the soldier whom Death does not want, was absolutely uninjured.  Feodor gave shouts of joy.  They strove to quiet him, because, after all, around him some poor wretches had been badly hurt, as well as poor Ermolai, who lay there dead.  The domestics in the basement had been more seriously wounded and burned because the main force of the explosion had gone downwards; which had probably saved the personages above.

Rouletabille had been taken with the other victims to a neighboring datcha; but as soon as he had shaken himself free of that terrible nightmare he escaped from the place.  He really regretted that he was not dead.  These successive waves of events had swamped him; and he accused himself alone of all this disaster.  With acutest anxiety he had inquired about the condition of each of “his victims.”  Feodor had not been wounded, but now he was almost delirious, asking every other minute as the hours crept on for Natacha, who had not reappeared.  That unhappy girl Rouletabille had steadily believed innocent.  Was she a culprit?  “Ah, if she had only chosen to!  If she had had confidence,” he cried, raising anguished hands towards heaven, “none of all this need have happened.  No one would have attacked and no one would ever again attack the life of Trebassof.  For I was not wrong in claiming before Koupriane that the general’s life was in my hand, and I had the right to say to him, ’Life for life!  Give me Matiew’s and I will give you the general’s.’  And now there has been one more fruitless attempt to kill Feodor Feodorovitch and it is Natacha’s fault — that I swear, because she would not listen to me.  And is Natacha implicated in it?  O my God” Rouletabille asked this vain question of the Divinity, for he expected no more help in answering it on earth.

Natacha!  Innocent or guilty, where was she?  What was she doing? to know that!  To know if one were right or wrong — and if one were wrong, to disappear, to die!

Thus the unhappy Rouletabille muttered as he walked along the bank of the Neva, not far from the ruins of the poor datcha, where the joyous friends of Feodor Feodorovitch would have no more good dinners, never; so he soliloquized, his head on fire.

And, all at once, he recovered trace of the young girl, that trace lost earlier, a trace left at her moment of flight, after the poisoning and before the explosion.  And had he not in that a terrible coincidence?  Because the poison might well have been only in preparation for the final attack, the pretext for the tragic arrival of the two false doctors.  Natacha, Natacha, the living mystery surrounded already by so many dead!

Not far from the ruins of the datcha Rouletabille soon made sure that a group of people had been there the night before, coming from the woods near-by, and returning to them.  He was able to be sure of this because the boundaries of the datcha had been guarded by troops and police as soon as the explosion took place, under orders to keep back the crowd that hurried to Eliaguine.  He looked attentively at the grass, the ferns, the broken and trampled twigs.  Certainly a struggle had occurred there.  He could distinguish clearly in the soft earth of a narrow glade the prints of Natacha’s two little boots among all the large footprints.