tenances of the two
officers. "How did it happen that you went away yesterday evening
without saying good-bye, without seeing us, without troubling yourselves
whether or not the general might need you?"

"Madame," said Michael, coldly, in military fashion, as though he
replied to his superior officer himself, "we have ample excuse to offer
you and the general. It is necessary that we make an admission, and the
general will pardon us, I am sure. Boris and I, daring the promenade,
happened to quarrel. That quarrel was in full swing when we reached here
and we were discussing the way to end it most promptly when monsieur
le marechal entered the garden. We must make that our excuse for giving
divided attention to what he had to say. As soon as he was gone we had
only one thought, to get away from here to settle our difference with
arms in our hands."

"Without speaking to me about it!" interrupted Trehassof. "I never will
pardon that."

"You fight at such a time, when the general is threatened! It is as
though you fought between yourselves in the face of the enemy. It is
treason!" added Matrena.

"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.

"And I hope you will not have further disputing," he cried, looking over
Natacha's shoulder.

"We promise you that, General," declared Boris. "Our lives belong to
you."

"You did well, my love. Let us all do as well. I have passed an
excellent night, messieurs. Real sleep! I have had just one long sleep."

"That is so," said Matrena slowly. "The general had no need of narcotic.
He slept like a child and did not touch his potion."

"And my leg is almost well."

"All the same, it is singular that those grapes should have
disappeared," insisted the marshal, following his fixed idea.

"Ermolai," called Matrena.

The old servant appeared.

"Yesterday evening, after these gentlemen had left the house, did you
notice a small white box on the garden table?"

"No, Barinia."

"And the servants? Have any of them been sick? The dvornicks? The
schwitzar? In the kitchens? No one sick? No? Go and see; then come and
tell me."

He return