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Chapter 2

II

NATACHA

In the dining-room it was Thaddeus Tchnichnikoff's turn to tell
hunting stories. He was the greatest timber-merchant in Lithuania.
He owned immense forests and he loved Feodor Feodorovitch* as a
_____________________________________________________________________

*In this story according to Russian habit General Trebassof is
called alternately by that name or the family name Feodor
Feodorovitch, and Madame Trebassof by that name or her family
name, Matrena Petrovna.- Translator's Note.
_____________________________________________________________________

brother, for they had played together all through their childhood,
and once he had saved him from a bear that was just about to crush
his skull as one might knock off a hat. General Trebassof's father
was governor of Courlande at that time, by the grace of God and the
Little Father. Thaddeus, who was just thirteen years old, killed
the bear with a single stroke of his boar-spear, and just in time.
Close ties were knit between the two families by this occurrence,
and though Thaddeus was neither noble-born nor a soldier, Feodor
considered him his brother and felt toward him as such. Now
Thaddeus had become the greatest timber-merchant of the western
provinces, with his own forests and also with his massive body,
his fat, oily face, his bull-neck and his ample paunch. He quitted
everything at once - all his affairs, his family - as soon as he
learned of the first attack, to come and remain by the side of his
dear comrade Feodor. He had done this after each attack, without
forgetting one. He was a faithful friend. But he fretted because
they might not go bear-hunting as in their youth. 'Where, he would
ask, are there any bears remaining in Courlande, or trees for that
matter, what you could call trees, growing since the days of the
grand-dukes of Lithuania, giant trees that threw their shade right
up to the very edge of the towns? Where were such things nowadays?
Thaddeus was very amusing, for it was he, certainly, who had cut
them away tranquilly enough and watched them vanish in locomotive
smoke. It was what was called Progress. Ah, hunting lost its
national character assuredly with tiny new-growth trees which had
not had time to grow. And, besides, one nowadays had not time for
hunting. All the big game was so far away. Lucky enough if one
seized the time to bring down a brace of woodcock early in the
morning. At this point in Thaddeus's conversation there was a
babble of talk among the convivial gentlemen, for they had all the
time in the world at their disposal and could not see why he should
be so concerned about snatching a little while at morning or
evening, or at midday for that matter. Champagne was flowing like
a river when Rouletabille was brought in by Matrena Petrovna. The
general, whose eyes had been on the door for some time, cried at
once, as though responding to a cue:

"Ah, my dear Rouletabille! I have been looking for you. Our
friends wrote me you were coming to St. Petersburg."

Rouletabille hurried over to him and they shook hands like friends
who meet after a long separation. The reporter was presented to
the company as a close young friend from Paris whom they had enjoyed
so much during their latest visit to the City of Light. Everybody
inquired for the latest word of Paris as of a dear acquaintance.

"How is everybody at Maxim's?" urged the excellent Athanase
Georgevitch.

Thaddeus, too, had been once in Paris and he returned with an
enthusiastic liking for the French demoiselles.

"Vos gogottes, monsieur," he said, appearing very amiable and
leaning on each word, with a guttural emphasis such as is common
in the western provinces, "ah, vos gogottes!"

Matrena Perovna tried to silence him, but Thaddeus insisted on his
right to appreciate the fair sex away from home. He had a turgid,
sentimental wife, always weeping and cramming her religious notions
down his throat.

Of course someone asked Rouletabille what he thought of Russia, but
he had no more than opened his mouth to reply than Athanase
Georgevitch closed it by interrupting:

"Permettez! Permettez! You others, of the young generation, what
do you know of it? You need to have lived a long time and in all
its districts to appreciate Russia at its true value. Russia,
my young sir, is as yet a closed book to you."

"Naturally," Rouletabille answered, smiling.

"Well, well, here's your health! What I would point out to you
first of all is that it is a good buyer of champagne, eh?" - and
he gave a huge grin. "But the hardest drinker I ever knew was born
on the banks of the Seine. Did you know him, Feodor Feodorovitch?
Poor Charles Dufour, who died two years ago at fete of the officers
of the Guard. He wagered at the end of the banquet that he could
drink a glassful of champagne to the health of each man there.
There were sixty when you came to count them. He commenced the
round of the table and the affair went splendidly up to the
fifty-eighth man. But at the fifty-ninth - think of the
misfortune! - the champagne ran out! That poor, that charming,
that excellent Charles took up a glass of vin dore which was in the
glass of this fifty-ninth, wished him long life, drained the glass
at one draught, had just time to murmur, 'Tokay, 1807,' and fell
back dead! Ah, he knew the brands, my word! and he proved it to
his last breath! Peace to his ashes! They asked what he died of.
I knew he died because of the inappropriate blend of flavors. There
should be discipline in all things and not promiscuous mixing. One
more glass of champagne and he would have been drinking with us
this evening. Your health, Matrena Petrovna. Champagne, Feodor
Feodorovitch! Vive la France, monsieur! Natacha, my child, you
must sing something. Boris will accompany you on the guzla. Your
father will enjoy it."

All eyes turned toward Natacha as she rose.

Rouletabille was struck by her serene beauty. That was the first
enthralling impression, an impression so strong it astonished him,
the perfect serenity, the supreme calm, the tranquil harmony of her
noble features. Natacha was twenty. Heavy brown hair circled about
er forehead and was looped about her ears, which were half-concealed.
Her profile was clear-cut; her mouth was strong and revealed between
red, firm lips the even pearliness of her teeth. She was of medium
height. In walking she had the free, light step of the highborn
maidens who, in primal times, pressed the flowers as they passed
without crushing them. But all her true grace seemed to be
concentrated in her eyes, which were deep and of a dark blue.
The impression she made upon a beholder was very complex. And it
would have been difficult to say whether the calm which pervaded
every manifestation of her beauty was the result of conscious
control or the most perfect ease.

She took down the guzla and handed it to Boris, who struck some
plaintive preliminary chords.

"What shall I sing?" she inquired, raising her father's hand from
the back of the sofa where he rested and kissing it with filial
tenderness.

"Improvise," said the general. "Improvise in French, for the sake
of our guest."

"Oh, yes," cried Boris; "improvise as you did the other evening."

He immediately struck a minor chord.

Natacha looked fondly at her father as she sang:

"When the moment comes that parts us at the close of day,
when the Angel of Sleep covers you with azure wings;
"Oh, may your eyes rest from so many tears, and your oppressed
heart have calm;
"In each moment that we have together, Father dear, let our
souls feel harmony sweet and mystical;
"And when your thoughts may have flown to other worlds, oh, may
my image, at least, nestle within your sleeping eyes."

Natacha's voice was sweet, and the charm of it subtly pervasive.
The words as she uttered them seemed to have all the quality of a
prayer and there were tears in all eyes, excepting those of Michael
Korsakoff, the second orderly, whom Rouletabille appraised as a man
with a rough heart not much open to sentiment.

"Feodor Feodorovitch," said this officer, when the young girl's
voice had faded away into the blending with the last note of the
guzla, "Feodor Feodorovitch is a man and a glorious soldier who is
able to sleep in peace, because he has labored for his country and
for his Czar."

"Yes, yes. Labored well! A glorious soldier!" repeated Athanase
Georgevitch and Ivan Petrovitch. "Well may he sleep peacefully."

"Natacha sang like an angel," said Boris, the first orderly, in a
tremulous voice.

"Like an angel, Boris Nikolaievitch. But why did she speak of his
heart oppressed? I don't see that General Trebassof has a heart
oppressed, for my part." Michael Korsakoff spoke roughly as he
drained his glass.

"No, that's so, isn't it?" agreed the others.

"A young girl may wish her father a pleasant sleep, surely!" said
Matrena Petrovna, with a certain good sense. "Natacha has affected
us all, has she not, Feodor?"

"Yes, she made me weep," declared the general. "But let us have
champagne to cheer us up. Our young friend here will think we
are chicken-hearted."

"Never think that," said Rouletabille. "Mademoiselle has touched
me deeply as well. She is an artist, really a great artist. And
a poet."

"He is from Paris; he knows," said the others.

And all drank.

Then they talked about music, with great display of knowledge
concerning things operatic. First one, then another went to the
piano and ran through some motif that the rest hummed a little
first, then shouted in a rousing chorus. Then they drank more,
amid a perfect fracas of talk and laughter. Ivan Petrovitch and
Athanase Georgevitch walked across and kissed the general.
Rouletabille saw all around him great children who amused
themselves with unbelievable naivete and who drank in a fashion
more unbelievable still. Matrena Petrovna smoked cigarettes of
yellow tobacco incessantly, rising almost continually to make a
hurried round of the rooms, and after having prompted the servants
to greater watchfulness, sat and looked long at Rouletabille, who
did not stir, but caught every word, every gesture of each one
there. Finally, sighing, she sat down by Feodor and asked how his
leg felt. Michael and Natacha, in a corner, were deep in
conversation, and Boris watched them with obvious impatience, still
strumming the guzla. But the thing that struck Rouletabille's
youthful imagination beyond all else was the mild face of the
general. He had not imagined the terrible Trebassof with so
paternal and sympathetic an expression. The Paris papers had
printed redoubtable pictures of him, more or less authentic, but
the arts of photography and engraving had cut vigorous, rough
features of an official - who knew no pity. Such pictures were in
perfect accord with the idea one naturally had of the dominating
figure of the government at Moscow, the man who, during eight
days - the Red Week - had made so many corpses of students and
workmen that the halls of the University and the factories had
opened their doors since in vain. The dead would have had to arise
for those places to be peopled! Days of terrible battle where in
one quarter or another of the city there was naught but massacre or
burnings, until Matrena Petrovna and her step-daughter, Natacha
(all the papers told of it), had fallen on their knees before the
general and begged terms for the last of the revolutionaries, at
bay in the Presnia quarter, and had been refused by him. "War is
war," had been his answer, with irrefutable logic. "How can you
ask mercy for these men who never give it?" Be it said for the
young men of the barricades that they never surrendered, and equally
be it said for Trebassof that he necessarily shot them. "If I had
only myself to consider," the general had said to a Paris
journalist, "I could have been gentle as a lamb with these
unfortunates, and so I should not now myself be condemned to death.
After all, I fail to see what they reproach me with. I have served
my master as a brave and loyal subject, no more, and, after the
fighting, I have let others ferret out the children that had hidden
under their mothers' skirts. Everybody talks of the repression of
Moscow, hut let us speak, my friend, of the Commune. There was a
piece of work I would not have done, to massacre within a court an
unresisting crowd of men, women and children. I am a rough and
faithful soldier of His Majesty, but I am not a monster, and I have
the feelings of a husband and father, my dear monsieur. Tell your
readers that, if you care to, and do not surmise further about
whether I appear to regret being condemned to death."

Certainly what stupefied Rouletabille now was this staunch figure
of the condemned man who appeared so tranquilly to enjoy his life.
When the general was not furthering the gayety of his friends he
was talking with his wife and daughter, who adored him and
continually fondled him, and he seemed perfectly happy. With his
enormous grizzly mustache, his ruddy color, his keen, piercing
eyes, he looked the typical spoiled father.

The reporter studied all these widely-different types and made his
observations while pretending to a ravenous appetite, which served,
moreover, to fix him in the good graces of his hosts of the datcha
des Iles. But, in reality, he passed the food to an enormous
bull-dog under the table, in whose good graces he was also thus
firmly planting himself. As Trebassof had prayed his companions to
let his young friend satisfy his ravening hunger in peace, they did
not concern themelves to entertain him. Then, too, the music
served to distract attention from him, and at a moment somewhat
later, when Matrena Petrovna turned to speak to the young man, she
was frightened at not seeing him. Where had he gone? She went out
into the veranda and looked. She did not dare to call. She walked
into the grand-salon and saw the reporter just as he came out of
the sitting-room.

"Where were you?" she inquired.

"The sitting-room is certainly charming, and decorated exquisitely,"
complimented Rouletabille. "It seems almost a boudoir."

"It does serve as a boudoir for my step-daughter, whose bedroom
opens directly from it; you see the door there. It is simply for
the present that the luncheon table is set there, because for some
time the police have pre-empted the veranda."

"Is your dog a watch-dog, madame?" asked Rouletabille, caressing
the beast, which had followed him.

"Khor is faithful and had guarded us well hitherto."

"He sleeps now, then?"

"Yes. Koupriane has him shut in the lodge to keep him from barking
nights. Koupriane fears that if he is out he will devour one of
the police who watch in the garden at night. I wanted him to sleep
in the house, or by his master's door, or even at the foot of the
bed, but Koupriane said, 'No, no; no dog. Don't rely on the dog.
Nothing is more dangerous than to rely on the dog. 'Since then he
has kept Khor locked up at night. But I do not understand
Koupriane's idea."

"Monsieur Koupriane is right," said the reporter. "Dogs are useful
only against strangers."

"Oh," gasped the poor woman, dropping her eyes. "Koupriane
certainly knows his business; he thinks of everything."

"Come," she added rapidiy, as though to hide her disquiet, "do not
go out like that without letting me know. They want you in the
dining-room."

"I must have you tell me right now about this attempt."

"In the dining-room, in the dining-room. In spite of myself," she
said in a low voice, "it is stronger than I am. I am not able to
leave the general by himself while he is on the ground-floor."

She drew Rouletabille into the dining-room, where the gentlemen were
now telling odd stories of street robberies amid loud laughter.
Natacha was still talking with Michael Korsakoff; Boris, whose eyes
never quitted them, was as pale as the wax on his guzla, which he
rattled violently from time to time. Matrena made Rouletabille sit
in a corner of the sofa, near her, and, counting on her fingers
like a careful housewife who does not wish to overlook anything in
her domestic calculations, she said:

"There have been three attempts; the first two in Moscow. The first
happened very simply. The general knew he had been condemned to
death. They had delivered to him at the palace in the afternoon the
revoluntionary poster which proclaimed his intended fate to the
whole city and country. So Feodor, who was just about to ride into
the city, dismissed his escort. He ordered horses put to a sleigh.
I trembled and asked what he was going to do. He said he was going
to drive quietly through all parts of the city, in order to show the
Muscovites that a governor appointed according to law by the Little
Father and who had in his conscience only the sense that he had
done his full duty was not to be intimidated. It was nearly four
o'clock, toward the end of a winter day that had been clear and
bright, but very cold. I wrapped myself in my furs and took my
seat beside him, and he said, 'This is fine, Matrena; this will
have a great effect on these imbeciles.' So we started. At
first we drove along the Naberjnaia. The sleigh glided like
the wind. The general hit the driver a heavy blow in the back,
crying, 'Slower, fool; they will think we are afraid,' and so the
horses were almost walking when, passing behind the Church of
Protection and intercession, we reached the Place Rouge. Until
then the few passers-by had looked at us, and as they recognized
him, hurried along to keep him in view. At the Place Rouge there
was only a little knot of women kneeling before the Virgin. As
soon as these women saw us and recognized the equipage of the
Governor, they dispersed like a flock of crows, with frightened
cries. Feodor laughed so hard that as we passed under the vault
of the Virgin his laugh seemed to shake the stones. I felt
reassured, monsieur. Our promenade continued without any remarkable
incident. The city was almost deserted. Everything lay prostrated
under the awful blow of that battle in the street. Feodor said,
'Ah, they give me a wide berth; they do not know how much I love
them," and all through that promenade he said many more charming
and delicate things to me.

"As we were talking pleasantly under our furs we came to la Place
Koudrinsky, la rue Koudrinsky, to be exact. It was just four
o'clock, and a light mist had commenced to mix with the sifting
snow, and the houses to right and left were visible only as masses
of shadow. We glided over the snow like a boat along the river in
foggy calm. Then, suddenly, we heard piercing cries and saw shadows
of soldiers rushing around, with movements that looked larger than
human through the mist; their short whips looked enormous as they
knocked some other shadows that we saw down like logs. The general
stopped the sleigh and got out to see what was going on. I got out
with him. They were soldiers of the famous Semenowsky regiment,
who had two prisoners, a young man and a child. The child was being
beaten on the nape of the neck. It writhed on the ground and cried
in torment. It couldn't have been more than nine years old. The
other, the young man, held himself up and marched along without a
single cry as the thongs fell brutally upon him. I was appalled.
I did not give my husband time to open his mouth before I called
to the subaltern who commanded the detachment, 'You should be
ashamed to strike a child and a Christian like that, which cannot
defend itself.' The general told him the same thing. Then the
subaltern told us that the little child had just killed a lieutenant
in the street by firing a revolver, which he showed us, and it was
the biggest one I ever have seen, and must have been as heavy for
that infant to lift as a small cannon. It was unbelievable.

"'And the other,' demanded the general; 'what has he done?'

"'He is a dangerous student,' replied the subaltern, 'who has
delivered himself up as a prisoner because he promised the landlord
of the house where he lives that he would do it to keep the house
from being battered down with cannon.'

"'But that is right of him. Why do you beat him?'

"'Because he has told us he is a dangerous student.'

"'That is no reason,' Feodor told him. 'He will be shot if he
deserves it, and the child also, but I forbid you to beat him. You
have not been furnished with these whips in order to beat isolated
prisoners, but to charge the crowd when it does not obey the
governor's orders. In such a case you are ordered "Charge," and
you know what to do. You understand?' Feodor said roughly. 'I
am General Trebassof, your governor.'

"Feodor was thoroughly human in saying this. Ah, well, he was badly
ecompensed for it, very badly, I tell you. The student was truly
dangerous, because he had no sooner heard my husband say, 'I am
General Trebassof, your governor,' than he cried, 'Ah, is it you,
Trebassoff' and drew a revolver from no one knows where and fired
straight at the general, almost against his breast. But the general
was not hit, happily, nor I either, who was by him and had thrown
myself onto the student to disarm him and then was tossed about at
the feet of the soldiers in the battle they waged around the student
while the revolver was going off. Three soldiers were killed. You
can understand that the others were furious. They raised me with
many excuses and, all together, set to kicking the student in the
loins and striking at him as he lay on the ground. The subaltern
struck his face a blow that might have blinded him. Feodor hit the
officer in the head with his fist and called, 'Didn't you hear what
I said?' The officer fell under the blow and Feodor himself carried
him to the sleigh and laid him with the dead men. Then he took
charge of the soldiers and led them to the barracks. I followed,
as a sort of after-guard. We returned to the palace an hour later.
It was quite dark by then, and almost at the entrance to the palace
we were shot at by a group of revolutionaries who passed swiftly in
two sleighs and disappeared in the darkness so fast that they could
not be overtaken. I had a ball in my toque. The general had not
been touched this time either, but our furs were ruined by the blood
of the dead soldiers which they had forgotten to clean out of the
sleigh. That was the first attempt, which meant little enough,
after all, because it was fighting in the open. It was some days
later that they commenced to try assassination."

At this moment Ermolai brought in four bottles of champagne and
Thaddeus struck lightly on the piano.

"Quickly, madame, the second attempt," said Rouletabille, who was
aking hasty notes on his cuff, never ceasing, meanwhile, to watch
the convivial group and listening with both ears wide open to
Matrena.

"The second happened still in Moscow. We had had a jolly dinner
because we thought that at last the good old days were back and
good citizens could live in peace; and Boris had tried out the guzia
singing songs of the Orel country to please me; he is so fine and
sympathetic. Natacha had gone somewhere or other. The sleigh was
waiting at the door and we went out and got in. Almost instantly
there was a fearful noise, and we were thrown out into the snow,
both the general and me. There remained no trace of sleigh or
coachman; the two horses were disemboweled, two magnificent piebald
horses, my dear young monsieur, that the general was so attached to.
As to Feodor, he had that serious wound in his right leg; the calf
was shattered. I simply had my shoulder a little wrenched,
practically nothing. The bomb had been placed under the seat of the
unhappy coachman, whose hat alone we found, in a pool of blood.
>From that attack the general lay two months in bed. In the second
month they arrested two servants who were caught one night on the
landing leading to the upper floor, where they had no business, and
after that I sent at once for our old domestics in Orel to come and
serve us. It was discovered that these detected servants were in
touch with the revolutionaries, so they were hanged. The Emperor
appointed a provisional governor, and now that the general was
better we decided on a convalescence for him in the midi of France.
We took train for St. Petersburg, but the journey started high fever
in my husband and reopened the wound in his calf. The doctors
ordered absolute rest and so we settled here in the datcha des Iles.
Since then, not a day has passed without the general receiving an
anonymous letter telling him that nothing can save him from the
revenge of the revolutionaries. He is brave and only smiles over
them, but for me, I know well that so long as we are in Russia we
have not a moment's security. So I watch him every minute and let
no one approach him except his intimate friends and us of the family.
I have brought an old gniagnia who watched me grow up, Ermolai, and
the Orel servants. In the meantime, two months later, the third
attempt suddenly occurred. It is certainly of them all the most
frightening, because it is so mysterious, a mystery that has not
yet, alas, been solved."

But Athanase Georgevitch had told a "good story" which raised so
much hubbub that nothing else could be heard. Feodor Feodorovitch
was so amused that he had tears in his eyes. Rouletabille said to
himself as Matrena talked, "I never have seen men so gay, and yet
they know perfectly they are apt to be blown up all together any
moment."

General Trebassof, who had steadily watched Rouletabille, who, for
that matter, had been kept in eye by everyone there, said:

"Eh, eh, monsieur le journaliste, you find us very gay?"

"I find you very brave," said Rouletabille quietly.

"How is that?" said Feodor Feodorovitch, smiling.

"You must pardon me for thinking of the things that you seem to
have forgotten entirely."

He indicated the general's wounded leg.

"The chances of war! the chances of war!" said the general. "A leg
here, an arm there. But, as you see, I am still here. They will
end by growing tired and leaving me in peace. Your health, my
friend!"

"Your health, general!"

"You understand," continued Feodor Feodorovitch, "there is no
occasion to excite ourselves. It is our business to defend the
empire at the peril of our lives. We find that quite natural, and
there is no occasion to think of it. I have had terrors enough in
other directions, not to speak of the terrors of love, that are
more ferocious than you can yet imagine. Look at what they did to
my poor friend the Chief of the Surete, Boichlikoff. He was
commendable certainly. There was a brave man. Of an evening, when
his work was over, he always left the bureau of the prefecture and
went to join his wife and children in their apartment in the ruelle
des Loups. Not a soldier! No guard! The others had every chance.
One evening a score of revolutionaries, after having driven away
the terrorized servants, mounted to his apartments. He was dining
with his family. They knocked and he opened the door. He saw who
they were, and tried to speak. They gave him no time. Before his
wife and children, mad with terror and on their knees before the
revolutionaries, they read him his death-sentence. A fine end that
to a dinner!"

As he listened Rouletabille paled and he kept his eyes on the door
as if he expected to see it open of itself, giving access to
ferocious Nihiists of whom one, with a paper in his hand, would
read the sentence of death to Feodor Feodorovitch. Rouletabille's
stomach was not yet seasoned to such stories. He almost regretted,
momentarily, having taken the terrible responsibility of dismissing
the police. After what Koupriane had confided to him of things that
had happened in this house, he had not hesitated to risk everything
on that audacious decision, but all the same, all the same - these
stories of Nihilists who appear at the end of a meal, death-sentence
in hand, they haunted him, they upset him. Certainly it had been
a piece of foolhardiness to dismiss the police!

"Well," he asked, conquering his misgivings and resuming, as always,
his confidence in himself, "then, what did they do then, after
reading the sentence?"

"The Chief of the Surete knew he had no time to spare. He did not
ask for it. The revolutionaries ordered him to bid his family
farewell. He raised his wife, his children, clasped them, bade
them be of good courage, then said he was ready. They took him
into the street. They stood him against a wall. His wife and
children watched from a window. A volley sounded. They descended
to secure the body, pierced with twenty-five bullets."

"That was exactly the number of wounds that were made on the body
of little Jacques Zloriksky," came in the even tones of Natacha.

"Oh, you, you always find an excuse," grumbled the general. "Poor
Boichlikoff did his duty, as I did mine.

"Yes, papa, you acted like a soldier. That is what the
revolutionaries ought not to forget. But have no fears for us,
papa; because if they kill you we will all die with you."

"And gayly too," declared Athanase Georgevitch.

They should come this evening. We are in form!"

Upon which Athanase filled the glasses again.

"None the less, permit me to say," ventured the timber-merchant,
Thaddeus Tchnitchnikof, timidly, "permit me to say that this
Boichlikoff was very imprudent."

"Yes, indeed, very gravely imprudent," agreed Rouletabille. "When
a man has had twenty-five good bullets shot into the body of a
child, he ought certainly to keep his home well guarded if he
wishes to dine in peace."

He stammered a little toward the end of this, because it occurred
to him that it was a little inconsistent to express such opinions,
seeing what he had done with the guard over the general.

"Ah," cried Athanase Georgevitch, in a stage-struck voice, "Ah, it
was not imprudence! It was contempt of death! Yes, it was contempt
of death that killed him! Even as the contempt of death keeps us,
at this moment, in perfect health. To you, ladies and gentlemen!
Do you know anything lovelier, grander, in the world than contempt
of death? Gaze on Feodor Feodorovitch and answer me. Superb! My
word, superb! To you all! The revolutionaries who are not of the
police are of the same mind regarding our heroes. They may curse
the tchinownicks who execute the terrible orders given them by
those higher up, but those who are not of the police (there are
some, I believe) - these surely recognize that men like the Chief
of the Surete our dead friend, are brave."

"Certainly," endorsed the general. "Counting all things, they need
more heroism for a promenade in a salon than a soldier on a
battle-field."

"I have met some of these men," continued Athanase in exalted vein.
"I have found in all their homes the same - imprudence, as our young
French friend calls it. A few days after the assassination of the
Chief of Police in Moscow I was received by his successor in the
same place where the assassination had occurred. He did not take
the slightest precaution with me, whom he did not know at all, nor
with men of the middle class who came to present their petitions,
in spite of the fact that it was under precisely identical
conditions that his predecessor had been slain. Before I left I
looked over to where on the floor there had so recently occurred
such agony. They had placed a rug there and on the rug a table,
and on that table there was a book. Guess what book. 'Women's
Stockings,' by Willy! And - and then - Your health, Matrena
Petrovna. What's the odds!"

"You yourselves, my friends," declared the general, prove your great
courage by coming to share the hours that remain of my life with me."

"Not at all, not at all! It is war."

"Yes, it is war."

"Oh, there's no occasion to pat us on the shoulder, Athanase,"
insisted Thaddeus modestly. "What risk do we run? We are well
guarded."

"We are protected by the finger of God," declared Athanase, "because
the police - well, I haven't any confidence in the police."

Michael Korsakoff, who had heen for a turn in the garden, entered
during the remark.

"Be happy, then, Athanase Georgevitch," said he, "for there are now
no police around the villa."

"Where are they?" inquired the timher-merchant uneasily.

"An order came from Koupriane to remove them," explained Matrena
Petrovna, who exerted herself to appear calm.

"And are they not replaced?" asked Michael.

"No. It is incomprehensible. There must have been some confusion
in the orders given." And Matrena reddened, for she loathed a lie
and it was in tribulation of spirit that she used this fable under
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 guzia 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.

Gaston Leroux

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