“My mother is here.”
“Your mother is here?” cried Yvonne, in dismay, remembering Horace Velmont’s promise.
“What is there to astonish you in that?”
“And is it now … is it at once that you want to … ?”
“Yes.”
“Why? … Why not this evening? … Why not tomorrow?”
“Today and now,” declared the count. “A rather curious incident happened in the course of last night, an incident which I cannot account for and which decided me to hasten the explanation. Don’t you want something to eat first?”
“No … no. …”
“Then I will go and fetch my mother.”
He turned to Yvonne’s bedroom. Yvonne glanced at the clock. It marked twenty-five minutes to eleven!
“Ah!” she said, with a shiver of fright.
Twenty-five minutes to eleven! Horace Velmont would not save her and nobody in the world and nothing in the world would save her, for there was no miracle that could place the wedding-ring upon her finger.
The count, returning with the Comtesse d’Origny, asked her to sit down. She was a tall, lank, angular woman, who had always displayed a hostile feeling to Yvonne. She did not even bid her daughter-in-law good morning, showing that her mind was made up as regards the accusation:
“I don’t think,” she said, “that we need speak at length. In two words, my son maintains. …”
“I don’t maintain, mother,” said the count, “I declare. I declare on my oath that, three months ago, during the holidays, the upholsterer, when laying the carpet in this room and the boudoir, found the wedding-ring which I gave my wife lying in a crack in the floor. Here is the ring. The date of the 23rd of October is engraved inside.”
“Then,” said the countess, “the ring which your wife carries. …”
“That is another ring, which she ordered in exchange for the real one. Acting on my instructions, Bernard, my man, after long searching, ended by discovering in the outskirts of Paris, where he now lives, the little jeweller to whom she went. This man remembers perfectly and is willing to bear witness that his customer did not tell him to engrave a date, but a name. He has forgotten the name, but the man who used to work with him in his shop may be able to remember it. This working jeweller has been informed by letter that I required his services and he replied yesterday, placing himself at my disposal. Bernard went to fetch him at nine o’clock this morning. They are both waiting in my study.”
He turned to his wife:
“Will you give me that ring of your own free will?”
“You know,” she said, “from the other night, that it won’t come off my finger.”
“In that case, can I have the man up? He has the necessary implements with him.”
“Yes,” she said, in a voice faint as a whisper.
She was resigned. She conjured up the future as in a vision: the scandal, the decree of divorce pronounced against herself, the custody of the child awarded to the father; and she accepted this, thinking that she would carry off her son, that she would go with him to the ends of the earth and that the two of them would live alone together and happy. …
Her mother-in-law said:
“You have been very thoughtless, Yvonne.”
Yvonne was on the point of confessing to her and asking for her protection. But what was the good? How could the Comtesse d’Origny possibly believe her innocent? She made no reply.
Besides, the count at once returned, followed by his servant and by a man carrying a bag of tools under his arm.
And the count said to the man:
“You know what you have to do?”
“Yes,” said the workman. “It’s to cut a ring that’s grown too small. … That’s easily done. … A touch of the nippers. …”
“And then you will see,” said the count, “if the inscription inside the ring was the one you engraved.”
Yvonne looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to eleven. She seemed to hear, somewhere in the house, a sound of voices raised in argument; and, in spite of herself, she felt a thrill of hope. Perhaps Velmont has succeeded. … But the sound was renewed; and she perceived that it was produced by some costermongers passing under her window and moving farther on.
It was all over. Horace Velmont had been unable to assist her. And she understood that, to recover her child, she must rely upon her own strength, for the promises of others are vain.
She made a movement of recoil. She had felt the workman’s heavy hand on her hand; and that hateful touch revolted her.
The man apologized, awkwardly. The count said to his wife:
“You must make up your mind, you know.”
Then she put out her slim and trembling hand to the workman, who took it, turned it over and rested it on the table, with the palm upward. Yvonne felt the cold steel. She longed to die, then and there; and, at once attracted by that idea of death, she thought of the poisons which she would buy and which would send her to sleep almost without her knowing it.
The operation did not take long. Inserted on the slant, the little steel pliers pushed back the flesh, made room for themselves and bit the ring. A strong effort … and the ring broke. The two ends had only to be separated to remove the ring from the finger. The workman did so.
The count exclaimed, in triumph:
“At last! Now we shall see! … The proof is there! And we are all witnesses. …”
He snatched up the ring and looked at the inscription. A cry of amazement escaped him. The ring bore the date of his marriage to Yvonne: “23rd of October”! …
We were sitting on the terrace at Monte Carlo. Lupin finished his story, lit a cigarette and calmly puffed the smoke into the blue air.
I said:
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Why, the end of the story. …”
“The end of the story? But what other end could there be?”
“Come … you’re joking …”
“Not at all. Isn’t that enough for you? The countess is saved. The count, not possessing the least proof against her, is compelled by his
