“Nothing can stop it, Doucet told me.  So he didn’t want me to leave last evening until he had washed the grapes.  Unfortunately, I was pressed for time and I took them as they were, without any idea that the mixture they spray on the grapes to protect them was so deadly.  It appears that in the vineyard country they have such accidents every year.  They call it, I think, the ... the mixture ... "

“The Bordeaux mixture,” was heard in Rouletabille’s trembling voice “And do you know what it is, Your Excellency, this Bordeaux mixture?”

“Why, no.”

At this moment the general came down the stairs, clinging to the banister and supported by Matrena Petrovna.

“Well,” continued Rouletabille, watching Natacha, “the Bordeaux mixture which covered the grapes you brought the general yesterday was nothing more nor less than arsenate of soda.”

“Ah, God!” cried Natacha.

As for Matrena Petrovna, she uttered a low exclamation and let go the general, who almost fell down the staircase.  Everybody rushed.  The general laughed.  Matrena, under the stringent look of Rouletabille, stammered that she had suddenly felt faint.  At last they were all together in the veranda.  The general settled back on his sofa and inquired: 

“Well, now, were you just saying something, my dear marshal, about some grapes you have brought me?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Natacha, quite frightened, “and what he said isn’t pleasant at all.  The son of Doucet, the court gardener, has just been poisoned by the same grapes that monsieur le marschal, it appears, brought you.”

“Where was this?  Grapes?  What grapes?  I haven’t seen any grapes!” exclaimed Matrena.  “I noticed you, yesterday, marshal, out in the garden, but you went away almost immediately, and I certainly was surprised that you did not come in.  What is this story?”

“Well, we must clear this matter up.  It is absolutely necessary that we know what happened to those grapes.”

“Certainly,” said Rouletabille, “they could cause a catastrophe.”

“If it has not happened already,” fretted the marshal.

“But how?  Where are they?  Whom did you give them to?”

“I carried them in a white cardboard box, the first one that came to hand in Doucet’s place.  I came here the first time and didn’t find you.  I returned again with the box, and the general was just lying down.  I was pressed for my train and Michael Nikolaievitch and Boris Alexandrovitch were in the garden, so I asked them to execute my commission, and I laid the box down near them on the little garden table, telling them not to forget to tell you it was necessary to wash the grapes as Doucet expressly recommended.”

“But it is unbelievable!  It is terrible!” quavered Matrena.  “Where can the grapes be?  We must know.”

“Absolutely,” approved Rouletabille.

“We must ask Boris and Michael,” said Natacha.  “Good God! surely they have not eaten them!  Perhaps they are sick.”