“My poor uncle! You suffer so much?” breathed Stéphanie, in divine compassion.
“Little Saint!” murmured Aristide devoutly, as he declared four aces and three queens.
The Mayor moved his head sympathetically. He was suffering from the sharpest pain in his pocket he had felt for many a day. Madame Coquereau’s attention wandered from the cards.
“Dis donc, Fernand,” she said sharply. “Why are you not wearing your ring?”
The Mayor looked up.
“Maman,” said he, “it is stolen.”
“Your beautiful ring?” cried Aristide.
The Mayor’s ring, which he usually wore, was a remarkable personal adornment. It consisted in a couple of snakes in old gold clenching an enormous topaz between their heads. Only a Mayor could have worn it with decency.
“You did not tell me, Fernand,” rasped the old lady. “You did not mention it to me as being one of the stolen objects.”
The Mayor rose wearily. “It was to avoid giving you pain, maman. I know what a value you set upon the ring of my good Aunt Philomène.”