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The Necklace She was one of those
pretty and charming young girls who sometimes are born, as
if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no
dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood,
loved, and wedded by any rich and distinguished man; so she
let herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of
Public Instruction.
She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but
she was as unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher
station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank,
for beauty, grace and charm take the place of birth and
breeding. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is elegant, a
supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of
women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.
Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to
enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at
the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls,
at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All
those things, of which another woman of her rank would never
even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry.
The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble
housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering
dreams. She thought of silent antechambers hung with
Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and
of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big
armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove.
She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk,
of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and
of little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for
chatting at five o'clock with intimate friends, with men
famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose
attention they all desire.
When she sat down to dinner, before the round table
covered with a tablecloth in use three days, opposite her
husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a
delighted air, "Ah, the good soup! I don't know anything
better than that", she thought of dainty dinners, of shining
silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient
personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a
fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on
marvelous plates and of the whispered gallantries to which
you listen with a sphnix-like smile while you are eating the
wings of a quail.
She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved
nothing but that. She felt made for that. She would have
liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be
sought after.
She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who
was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see any more
because she felt so sad when she came home.
But one evening her husband came home with a
triumphant
air and holding a large envelope in his hand.
"There," said he, "there is something for you."
She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card
which bore these words:
The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges
Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Madame Loisel's
company at the place of the Ministry on Monday evening,
January 18th.
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she
threw the invitation on the table crossly, muttering, "What
do you wish me to do with that?"
"Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go
out and this is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble
to get it. Everyone wants to go; it is very select, and they
are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole
official world will be there."
She looked at him with an irritated glance and said
impatiently, "And what do you wish me to put on my back?"
He had not thought of that. He stammered, "Why, the gown
you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me."
He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping.
Two great tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes
towards the corners of her mouth.
"What's the matter? What's the matter?" he asked.
By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied
in a calm voice, while she wiped away her tears, "Nothing.
Only I have no gown and, therefore, I can't go to this ball.
Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better
equipped than I am."
He was in despair. He resumed, "Come, let us see,
Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you
could use on other occasions - something very simple?"
She reflected several seconds, making her calculations
and wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on
herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation
from the economical clerk.
Finally, she replied hesitatingly, "I don't know exactly,
but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs."
He grew a little pale because he was laying aside just
that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little
shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several
friends who went to shoot larks there on a Sunday.
But he said, "Very well , I will give you four hundred
francs. And try to have a pretty gown."
The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed
sad, uneasy, anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her
husband said to her one evening, "What is the matter? Come,
you have seemed very queer these last three days."
And she answered, "It annoys me not to have a single
piece of jewellery, not a single ornament, nothing to put
on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not
go at all."
"You might wear natural flowers," said her husband.
"They're quite fashionable at this time of year. For ten
francs you can get two or three magnificent roses."
She was not convinced.
"No, there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor
among other women who are rich."
"How stupid you are!" her husband cried. "Go and look up
your friend, Madame Forestier, and ask her to lend you some
jewels. You're intimate enough with her to do that."
She uttered a cry of joy, "True! I never thought of it".
The next day she went to her friend and told her of her
distress.
Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took
out a large jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said
to Madame Loisel, "Choose, my dear."
She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then
a Venetian gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable
workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the mirror,
hesitated and could not make up her mind to part with them,
to give them back. She kept asking, "Haven't you any more?"
"Why, yes, look further. I don't know what you like."
Suddenly, she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb
diamond necklace and her heart throbbed with an
immoderate
desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it
round her throat and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection
in the mirror.
Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt.
"Will you lend me this, only this?"
"Why, yes, certainly."
She threw her arms round her friend's neck, kissed her
passionately and then fled with her treasure.
The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great
success. She was prettier than any other woman present,
elegant, graceful, smiling and filled with joy. All the men
looked at her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All
the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her. She
was remarked by the minister himself.
She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by
pleasure, forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in
the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness
composed of all this homage and admiration and of that sense
of triumph which is so sweet to a woman's heart.
She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her
husband had been sleeping since midnight in a little
deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives
were enjoying the ball.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the
modest wraps of common life, the poverty of which contrasted
with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and
wished to escape so as not to be remarked by the other
women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.
Loisel held her back, saying, "Wait a bit. You will catch
cold outside. I will call a cab."
But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the
stairs. When they reached the street they could not find a
carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the
cabmen passing at a distance.
They went towards the Seine in despair, shivering with
cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient
night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show their
shabbiness during the day, were never seen round Paris until
after dark.
It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs
To be continued |
