, the French
head-gardener of the Imperial conservatories at Krasnoie, had died from
eating those grapes, which he had taken from those gathered for me to
bring here. Imagine my dismay. I knew, however, that at the general's
table, grapes would not be eaten without having been washed, but I
reproached myself for not having taken the precaution of leaving word
that Doucet recommend that they be washed thoroughly. Still, I don't
suppose it would matter. I couldn't see how my gift could be dangerous,
but when I learned of little Doucet's death this morning, I jumped into
the first train and came straight here."

"But, your Excellency," interrupted Natacha, "we have not seen your
grapes."

"Ah, they have not been served yet? All the better. Thank goodness!"

"The Emperor's grapes are diseased, then?" interrogated Rouletabille.
"Phylloxera pest has got into the conservatories?"

"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? Gra