Natacha, as she listened to this tragic recital, restrained herself several times in order not to interrupt, and Rouletabille, who was watching her closely, saw that she had to use almost superhuman efforts in order to achieve that.  All the horror of what seemed to be to her as well as to Feodor a revelation of Michael’s crime did not subdue her, but seemed, on the contrary, to restore to her in full force all the life that a few seconds earlier had fled from her.  Matrena had hardly finished her cry, “There is the one who has saved you,” before Natacha cried in her turn, facing the reporter with a look full of the most frightful hate, “There is the one who has been the death of an innocent man!” She turned to her father.  “Ah, papa, let me, let me say that Michael Nikolaievitch, who came here this evening, I admit, and whom, it is true, I let into the house, that Michael Nikolaievitch did not come here yesterday, and that the man who has tried to poison you is certainly someone else.”

At these words Rouletabille turned pale, but he did not let himself lose self-control.  He replied simply: 

“No, mademoiselle, it was the same man.”

And Koupriane felt compelled to add: 

“Anyway, we have found the proof of Michael Nikolaievitch’s relations with the revolutionaries.”

“Where have you found that?” questioned the young girl, turning toward the Chief of Police a face ravished with anguish.

“At Krestowsky, mademoiselle.”

She looked a long time at him as though she would penetrate to the bottom of his thoughts.

“What proofs?” she implored.

“A correspondence which we have placed under seal.”

“Was it addressed to him?  What kind of correspondence?”

“If it interests you, we will open it before you.”

“My God!  My God!” she gasped.  “Where have you found this correspondence?  Where?  Tell me where!”

“I will tell you. `At the villa, in his chamber.  We forced the lock of his bureau.”

She seemed to breathe again, but her father took her brutally by the arm.

“Come, Natacha, you are going to tell us what that man was doing here to-night.”

“In her chamber!” cried Matrena Petrovna.

Natacha turned toward Matrena: 

“What do you believe, then?  Tell me now.”

“And I, what ought I to believe?” muttered Feodor.  “You have not told me yet.  You did not know that man had relations with my enemies.  You are innocent of that, perhaps.  I wish to think so.  I wish it, in the name of Heaven I wish it.  But why did you receive him?  Why?  Why did you bring him in here, as a robber or as a...”

“Oh, papa, you know that I love Boris, that I love him with all my heart, and that I would never belong to anyone but him.”

“Then, then, then. — speak!”

The young girl had reached the crisis.

“Ah, Father, Father, do not question me!  You, you above all, do not question me now.  I can say nothing!  There is nothing I can tell you.  Excepting that I am sure — sure, you understand — that Michael Nikolaievitch did not come here last night.”