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Updated: June 27, 2025
Those who explained the crime on Frederic Larsan's theory would not admit that there could be any doubt as to the perspicacity of the popular detective. Others who had arrived at a different solution, naturally insisted that this was Rouletabille's explanation, though they did not as yet know what that was.
Koupriane seized Rouletabille's wrist and threw some terrible words at him, looking into the depths of his eyes: "It was not Priemkof who poured the poison, because there was no poison in the flask." Rouletabille, as he heard this extraordinary declaration, rose, more startled than he had ever been in the course of this startling campaign.
I was angry myself with Rouletabille at that moment, for his suspicions, which had led to this scene of the gloves. For some twenty minutes I walked about in front of the chateau, trying vainly to link together the different events of the day. What was in Rouletabille's mind? Was it possible that he thought Monsieur Robert Darzac to be the murderer?
The signal had been given, and I did not see Rouletabille appear at the corner of the off-turning gallery. Nobody appeared. I was exceedingly perplexed. Half an hour passed, an age to me. What was I to do now, even if I saw something? The signal once given I could not give it a second time. To venture into the gallery might upset all Rouletabille's plans.
Then she wiped her eyes, picked up her dark-lantern, and, furtively, crept to her post beside the general. For that day these are the points in Rouletabille's notebook: "Topography: Villa surrounded by a large garden on three sides. The fourth side gives directly onto a wooded field that stretches to the river Neva. This window is closed by iron shutters, fastened inside by a bar of iron.
Rouletabille, frightened, looked about him. He found himself in a chapel. This little chapel completed the effect of the guards' dormitory. It was all gilded, decorated in marvelous colors, thronged with little ikons that bring happiness, and, naturally, with the portrait of the Tsar, the dear Little Father. "You see," said Koupriane, smiling at Rouletabille's amazement, "we deny them nothing.
"It is the same thing, my dear monsieur. A traitor, a wretched traitor," continued Rouletabille. "A poisoner," replied the voice. "A vulgar poisoner! Is that not so? But, tell me how a vulgar poisoner who, under cover of Nihilism, worked for his own petty ends, worked for himself and betrayed you all!" Now Rouletabille's voice rose like a fanfare.
The landlord let us do our own cooking and set our table near one of the windows. Suddenly I heard him mutter: "Ah! there he is." His face had changed, expressing fierce hatred. He went and glued himself to one of the windows, watching the road. There was no need for me to draw Rouletabille's attention; he had already left our omelette and had joined the landlord at the window. I went with him.
It was an answer that he waited for so patiently in the vestibule of the hotel so patiently, but so nervously, so feverishly. When the postman entered, poor Rouletabille's heart beat rapidly. On that answer he waited for depended the formidable part he meant to play before quitting Russia. He had accomplished nothing up to now, unless he could play his part in this later development.
On Rouletabille's left lay the sea, the immense gulf with slight waves; to his right was the decaying stretch of the marsh. Stagnant water stretching to the horizon, coarse grass and reeds, an extraordinary tangle of water-plants, small ponds whose greenish scum did not stir under the stiff breeze, water that was heavy and dirty.
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