The child returned the affection of the beautiful Matrena, and it was on seeing them always happy to find themselves together that Trebassof dreamed of reestablishing his fireside.  The nuptials were quickly arranged, and the child, when she learned that her good Matrena was to wed her papa, danced with joy.  Then misfortune came only a few weeks before the ceremony.  Old Petroff, who speculated on the Exchange for a long time without anyone knowing anything about it, was ruined from top to bottom.  Matrena came one evening to apprise Feodor Feodorovitch of this sad news and return his pledge to him.  For all response Feodor placed Natacha in Matrena’s arms.  “Embrace your mother,” he said to the child, and to Matrena, “From to-day I consider you my wife, Matrena Petrovna.  You should obey me in all things.  Take that reply to your father and tell him my purse is at his disposition.”

The general was already, at that time, even before he had inherited the Cheremaieff, immensely rich.  He had lands behind Nijni as vast as a province, and it would have been difficult to count the number of moujiks who worked for him on his property.  Old Pretroff gave his daughter and did not wish to accept anything in exchange.  Feodor wished to settle a large allowance on his wife; her father opposed that, and Matrena sided with him in the matter against her husband, because of Natacha.  “It all belongs to the little one,” she insisted.  “I accept the position of her mother, but on the condition that she shall never lose a kopeck of her inheritance.”

“So that,” concluded Boris, “if the general died tomorrow she would be poorer than Job.”

“Then the general is Matrena’s sole resource,” reflected Rouletabille aloud.

“I can understand her hanging onto him,” said Michael Korsakoff, blowing the smoke of his yellow cigarette.  “Look at her.  She watches him like a treasure.”

“What do you mean, Michael Nikolaievitch?” said Boris, curtly.  “You believe, do you, that the devotion of Matrena Petrovna is not disinterested.  You must know her very poorly to dare utter such a thought.”

“I have never had that thought, Boris Alexandrovitch,” replied the other in a tone curter still.  “To be able to imagine that anyone who lives in the Trebassofs’ home could have such a thought needs an ass’s head, surely.”

“We will speak of it again, Michael Nikolaievitch.”

“At your pleasure, Boris Alexandrovitch.”

They had exchanged these latter words tranquilly continuing their walk and negligently smoking their yellow tobacco.  Rouletabille was between them.  He did not regard them; he paid no attention even to their quarrel; he had eyes only for Natacha, who just now quit her place beside her father’s wheel-chair and passed by them with a little nod of the head, seeming in haste to retrace the way back to the villa.

“Are you leaving us?” Boris demanded of her.