Horace Velmont’s calmness, his masterful voice, with the friendly intonation, gradually quieted the countess. Though still very weak, she gained a fresh sense of ease and security in that man’s presence.
“Have no fear,” he went on. “The Comtesse d’Origny lives at the other end of the Bois de Vincennes. Allowing that your husband finds a motor-cab, it is impossible for him to be back before a quarter-past three. Well, it is twenty-five to three now. I swear to take you away at three o’clock exactly and to take you to your son. But I will not go before I know everything.”
“What am I to do?” she asked.
“Answer me and very plainly. We have twenty minutes. It is enough. But it is not too much.”
“Ask me what you want to know.”
“Do you think that the count had any … any murderous intentions?”
“No.”
“Then it concerns your son?”
“Yes.”
“He is taking him away, I suppose, because he wants to divorce you and marry another woman, a former friend of yours, whom you have turned out of your house. Is that it? Oh, I entreat you, answer me frankly! These are facts of public notoriety; and your hesitation, your scruples, must all cease, now that the matter concerns your son. So your husband wished to marry another woman?”
“Yes.”
“The woman has no money. Your husband, on his side, has gambled away all his property and has no means beyond the allowance which he receives from his mother, the Comtesse d’Origny, and the income of a large fortune which your son inherited from two of your uncles. It is this fortune which your husband covets and which he would appropriate more easily if the child were placed in his hands. There is only one way: divorce. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“And what has prevented him until now is your refusal?”
“Yes, mine and that of my mother-in-law, whose religious feelings are opposed to divorce. The Comtesse d’Origny would only yield in case …”
“In case … ?”
“In case they could prove me guilty of shameful conduct.”
Velmont shrugged his shoulders:
“Therefore he is powerless to do anything against you or against your son. Both from the legal point of view and from that of his own interests, he stumbles against an obstacle which is the most insurmountable of all: the virtue of an honest woman. And yet, in spite of everything, he suddenly shows fight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, if a man like the count, after so many hesitations and in the face of so many difficulties, risks so doubtful an adventure, it must be because he thinks he has command of weapons …”
“What weapons?”
“I don’t know. But they exist … or else he would not have begun by taking away your son.”
Yvonne gave way to her despair:
“Oh, this is horrible! … How do I know what he may have done, what he may have invented?”
“Try and think. … Recall your memories. … Tell me, in this desk which he has broken open, was there any sort of letter which he could possibly turn against you?”
“No … only bills and addresses. …”
“And, in the words he used to you, in his threats, is there nothing that allows you to guess?”
“Nothing.”
“Still … still,” Velmont insisted, “there must be something.” And he continued, “Has the count a particularly intimate friend … in whom he confides?”
“No.”
“Did anybody come to see him yesterday?”
“No, nobody.”
“Was he alone when he bound you and locked you in?”
“At that moment, yes.”
“But afterward?”
“His man, Bernard, joined him near the door and I heard them talking about a working jeweller. …”
“Is that all?”
“And about something that was to happen the next day, that is, today, at twelve o’clock, because the Comtesse d’Origny could not come earlier.”
Velmont reflected:
“Has that conversation any meaning that throws a light upon your husband’s plans?”
“I don’t see any.”
“Where are your jewels?”
“My husband has sold them all.”
“You have nothing at all left?”
“No.”
“Not even a ring?”
“No,” she said, showing her hands, “none except this.”
“Which is your wedding-ring?”
“Which is my … wedding- …”
She stopped, nonplussed. Velmont saw her flush as she stammered:
“Could it be possible? … But no … no … he doesn’t know. …”
Velmont at once pressed her with questions and Yvonne stood silent, motionless, anxious-faced. At last, she replied, in a low voice:
“This is not my wedding-ring. One day, long ago, it dropped from the mantelpiece in my bedroom, where I had put it a minute before and, hunt for it as I might, I could not find it again. So I ordered another, without saying anything about it … and this is the one, on my hand. …”
“Did the real ring bear the date of your wedding?”
“Yes … the 23rd of October.”
“And the second?”
“This one has no date.”
He perceived a slight hesitation in her and a confusion which, in point of fact, she did not try to conceal.
“I implore you,” he exclaimed, “don’t hide anything from me. … You see how far we have gone in a few minutes, with a little logic and calmness. … Let us go on, I ask you as a favour.”
“Are you sure,” she said, “that it is necessary?”
“I am sure that the least detail is of importance and that we are nearly attaining our object. But we must hurry. This is a crucial moment.”
“I have nothing to conceal,” she said, proudly raising her head. “It was the most wretched and the most dangerous period of my life. While suffering humiliation at home, outside I was surrounded with attentions, with temptations, with pitfalls, like any woman who is seen to be neglected by her husband. Then I remembered: before my marriage, a man had been in love with me. I had guessed his unspoken love; and he has died since. I had the name of that man engraved inside the ring; and I wore it as a talisman. There was no love in me, because I was the wife of another. But, in my secret heart, there was a
