might talk to each other without an idea that he heard them, and even talk to themselves according to the habit people have sometimes when they think themselves quite alone.  All the guests had departed thus, passing close by him, almost brushing him, had exchanged their “Adieus,” their “Au revoirs,” and all their final, drawn-out farewells.  That dear little living domovoi certainly was a rogue!  Oh, that dear little domovoi who had been so affected by the tears of Matrena Petrovna!  The good, fat, sentimental, heroic woman longed to hear, just then, his reassuring voice.

“It is I. Here I am,” said the voice of her little living familiar spirit at that instant, and she felt her skirt grasped.  She waited for what he should say.  She felt no fear.  Yet she had supposed he was outside the house.  Still, after all, she was not too astonished that he was within.  He was so adroit!  He had entered behind her, in the shadow of her skirts, on all-fours, and had slipped away without anyone noticing him, while she was speaking to her enormous, majestic schwitzar.

“So you were here?” she said, taking his hand and pressing it nervously in hers.

“Yes, yes.  I have watched you closing the house.  It is a task well-done, certainly.  You have not forgotten anything.”

“But where were you, dear little demon?  I have been into all the corners, and my hands did not touch you.”

“I was under the table set with hors-d’oeuvres in the sitting-room.”

“Ah, under the table of zakouskis!  I have forbidden them before now to spread a long hanging cloth there, which obliges me to kick my foot underneath casually in order to be sure there is no one beneath.  It is imprudent, very imprudent, such table-cloths.  And under the table of zakouskis have you been able to see or hear anything?”

“Madame, do you think that anyone could possibly see or hear anything in the villa when you are watching it alone, when the general is asleep and your step-daughter is preparing for bed?”

“No. no.  I do not believe so.  I do not.  No, oh, Christ!”

They talked thus very low in the dark, both seated in a corner of the sofa, Rouletabille’s hand held tightly in the burning hands of Matrena Petrovna.

She sighed anxiously.  “And in the garden — have you heard anything?”

“I heard the officer Boris say to the officer Michael, in French, ‘Shall we return at once to the villa?’ The other replied in Russian in a way I could see was a refusal.  Then they had a discussion in Russian which I, naturally, could not understand.  But from the way they talked I gathered that they disagreed and that no love was lost between them.”

“No, they do not love each other.  They both love Natacha.”

“And she, which one of them does she love?  It is necessary to tell me.”

“She pretends that she loves Boris, and I believe she does, and yet she is very friendly with Michael and often she goes into nooks and corners to chat with him, which makes Boris mad with jealousy.  She has forbidden Boris to speak to her father about their marriage, on the pretext that she does not wish to leave her father now, while each day, each minute the general’s life is in danger.”