Through the opening the shadow of an arm stretched,
an arm which held in its fingers something which shone.
Rouletabille felt Matrena ready to bound. He
encircled her, he pressed her in his arms, he restrained
her in silence, and he had a horrible fear of hearing
her suddenly shout, while the arm stretched out, almost
touched the pillow on the bed where the general continued
to sleep a sleep of peace such as he had not known
for a long time.
ARSENATE OF SODA
The mysterious hand held a phial and poured the entire
contents into the potion. Then the hand withdrew
as it had come, slowly, prudently, slyly, and the
key turned in the lock and the bolt slipped back into
place.
Like a wolf, Rouletabille, warning Matrena for a last
time not to budge, gained the landing-place, bounded
towards the stairs, slid down the banister right to
the veranda, crossed the drawing-room like a flash,
and reached the little sitting-room without having
jostled a single piece of furniture. He noticed
nothing, saw nothing. All around was undisturbed
and silent.
The first light of dawn filtered through the blinds.
He was able to make out that the only closed door
was the one to Natacha’s chamber. He stopped
before that door, his heart beating, and listened.
But no sound came to his ear. He had glided
so lightly over the carpet that he was sure he had
not been heard. Perhaps that door would open.
He waited. In vain. It seemed to him there
was nothing alive in that house except his heart.
He was stifled with the horror that he glimpsed,
that he almost touched, although that door remained
closed. He felt along the wall in order to reach
the window, and pulled aside the curtain. Window
and blinds of the little room giving on the Neva were
closed. The bar of iron inside was in its place.
Then he went to the passage, mounted and descended
the narrow servants’ stairway, looked all about,
in all the rooms, feeling everywhere with silent hands,
assuring himself that no lock had been tampered with.
On his return to the veranda, as he raised his head,
he saw at the top of the main staircase a figure wan
as death, a spectral apparition amid the shadows of
the passing night, who leaned toward him. It
was Matrena Petrovna. She came down, silent as
a phantoms and he no longer recognized her voice when
she demanded of him, “Where? I require
that you tell me. Where?”
“I have looked everywhere,” he said, so
low that Matrena had to come nearer to understand
his whisper. “Everything is shut tight.
And there is no one about.”
Matrena looked at Rouletabille with all the power
of her eyes, as though she would discover his inmost
thoughts, but his clear glance did not waver, and
she saw there was nothing he wished to hide.
Then Matrena pointed her finger at Natacha’s
chamber.
“You have not gone in there?” she inquired.
