quarrel; he had eyes only for Natacha, who just now quit her place
beside her father's wheel-chair and passed by them with a little nod of
the head, seeming in haste to retrace the way back to the villa.

"Are you leaving us?" Boris demanded of her.

"Oh, I will rejoin you immediately. I have forgotten my umbrella."

"But I will go and get it for you," proposed Michael.

"No, no. I have to go to the villa; I will return right away."

She was already past them. Rouletabille, during this, looked at Matrena
Petrovna, who looked at him also, turning toward the young man a visage
pale as wax. But no one else noted the emotion of the good Matrena, who
resumed pushing the general's wheel-chair.

Rouletabille asked the officers, "Was this arrangement because the first
wife of the general, Natacha's mother, was rich?"

"No. The general, who always had his heart in his hand," said Boris,
"married her for her great beauty. She was a beautiful girl of the
Caucasus, of excellent family besides, that Feodor Feodorovitch had
known when he was in garrison at Tiflis."

"In short," said Rouletabille, "the day that General Trebassof dies
Madame Trebassof, who now possesses everything, will have nothing, and
the daughter, who now has nothing, will have everything."

"Exactly that," said Michael.

"That doesn't keep Matrena Petrovna and Natacha Feodorovna from deeply
loving each other," observed Boris.

The little party drew near the "Point." So far the promenade had been
along pleasant open country, among the low meadows traversed by fresh
streams, across which tiny bridges had been built, among bright gardens
guarded by porcelain dwarfs, or in the shade of small weeds from the
feet of whose trees the newly-cut grass gave a seasonal fragrance. All
was reflected in the pools--which lay like glass whereon a scene-painter
had cut the green hearts of the pond-lily leaves. An adorable country
glimpse which seemed to have been created centuries back for the
amusement of a queen and preserved, immaculately trimmed and cleaned,
from generation to generation, for the eternal charm of such an hour as
this on the banks of the Gulf of Finland.

Now they had reached the bank of the Gulf, and the waves rippled to the
prows of the light ships, which dipped gracefully like huge and rapid
sea-gulls, under the pressure of their great white sails.

Along the roadway, broader now, glided, silently and at walking pace,
the double file of luxurio