rise - they rise!” and the young man frankly, naively regretted to have intruded where he was; to have penetrated, however unintentionally, into an affair which, after all, concerned only the many dead and the one living.  Why had he come to put himself between the dead and the living?  It might be said to him:  “The living has done his whole heroic duty,” but the dead, what else was it that they had done?

Ah, Rouletabille cursed his curiosity, for — he saw it now — it was the desire to approach the mystery revealed by Koupriane and to penetrate once more, through all the besetting dangers, an astounding and perhaps monstrous enigma, that had brought him to the threshold of the datcha des Iles, which had placed him in the trembling hands of Matrena Petrovna in promising her his help.  He had shown pity, certainly, pity for the delirious distress of that heroic woman.  But there had been more curiosity than pity in his motives.  And now he must pay, because it was too late now to withdraw, to say casually, “I wash my hands of it.”  He had sent away the police and he alone remained between the general and the vengeance of the dead!  He might desert, perhaps!  That one idea brought him to himself, roused all his spirit.  Circumstances had brought him into a camp that he must defend at any cost, unless he was afraid!

The general slept now, or, at least, with eyelids closed simulated sleep, doubtless in order to reassure poor Matrena who, on her knees beside his pillow, had retained the hand of her terrible husband in her own.  Shortly she rose and rejoined Rouletabille in her chamber.  She took him then to a little guest-chamber where she urged him to get some sleep.  He replied that it was she who needed rest.  But, agitated still by what had just happened, she babbled: 

“No, no! after such a scene I would have nightmares myself as well.  Ah, it is dreadful!  Appalling!  Appalling!  Dear little monsieur, it is the secret of the night.  The poor man!  Poor unhappy man!  He cannot tear his thoughts away from it.  It is his worst and unmerited punishment, this translation that Natacha has made of Boris’s abominable verses.  He knows them by heart, they are in his brain and on his tongue all night long, in spite of narcotics, and he says over and over again all the time, ’It is my daughter who has written that! — my daughter! — my daughter!’ It is enough to wring all the tears from one’s body — that an aide-de-camp of a general, who himself has killed the youth of Moscow, is allowed to write such verses and that Natacha should take it upon herself to translate them into lovely poetic French for her album.  It is hard to account for what they do nowadays, to our misery.”