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.
THE WATCH
She went out to caution the servants to a strict watch,
armed to the teeth, before the gate all night long,
and she crossed the deserted garden. Under the
veranda the schwitzar was spreading a mattress for
Ermolai. She asked him if he had seen the young
Frenchman anywhere, and after the answer, could only
say to herself, “Where is he, then?”
Where had Rouletabille gone? The general, whom
she had carried up to his room on her back, without
any help, and had helped into bed without assistance,
was disturbed by this singular disappearance.
Had someone already carried off “their”
Rouletabille? Their friends were gone and the
orderlies had taken leave without being able to say
where this boy of a journalist had gone. But
it would be foolish to worry about the disappearance
of a Journalist, they had said. That kind of
man — these journalists - came, went, arrived
when one least expected them, and quitted their company
— even the highest society — without formality.
It was what they called in France “leaving
English fashion.” However, it appeared
it was not meant to be impolite. Perhaps he had
gone to telegraph. A journalist had to keep
in touch with the telegraph at all hours. Poor
Matrena Petrovna roamed the solitary garden in tumult
of heart. There was the light in the general’s
window on the first floor. There were lights
in the basement from the kitchens. There was
a light on the ground-floor near the sitting-room,
from Natacha’s chamber window. Ah, the
night was hard to bear. And this night the shadows
weighed heavier than ever on the valiant breast of
Matrena. As she breathed she felt as though
she lifted all the weight of the threatening night.
She examined everything — everything.
All was shut tight, was perfectly secure, and there
was no one within excepting people she was absolutely
sure of — but whom, all the same, she did not
allow to go anywhere in the house excepting where
their work called them. Each in his place.
That made things surer. She wished each one
could remain fixed like the porcelain statues of men
out on the lawn. Even as she thought it, here
at her feet, right at her very feet, a shadow of one
of the porcelain men moved, stretched itself out,
rose to its knees, grasped her skirt and spoke in the
voice of Rouletabille. Ah, good! it was Rouletabille.
“Himself, dear madame; himself.”
