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Secret of the Night, The
CHAPTER XII - PERE ALEXIS
Gaston Leroux
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       _ Koupriane jumped into his carriage and hurried toward St. Petersburg.
       On the way he spoke to three agents who only he knew were posted in
       the neighborhood of Eliaguine. They told him the route Rouletabille
       had taken. The reporter had certainly returned into the city. He
       hurried toward Troitski Bridge. There, at the corner of the
       Naberjnaia, Koupriane saw the reporter in a hired conveyance.
       Rouletabille was pounding his coachman in the back, Russian fashion,
       to make him go faster, and was calling with all his strength one of
       the few words he had had time to learn, "Naleva, naleva" (to the
       left). The driver was forced to understand at last, for there was
       no other way to turn than to the left. If he had turned to the
       right (naprava) he would have driven into the river. The
       conveyance clattered over the pointed flints of a neighborhood that
       led to a little street, Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, at the corner of the
       Katharine canal. This "alley of the pharmacists" as a matter of
       fact contained no pharmacists, but there was a curious sign of a
       herbarium, where Rouletabille made the driver stop. As the carriage
       rolled under the arch Rouletabille recognized Koupriane. He did
       not wait, but cried to him, "Ah, here you are. All right; follow
       me." He still had the flask and the glasses in his hands. Koupriane
       couldn't help 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
       hung from the ceiling, and all among them were clumps of old boots,
       shriveled skins, battered pans, scrap-iron, sheep-skins, useless
       touloupes, and on the floor musty old clothes, moth-eaten furs, and
       sheep-skin coats that even a moujik of the swamps would not have
       deigned to wear. Here and there were old teeth, ragged finery,
       dilapidated hats, and jars of strange herbs ranged upon some rickety
       shelving. Between the set of scales on the counter and a heap of
       little blocks of wood used for figuring the accounts of this singular
       business were ungilded ikons, oxidized silver crosses, and Byzantine
       pictures representing scenes from the Old and New Testaments. Jars
       of alcohol with what seemed to be the skeletons of frogs swimming
       in them filled what space was left. In a corner of this large,
       murky room, under the vault of mossed stone, a small altar stood
       and the light burned in a hanging glass of oil before the holy
       images. A man was praying before the altar. He wore the costume
       of old Russia, the caftan of green cloth, buttoned at the shoulder
       and tucked in at the waist by a narrow belt. He had a bushy beard
       and his hair fell to his shoulders. When he had finished his prayer
       he rose, perceived Rouletabille and came over to take his hand. He
       spoke French to the reporter:
       "Well, here you are again, lad. Do you bring poison again to-day?
       This will end by being found out, and the police..."
       Just then he discerned Koupriane's form in the shadow, drew close
       to 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 the great chief's robust laugh. The Prefect wished
       to know how the young man came to be acquainted with the "alchemist"
       of the police. Rouletabille told 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 remained
       countrified, very much a Russian peasant, a semi-Oriental bear, and
       did not achieve his degree. He took some certificates, but the
       examinations were too much for him. For fifty years he lived
       miserably as a pharmacist's assistant in the back of a disreputable
       shop in the Notre Dame quarter. The proprietor of the place was
       implicated in the famous affair of the gold ingots, which started
       Rouletabille's reputation, and was arrested along with his assistant,
       Alexis. It was Rouletabille who proved, clear as day, that poor
       Alexis was innocent, and that he had never been cognizant of his
       master's evil ways, being absorbed in the depths of his laboratory
       in trying to work out a naive alchemy which fascinated him, though
       the world of chemistry had passed it by centuries ago. 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,
       because he desired only the one thing more of life, that he might
       see his birth-land before he died. Rouletabille advanced the
       necessary means and sent him to St. Petersburg. There he was picked
       up at the end of two days 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 his companions in misery, and even some
       of the guards. A guard who had an injured leg, whose healing he
       had despaired of, was cured by Alexis. Then there was found to be
       no actual charge against him. They set him free and, moreover,
       they interested themselves in him. They found meager employment
       for him in the Stchoukine-dvor, an immense popular bazaar. He
       accumulated a few roubles and installed himself on his own account
       at the back of a court in the Aptiekarski-Pereoulok, where he
       gradually piled up a heap of old odds and ends that no one wanted
       even in the Stchoukine-dvor. But he was happy, because behind his
       shop he had installed a little laboratory where he continued for
       his pleasure his experiments in alchemy and his study of plants.
       He still proposed to write a book that he had already spoken of in
       France to Rouletabille, to prove the truth of "Empiric Treatment
       of Medicinal Herbs, the Science of Alchemy, and the Ancient
       Experiments in Sorcery." Between times he continued to cure anyone
       who applied to him, and the police in particular. The police guards
       protected him and used him. He had splendid plasters for them after
       "the scandal," as they called the October riots. So when the
       doctors of the quarter tried to prosecute him for 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 soon
       came to be regarded himself as something of a holy man. He never
       failed every 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 true saints, was a modest man.
       When Alexis had recovered a little from his emotion Rouletabille
       said to him:
       "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 want you 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
       Rouletabille pull a small, stoppered bottle out of his pocket.
       The reporter replied, "I have put into this bottle the vodka that
       was poured 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
       about that. Simply do what I tell you. Then analyze these two
       napkins, as well."
       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 we have the result of your analysis?
       "In an hour, at the latest."
       "Very well," said Koupriane. "Now I need not tell you to hold your
       tongue. I am going to leave one of my men here. You will write us
       a note that you will seal, and he will bring it to head-quarters.
       Sure you understand? In an hour?"
       "In an hour, Excellency."
       They went out, and Alexis followed them, bowing to the floor.
       Koupriane had Rouletabille get into his carriage. The young man
       did as he was told. 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
       quite a figure. And a bit of a schemer, I should say. He has seen
       how Father John of Cronstadt succeeded, and he says to himself,
       'Since the sailors had their Father John of Cronstadt, why shouldn't
       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!"
       "God gives me nothing, but He opens His treasures, and each takes
       what he can."
       "Yes, yes; and Mademoiselle Natacha, does she know it is to Orel
       you have 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 of hope."
       "Ah, if you are able to say that truthfully, I am happy indeed to
       have met you. I will never forget this rope you have flung me when
       all the waters 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
       into the laboratory. Old Alexis was bent over his retorts. A
       wretched lamp barely lighted his obscure work. He turned at the
       noise the reporter made.
       "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 everything
       seemed to dance around him. Pere Alexis in the midst of all the
       strange laboratory instruments seemed Satan himself, and he repulsed
       the kindly arms stretched forth to sustain him; in the gloom, where
       danced here and there the little blue flames from the crucibles,
       lively as flickering tongues, he believed he saw Michael
       Nikolaievitch's ghost come to cry, "The arsenate of soda continues,
       and I am dead." He fell against the door, which swung open, and he
       rolled as far as the counter, and struck his face against it. The
       shock, that might well have been fatal, brought him 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 to the
       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 take
       these things yourself to - to Natacha." He showed him, still with
       despairing mien, the two ikons from Mount Athos, and Rouletabille
       took them from him, thrust them in his pocket, and hurried on,
       crying, "I understand."
       Outside, Rouletabille tried to get hold of himself, to recover his
       coolness 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, even momentarily - the death of innocent Michael Nikolaievitch
       - and to think of nothing except the immediate consequences, which
       must be carefully considered if he wished to avoid some new
       catastrophe. Ah, the assassin was 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 he was concerned, that it
       had not succeeded) - and Koupriane! Koupriane, who should have
       been there for luncheon. What a bag for the Nihilists! That was
       it, that was it. Rouletabille understood now why they had not
       hesitated 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, as he had imagined, Rouletabille fell into a bottomless
       abyss.
       Where should he go? After a few moments he made the circuit of the
       Rotunda, which serves as the market for this quarter and is the
       finest ornament of Aptiekarski-Pereoulok. He made the circuit
       without knowing it, without stopping for anything, without seeing
       or understanding anything. As a broken-winded horse makes its way
       in the treadmill, so he walked around with the thought that he
       also was lost in a treadmill that led him nowhere. Rouletabille
       was no longer Rouletabille. _