stablishing his fireside. The nuptials were quickly
arranged, and the child, when she learned that her good Matrena was to
wed her papa, danced with joy. Then misfortune came only a few weeks
before the ceremony. Old Petroff, who speculated on the Exchange for a
long time without anyone knowing anything about it, was ruined from top
to bottom. Matrena came one evening to apprise Feodor Feodorovitch of
this sad news and return his pledge to him. For all response Feodor
placed Natacha in Matrena's arms. "Embrace your mother," he said to
the child, and to Matrena, "From to-day I consider you my wife, Matrena
Petrovna. You should obey me in all things. Take that reply to your
father and tell him my purse is at his disposition."

The general was already, at that time, even before he had inherited
the Cheremaieff, immensely rich. He had lands behind Nijni as vast as
a province, and it would have been difficult to count the number of
moujiks who worked for him on his property. Old Pretroff gave his
daughter and did not wish to accept anything in exchange. Feodor wished
to settle a large allowance on his wife; her father opposed that, and
Matrena sided with him in the matter against her husband, because of
Natacha. "It all belongs to the little one," she insisted. "I accept the
position of her mother, but on the condition that she shall never lose a
kopeck of her inheritance."

"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.
"You believe, do you, that the devotion of Matrena Petrovna is not
disinterested. You must know her very poorly to dare utter such a
thought."

"I have never had that thought, Boris Alexandrovitch," replied the other
in a tone curter still. "To be able to imagine that anyone who lives
in the Trebassofs' home could have such a thought needs an ass's head,
surely."

"We will speak of it again, Michael Nikolaievitch."

"At your pleasure, Boris Alexandrovitch."

They had exchanged these latter words tranquilly continuing their walk
and negligently smoking their yellow tobacco. Rouletabille was between
them. He did not regard them; he paid no attention even to their