“Nonsense! you didn’t pull hard enough.”
“Yes, I did. But the Venus—she has bent her finger.”
He looked me in the eye with a haggard expression, leaning against the window-frame to avoid falling.
“What a fable!” I said. “You pushed the ring on too far. To-morrow you can recover it with a pair of pincers. But take care that you don’t injure the statue.”
“No, I tell you. The Venus’s finger is drawn in, bent; she has closed her hand—do you understand? She is my wife, apparently, as I have given her my ring. She refuses to give it back.”
I felt a sudden shiver, and for a moment I was all goose-flesh. Then, as he heaved a profound sigh, he sent a puff of alcoholic fumes into my face, and all my emotion vanished.
“The wretch is completely drunk,” I thought.
“You are an antiquary, monsieur,” continued the bridegroom in a piteous tone; “you know all about these statues; perhaps there is some spring, some devilish contrivance that I don’t know about. Suppose you were to go out and look?”
“Willingly,” I said; “come with me.”
“No, I prefer that you should go alone.”