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." "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. "If there is a man living who can say he has not felt like that at least once in his life he ought to be exhibited at a fair." "How well you understand me, my good Pujol," said Monsieur Coquereau. The next few days passed busily for Aristide. He devoted every spare hour to his new task. He scrutinized every inch of ground between the study window and the wall; he drew radiating lines from the point of the wall whence the miscreant had started homeward and succeeded in finding more confetti. He cross-examined every purveyor of pierrot shoes and pig's heads in Perpignan. His researches soon came to the ears of the police, still tracing the mysterious José Puégas. A certain good-humoured brigadier whose Catalan French Aristide found difficult to understand, but with whom he had formed a derisory kind of friendship, urged him to desist from the hopeless task. "_Jamais de la vie!_" he cried--"The honour of Aristide Pujol is at stake."