The Secret of the Night | Page 9

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, but 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