis, like all the truesaints, was a modest man.

  When Alexis had recovered a little from his emotion Rouletabille said tohim:

  "Pere Alexis, I do bring you poison again, but you have nothing to fear,for His Excellency the Chief of Police is with me. Here is what we wantyou to do. You must tell us what poison these four glasses have held,and what poison is still in this flask and this little phial."

  "What is that little phial?" demanded Koupriane, as he saw Rouletabillepull a small, stoppered bottle out of his pocket.

  The reporter replied, "I have put into this bottle the vodka that waspoured into Natacha's glass and mine and that we barely touched."

  "Someone has tried to poison you!" exclaimed Pere Alexis.

  "No, not me," replied Rouletabille, in bored fashion. "Don't think aboutthat. Simply do what I tell you. Then analyze these two napkins, aswell."

  And he drew from his coat two soiled napkins.

  "Well," said Koupriane, "you have thought of everything."

  "They are the napkins the general and his wife used."

  "Yes, yes, I understand that," said the Chief of Police.

  "And you, Alexis, do you understand?" asked the reporter. "When can wehave the result of your analysis?

  "In an hour, at the latest."

  "Very well," said Koupriane. "Now I need not tell you to hold yourtongue. I am going to leave one of my men here. You will write us anote that you will seal, and he will bring it to head-quarters. Sure youunderstand? In an hour?"

  "In an hour, Excellency."

  They went out, and Alexis followed them, bowing to the floor. Kouprianehad Rouletabille get into his carriage. The young man did as he wastold. One would have said he did not know where he was or what he did.He made no reply to the chief's questions.

  "This Pere Alexander," resumed Koupriane, "is a character, really quitea figure. And a bit of a schemer, I should say. He has seen how FatherJohn of Cronstadt succeeded, and he says to himself, 'Since th
e sailorshad their Father John of Cronstadt, why shouldn't the police-guard havetheir Father Alexis of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok?'"

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

  "The matter is," replied Rouletabille, unable longer to conceal hisanguish, "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 hesaid, "I know what you think. It is abominable. But the thing I havedone 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, "almostto kill me;" and he heaved so gloomy a sigh that the excellent MonsieurKoupriane felt pity for the lad. He tapped him on the knee.

  "Come, come, young man, you ought to know one thing by this time--'youcan't make omelettes without breaking eggs,' as they say, I think, inParis."

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

  "Do you doubt still?" he had asked her, "that Michael tried to poisonyour 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, stillmore frightful now! "Couldn't someone have tried to poison my fatherand not have come by the window?" He had faced such a hypothesis withassurance then--but now, now that the poison continued, continued withinthe house, where he believed himself so fully aware of all people andthings--continued now that Michael Nikolaievitch was dead--ah, where didit come from, this poison?--and what was it? Pere Alexis would hurry hisanalysis if he had any regard for poor Rouletabille.

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

  When they arrived at police-headquarters, Rouletabille jumped fromKoupriane's carriage and without saying a word hailed an emptyisvotchick that was passing. He had himself driven back to Pere Alexis.His doubt mastered his will; he could not bear to wait away. Under thearch of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok he saw once more the man Koupriane hadplaced there with the order to bring him Alexis's message. The manlooked at him in astonishment. Rouletabille crossed the court andentered the dingy old room once more. Pere Alexis was not there,naturally, engaged as he was in his laboratory. But a person whom he didnot recognize at first sight attracted the reporter's attention. In thehalf-light of the shop a melancholy shadow leaned over the ikons on thecounter. It was only when he straightened up, with a deep sigh, and alittle light, deflected and yellow from passing through window-panesthat had known no touch of cleaning since they were placed there, fellfaintly on the face, that Rouletabille ascertained he was face to facewith Boris Mourazoff. It was indeed he, the erstwhile brilliant officerwhose elegance and charm the reporter had admired as he saw him atbeautiful Natacha's feet in the datcha at Eliaguine. Now, no more inuniform, he had thrown over his bowed shoulders a wretched coat, whosesleeves swayed listlessly at his sides, in accord with his mood oflanguid desperation, a felt hat with the rim turned down hid a littlethe misery in his face in these few days, these not-many hours, how hewas changed! But, even as he was, he still concerned Rouletabille. Whatwas he doing there? Was he not going to go away, perhaps? He had pickedup an ikon from the counter and carried it over to the window to examineits oxidized silver, giving such close attention to it that the reporterhoped 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 thecounter, 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 certainlydidn't expect to find you here in Pere Alexis's place."

  "Why not, Monsieur Rouletabille? One can find anything here in PereAlexis's stock. See; here are two old ikons in wood, carved withsculptures, which came direct from Athos, and can't be equaled, I assureyou, either at Gastini-Dvor nor even at Stchoukine-Dvor."

  "Yes, yes, that is possible," said Rouletabille, impatiently. "Are youan amateur of such things?" he added, in order to say something.

  "Oh, like anybody else. But I was going to tell you, MonsieurRouletabille, I have resigned my commission. I have resolved to retirefrom the world; I am going on a long voyage." (Rouletabille thought:'Why not have gone at once?') "And before going, I have come here tosupply myself with some little gifts to send those of my friends Iparticularly care for, although now, my dear Monsieur Rouletabille, Idon'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 myselfbeloved. But it proved to be--nothing, alas!"

  "Sometimes one only imagines things," said Rouletabille, keeping hishand on the door.

  "Oh, yes," said the other, growing more and more melancholy. "So a mansuffers. 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 thereporter.

  "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 believeNatacha 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 letme 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 sureto see her again. She goes there every year with her parents for a fewweeks. It is a detail you haven't overlooked, doubtless."

  "Certainly I haven't. I will tell you that that prospect decided myplace of retreat."

  "See!"

  "God gives me nothing, but He opens His treasures, and each takes whathe can."

  "Yes, yes; and Mademoiselle Natacha, does she know it is to Orel youhave decided to retire?"

  "I have no reason for concealing it from her, Monsieur Rouletabille."

  "So far so good. You needn't feel so desolate, my dear Monsieur Boris.All is not lost. I will say even that I see a future for you full ofhope."

  "Ah, if you are able to say that truthfully, I am happy indeed to havemet you. I will never forget this rope you have flung me when all thewaters seemed closing over my head. 'What do you advise, then?"

  "I advise you to go to Orel, monsieur, and as quickly as possible."

  "Very well. You must have reasons for saying that. I obey you, monsieur,and go."

  As Boris started towards the entrance-arch, Rouletabille slipped intothe laboratory. Old Alexis was bent over his retorts. A wretched lampbarely lighted his obscure work. He turned at the noise the reportermade.

  "Ah!-you, lad!"

  "'Well?"

  "Oh, nothing so quick. Still, I have already analyzed the two napkins,you know."

  "Yes? The stains? Tell me, for the love of God!"

  "Well, my boy, it is arsenate of soda again."

  Rouletabille, stricken to the heart, uttered a low cry and everythingseemed to dance around him. Pere Alexis in the midst of all the strangelaboratory instruments seemed Satan himself, and he repulsed the kindlyarms stretched forth to sustain him; in the gloom, where danced here andthere the little blue f
lames from the crucibles, lively as flickeringtongues, he believed he saw Michael Nikolaievitch's ghost come to cry,"The arsenate of soda continues, and I am dead." He fell against thedoor, which swung open, and he rolled as far as the counter, and struckhis face against it. The shock, that might well have been fatal, broughthim out of his intense nightmare and made him instantly himself again.He rose, jumped over the heap of boots and fol-de-rols, and leaped tothe court. There Boris grabbed him by his coat. Rouletabille turned,furious:

  "What do you want? You haven't started for the Orel yet?"

  "Monsieur, I am going, but I will be very grateful if you will takethese things yourself to--to Natacha." He showed him, still withdespairing mien, the two ikons from Mount Athos, and Rouletabille tookthem from him, thrust them in his pocket, and hurried on, crying, "Iunderstand."

  Outside, Rouletabille tried to get hold of himself, to recover hiscoolness a little. Was it possible that he had made a mortal error?Alas, alas, how could he doubt it now! The arsenate of soda continued.He made, a superhuman effort to ward off the horror of that, evenmomentarily--the death of innocent Michael Nikolaievitch--and to thinkof nothing except the immediate consequences, which must be carefullyconsidered if he wished to avoid some new catastrophe. Ah, the assassinwas not discouraged. And that time, what a piece of work he had tried!What a hecatomb if he had succeeded! The general, Matrena Petrovna,Natacha and Rouletabille himself (who almost regretted, so far as hewas concerned, that it had not succeeded)--and Koupriane! Koupriane, whoshould have been there for luncheon. What a bag for the Nihilists!That was it, that was it. Rouletabille understood now why they had nothesitated to poison everybody at once: Koupriane was among them.

  Michael Nikolaievitch would have been avenged!

  The attempt had failed this time, but what might they not expect now!From the moment he believed Michael Nikolaievitch no longer guilty, ashe had imagined, Rouletabille fell into a bottomless abyss.

  Where should he go? After a few moments he made the circuit of theRotunda, which serves as the market for this quarter and is the finestornament of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok. He made the circuit without knowingit, without stopping for anything, without seeing or understandinganything. As a broken-winded horse makes its way in the treadmill, so hewalked around with the thought that he also was lost in a treadmill thatled him nowhere. Rouletabille was no longer Rouletabille.