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"So that," concluded Boris, "if the general died tomorrow she would be poorer than Job." "Then the general is Matrena's sole resource," reflected Rouletabille aloud. "I can understand her hanging onto him," said Michael Korsakoff, blowing the smoke of his yellow cigarette. "Look at her. She watches him like a treasure." "What do you mean, Michael Nikolaievitch?" said Boris, curtly.
"Madame," said Boris, "we did not fight. Someone pointed out our fault, and I offered my excuses to Michael Nikolaievitch, who generously accepted them. Is that not so, Michael Nikolaievitch?" "And who is this that pointed out your fault?" demanded the marshal. "Natacha." "Bravo, Natacha. Come, embrace me, my daughter." The general pressed his daughter effusively to his broad chest.
Turgenieff understood Tolstoy; so did Dostoïevsky, and so does latterly the novelist Dmitri Merejkowski. Turgenieff's appeal to Tolstoy is become historic, and all the more pathetic because written on the eve of his death. Dear and beloved Leo Nikolaievitch: I have not written to you for a long time, for I lie on my deathbed. I cannot get well; that is not to be thought of.
* Mr. Melnikof, in a "secret" Report to the Grand Duke Constantine Nikolaievitch. Both the good and the bad qualities of the Russian priesthood at the present time can be easily explained by its past history, and by certain peculiarities of the national character.
"The poison," replied Koupriane coldly, "the poison that he poured into the general's potion was that arsenate of soda which was on the grapes the Marshal of the Court brought here. Those grapes were left by the Marshal, who warned Michael Nikolaievitch and Boris Alexandrovitch to wash them. The grapes disappeared. If Michael is innocent, do you accuse Boris?"
Michael Nikolaievitch was a monster and he was punished as he deserved. You know the police have proof now that he was one of the Central Revolutionary Committee's most dangerous agents. And he an officer! Whom can we trust now!" "And Monsieur Boris Mourazoff, have you seen him since?" inquired Rouletabille.
"It is because I was sick, you see very seriously sick. That affair of Michael Nikolaievitch and the poison that still continued after he was dead simply robbed me of all my powers. Now that I am sure I have not been the means of killing an innocent man I am Rouletabille again! It is not possible that I shall not find the way, that I shall not see through this mystery."
Bakounine's death had no effect; Netschajew's fate did not move him; nor was Illowski's mad attempt to burn down Paris with his incendiary symphony an example to our prince that those who take up the sword perish by the sword. Ah, Tolstoy, dear Leon Nikolaievitch, you showed me the true way to master the world by love and not by hate! Until I read but there, it's late. Come with me to your room.
"She must also have been terribly frightened, because the whole house must have rocked." "Surely. But Natacha was not here that night. It was a Saturday. She had been invited to the soiree du 'Michel' by the parents of Boris Nikolaievitch, and she slept at their house, after supper at the Ours, as had been planned.
"Come, come, young man, you ought to know one thing by this time 'you can't make omelettes without breaking eggs, as they say, I think, in Paris." Rouletabille turned away from him with horror in his heart. If there should be another, someone besides Michael! If it was another hand than his that appeared to Matrena and him in the mysterious night! If Michael Nikolaievitch had been innocent!
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