“And now it is lost,” said Madame Coquereau, throwing down her cards. “A ring that belonged to a saint. Yes, Monsieur Pujol, a saint, though she was my sister. A ring that had been blessed by His Holiness the Pope——”
“But, maman,” expostulated the Mayor, “that was an imagination of Aunt Philomène. Just because she went to Rome and had an audience like anyone else——”
“Silence, impious atheist that you are!” cried the old lady. “I tell you it was blessed by His Holiness—and when I tell you a thing it is true. That is the son of to-day. He will call his mother a liar as soon as look at her. It was a ring beyond price. A ring such as there are few in the world. And instead of taking care of this precious heirloom, he goes and locks it away in a safe. Ah! you fill me with shame. Monsieur Pujol, I am sorry I can play no more, I must retire. Stéphanie, will you accompany me?”
And gathering up Stéphanie like a bunch of snowdrops, the yellow, galvanized iron old lady swept out of the room.
The Mayor looked at Aristide and moved his arms dejectedly.
“Such are women,” said he.
“My own mother nearly broke her heart because I would not become a priest,” said Aristide.
“I wish I were a Turk,” said the Mayor.
“I, too,” said Aristide.
He took pouch and papers and rolled a cigarette.