When he reached the shop he saw that there were several visitors conversing with the clockmaker, so he turned to the gate at the side, and finding it unlatched, entered the courtyard. He saw Madame Michel setting the table for supper, unconscious of his presence, and he quietly ascended the stone steps on the outside of the house and entered the workshop in the second story. Two apprentices were putting away the day’s work and setting the place in order, and they scarcely noticed him as he passed through the room to his own little apartment, which remained exactly as it had been arranged for him as a child. It was full of recollections for Péron, but he did not pause to consider them. He went directly to the little cupboard, which Madame Michel had left just as he had kept it. He opened it, and in a moment found a package tied up with the elaborate care of childish fingers. He undid it carefully, and there lay the piece of red glass which he had hidden so long ago, and with it, in a folded paper, were the dried and faded violets of Poissy. He smiled a little at the sight of them; a strange destiny had again brought him face to face with Renée de Nançay. The other relic he now examined by the light of a taper and saw that the red glass of his childhood was a ruby, of unusual size, bearing the arms of Nançay upon it. He needed no other confirmation of the cardinal’s story; all through the day it had seemed possible that Richelieu was mistaken in his identity, but now he was convinced. He took the jewel in his hand and went down to the kitchen where madame was alone, her sleeves rolled up and her broad brown face rosy from the fire. She looked up at his entrance and greeted him with surprise and pleasure.
“I did not look for you, Péron,” she said, “but you are always welcome. How goes it at the Palais Cardinal, and how is Monsignor?”
Péron did not reply to this question; he held out his hand with the jewel lying on the palm.
“Madame,” he said, “I think you know the history of this.”
She looked at it in amazement, and uttered an exclamation, her face flushing.
“Where did you find it?” she cried. “For years I have searched for that stone!”
Péron laughed. “Ah, good Madame Michel!” he said, “if you had told me the truth you would have found my father’s jewel sooner.”
She looked at him in joyful surprise; this secret had been her torment for more than twenty years. She clasped her hands, tears shining in her eyes.
“How did you know?” she cried.
“Monsignor told me to-day,” Péron replied. “As for this jewel—I took it the day you found me in the attic and rated me so soundly for meddling with your chests.”