“It is not necessary, monsieur; it is not necessary,” counseled the reporter.

“Listen,” implored Boris in a voice that showed tears were not far away.  “You are still a child, but still you can see things.  Do you believe Natacha loves me?”

“I am sure of it, Monsieur Boris; I am sure of it.”

“I am sure of it, too.  But I don’t know what to think now.  She has let me go, without trying to detain me, without a word of hope.”

“And where are you going like that?”

“I am returning to the Orel country, where I first saw her.”

“That is good, very good, Monsieur Boris.  At least there you are sure to see her again.  She goes there every year with her parents for a few weeks.  It is a detail you haven’t overlooked, doubtless.”

“Certainly I haven’t.  I will tell you that that prospect decided my place of retreat.”

“See!”

“God gives me nothing, but He opens His treasures, and each takes what he can.”

“Yes, yes; and Mademoiselle Natacha, does she know it is to Orel you have decided to retire?”

“I have no reason for concealing it from her, Monsieur Rouletabille.”

“So far so good.  You needn’t feel so desolate, my dear Monsieur Boris.  All is not lost.  I will say even that I see a future for you full of hope.”

“Ah, if you are able to say that truthfully, I am happy indeed to have met you.  I will never forget this rope you have flung me when all the waters seemed closing over my head.  ’What do you advise, then?”

“I advise you to go to Orel, monsieur, and as quickly as possible.”

“Very well.  You must have reasons for saying that.  I obey you, monsieur, and go.”

As Boris started towards the entrance-arch, Rouletabille slipped into the laboratory.  Old Alexis was bent over his retorts.  A wretched lamp barely lighted his obscure work.  He turned at the noise the reporter made.

“Ah!-you, lad!”

“’Well?”

“Oh, nothing so quick.  Still, I have already analyzed the two napkins, you know.”

“Yes?  The stains?  Tell me, for the love of God!”

“Well, my boy, it is arsenate of soda again.”

Rouletabille, stricken to the heart, uttered a low cry and everything seemed to dance around him.  Pere Alexis in the midst of all the strange laboratory instruments seemed Satan himself, and he repulsed the kindly arms stretched forth to sustain him; in the gloom, where danced here and there the little blue flames from the crucibles, lively as flickering tongues, he believed he saw Michael Nikolaievitch’s ghost come to cry, “The arsenate of soda continues, and I am dead.”  He fell against the door, which swung open, and he rolled as far as the counter, and struck his face against it.  The shock, that might well have been fatal, brought him out of his intense nightmare and made him instantly himself again.  He rose, jumped over the heap of boots and fol-de-rols, and leaped to the court.  There Boris grabbed him by his coat.  Rouletabille turned, furious: