For a moment the poor abbess felt all hope extinct; but with a last effort to move his compassion, she said: "Oh, sir, remember that secrecy is of such importance to me, I dare not apply to any one else. The privacy, the obscurity in which I live, alone has prevented me from paying with my blood the penalty attached to a noble name and lineage." "But how am I to ascertain the value of the jewel? I am no jeweler; and I fear, in my ignorance, to wrong either you or myself." "I implore you, sir, not to refuse me. I have no alternative but to starve; for I am too old to work, and beg I can not. Keep the jewel as a pledge, and give me some relief." Old Simon, though covetous, was not devoid of feeling. He was touched by the tears of the venerable lady; and besides, the more he looked at the jewel, the more persuaded he became of its being really valuable. After a few moments' consideration, he said: "All the money I am worth at this moment is 1500 francs; and though I have my suspicions that I am making a foolish bargain, I had rather run any risk than leave you in such distress. The next time I have business in Paris, I can ascertain the value of the jewel, and if I have given you too little, I will make it up to you." And with a glad and grateful heart the abbess took home the 1500 francs, thankful at having obtained the means of subsistence for at least a year. Some months later, old Simon went up to Paris, and hastening to one of the principal jewelers, showed the ruby, and begged to know its value. The jeweler took the stone carelessly; but after a few moments' examination of it, he cast a rapid glance at the thread-bare coat and mean appearance of the possessor, and then abruptly exclaimed: "This jewel does not belong to you, and you must not leave the house till you account for its being in your possession. Close the doors," he said to his foreman, "and send for the police." In vain did Simon protest his innocence; in vain did he offer every proof of it. The lapidary would listen to nothing; but at every look he gave the gem, he darted at him a fresh glance of angry contempt. "You must be a fool as well as a knave," he said. "Do you know, scoundrel, that this is the Vatteville--the prince of rubies?--the most splendid, the rarest of gems? It might be deemed a mere creation of imagination, were it not enrolled and accurately described in the archives of our art. See here, in the _Guide des Lapidaires_, a print of it. Mark its antique fashioning, and that dark spot!--yes, it is indeed the precious ruby so long thought lost. Rest assured, fellow, you shall not quit the house until you satisfy me how you have contrived to get possession of it."