She had spoken slowly, without embarrassment, and Velmont did not doubt for a second that she was telling the absolute truth. He kept silent; and she, becoming anxious again, asked:
“Do you suppose … that my husband … ?”
He took her hand and, while examining the plain gold ring, said:
“The puzzle lies here. Your husband, I don’t know how, knows of the substitution of one ring for the other. His mother will be here at twelve o’clock. In the presence of witnesses, he will compel you to take off your ring; and, in this way, he will obtain the approval of his mother and, at the same time, will be able to obtain his divorce, because he will have the proof for which he was seeking.”
“I am lost!” she moaned. “I am lost!”
“On the contrary, you are saved! Give me that ring … and presently he will find another there, another which I will send you, to reach you before twelve, and which will bear the date of the 23rd of October. So. …”
He suddenly broke off. While he was speaking, Yvonne’s hand had turned ice-cold in his; and, raising his eyes, he saw that the young woman was pale, terribly pale:
“What’s the matter? I beseech you …”
She yielded to a fit of mad despair:
“This is the matter, that I am lost! … This is the matter, that I can’t get the ring off! It has grown too small for me! … Do you understand? … It made no difference and I did not give it a thought. … But today … this proof … this accusation. … Oh, what torture! … Look … it forms part of my finger … it has grown into my flesh … and I can’t … I can’t. …”
She pulled at the ring, vainly, with all her might, at the risk of injuring herself. But the flesh swelled up around the ring; and the ring did not budge.
“Oh!” she cried, seized with an idea that terrified her. “I remember … the other night … a nightmare I had. … It seemed to me that someone entered my room and caught hold of my hand. … And I could not wake up. … It was he! It was he! He had put me to sleep, I was sure of it … and he was looking at the ring. … And presently he will pull it off before his mother’s eyes. … Ah, I understand everything: that working jeweller! … He will cut it from my hand tomorrow. … You see, you see. … I am lost! …”
She hid her face in her hands and began to weep. But, amid the silence, the clock struck once … and twice … and yet once more. And Yvonne drew herself up with a jerk:
“There he is!” she cried. “He is coming! … It is three o’clock! … Let us go! …”
She grabbed at her cloak and ran to the door … Velmont barred the way and, in a masterful tone:
“You shall not go!”
“My son. … I want to see him, to take him back. …”
“You don’t even know where he is!”
“I want to go.”
“You shall not go! … It would be madness. …”
He took her by the wrists. She tried to release herself; and Velmont had to employ a little force to overcome her resistance. In the end, he succeeded in getting her back to the sofa, then in laying her at full length and, at once, without heeding her lamentations, he took the canvas strips and fastened her wrists and ankles:
“Yes,” he said, “It would be madness! Who would have set you free? Who would have opened that door for you? An accomplice? What an argument against you and what a pretty use your husband would make of it with his mother! … And, besides, what’s the good? To run away means accepting divorce … and what might that not lead to? … You must stay here. …”
She sobbed:
“I’m frightened. … I’m frightened … this ring burns me. … Break it. … Take it away. … Don’t let him find it!”
“And if it is not found on your finger, who will have broken it? Again an accomplice. … No, you must face the music … and face it boldly, for I answer for everything. … Believe me … I answer for everything. … If I have to tackle the Comtesse d’Origny bodily and thus delay the interview. … If I had to come myself before noon … it is the real wedding-ring that shall be taken from your finger—that I swear!—and your son shall be restored to you.”
Swayed and subdued, Yvonne instinctively held out her hands to the bonds. When he stood up, she was bound as she had been before.
He looked round the room to make sure that no trace of his visit remained. Then he stooped over the countess again and whispered:
“Think of your son and, whatever happens, fear nothing. … I am watching over you.”
She heard him open and shut the door of the boudoir and, a few minutes later, the hall-door.
At half-past three, a motor-cab drew up. The door downstairs was slammed again; and, almost immediately after, Yvonne saw her husband hurry in, with a furious look in his eyes. He ran up to her, felt to see if she was still fastened and, snatching her hand, examined the ring. Yvonne fainted. …
She could not tell, when she woke, how long she had slept. But the broad light of day was filling the boudoir; and she perceived, at the first movement which she made, that her bonds were cut. Then she turned her head and saw her husband standing beside her, looking at her:
“My son … my son …” she moaned. “I want my son. …”
He replied, in a voice of which she felt the jeering insolence:
“Our son is in a safe place. And, for the moment, it’s a question not of him, but of you. We are face to face with each other, probably for the last time, and the explanation between us will be a very serious one. I must warn you that it will take place before my mother. Have you any objection?”
Yvonne tried to hide her agitation and answered:
“None at all.”
“Can I send for her?”
“Yes. Leave me, in the meantime. I shall
