Finally, Koupriane’s frenzy wore itself out
and he made a sign. The men filed out in dismal
silence. Two of them remained to guard Natacha.
From outside came the sounds of a carriage from Sestroriesk
ready to convey the girl to the Dungeons of Sts.
Peter and Paul. A final gesture from the Prefect
of Police and the rough bands of the two guards seized
the prisoner’s frail wrists. They hustled
her along, thrust her outside, jamming her against
the doorway, venting thus their anger at the reproaches
of their chief. A few seconds later the carriage
departed, not to stop until the fortress was reached
with the trickling tombs under the bed of the river
where young girls about to die are confined —
who have read too much, without entirely understanding,
as Monsieur Kropotkine says.
Koupriane prepared to leave in turn. Rouletabille
stopped him.
“Excellency, I wish you to tell me why you have
shown such anger to your men just now.”
“They are brute beasts,” cried the Chief
of Police, quite beside himself again. “They
have made me miss the biggest catch of my life.
They threw themselves on the group two minutes too
early. Some of them fired a gun that they took
for the signal and that served to warn the Nihilists.
But I will let them all rot in prison until I learn
which one fired that shot.”
“You needn’t look far for that,”
said Rouletabille. “I did it.”
“You! Then you must have gone outside
the touba?”
“Yes, in order to warn them. But still
I was a little late, since you did take Natacha.”
Koupriane’s eyes blazed.
“You are their accomplice in all this,”
he hurled at the reporter, “and I am going to
the Tsar for permission to arrest you.”
“Hurry, then, Excellency,” replied the
reporter coldly, “because the Nihilists, who
also think they have a little account to settle with
me, may reach me before you.”
And he saluted.
“I have been waiting for
you”
At the hotel a note from Gounsovski: “Don’t
forget this time to come to-morrow to have luncheon
with me. Warmest regards from Madame Gounsovski.”
Then a horrible, sleepless night, shaken with echoes
of explosions and the clamor of the wounded; and the
solemn shade of Pere Alexis, stretching out toward
Rouletabille a phial of poison and saying, “Either
Natacha or you!” Then, rising among the shades
the bloody form of Michael Nikolaievitch the Innocent!
In the morning a note from the Marshal of the Court.
