“You can ring now, Sire.”
And the Tsar rang.
The reporter passed into a little salon, where he found the Marshal, Koupriane and Matrena Petrovna, who was “in a state.”
She threw a suspicious glance at Rouletabille, who was not treated this morning as the dear little domovoi-doukh. She permitted herself to be conducted, already trembling, before the Emperor.
“What happened?” asked Koupriane agitatedly.
“It so happened, my dear Monsieur Koupriane, that I have the pardon of the Emperor for all the crimes you have charged against me, and that I wish to shake hands before I go, without any rancor. Monsieur Koupriane, the Emperor will tell you himself that General Trebassof is saved, and that his life will never be in danger any more. Do you know what follows? It follows that you must at once set Matiew free, whom I have taken, if you remember, under my protection. Tell him that he is going to make his way in France. I will find him a place on condition that he forgets certain lashes.”
“Such a promise! Such an attitude toward me!” cried Koupriane. “But I will wait for the Emperor to tell me all these fine things. And your Natacha, what do you do with her?”
“We release her also, monsieur. Natacha never has been the monster that you think.”
“How can you say that? Someone at least is guilty.”
“There are two guilty. The first, Monsieur le Marechal.”