The Jewels
Monsieur Lantin having met the young woman at a soirée, at the home of the assistant of his department, had fallen head over ears in love with her. She was the daughter of a country tax collector who had died some years previously. She had come to live in Paris, with her mother, who visited a few families in the neighbourhood in the hope of finding a husband for the young lady. They were poor and honest, gentle and quiet.
The young girl was a perfect type of the virtuous woman to whom every sensible young man dreams of one day entrusting his life. Her simple beauty had the charm of angelic modesty, and the imperceptible smile which constantly hovered about her lips seemed to be the reflection of her soul. Everybody sang her praises. People were never tired of saying: “Happy the man who wins her. He could not find a better wife.”
M. Lantin, at the time Chief Clerk in the Ministry of the Interior, with a yearly salary of three thousand five hundred francs, proposed for her hand and married her.
He was unspeakably happy with her; she governed his household so cleverly and economically that they seemed to live in luxury. She was full of attentions for her husband, spoiling and coaxing him, and the charm of her person was so great that six years after their marriage M. Lantin discovered that he loved his wife even more than during the first days when he knew her.
He found fault with only two of her tastes: her love for the theatre, and for false jewelry. Her friends (she was acquainted with some petty officials’ wives) frequently procured for her a box at the theatre for popular plays, and even for the first nights; and she dragged her husband, whether he liked it or not, to these amusements, which tired him excessively after his day’s work.
So he begged his wife to go to the theatre with some lady of her acquaintance, who would bring her home afterwards. It was a long time before she gave in, as she thought this arrangement was not quite respectable. But finally, to please him, she consented, and he was very grateful.
Now, this love for the theatre soon aroused in her the desire to adorn her person. True, her costumes remained quite simple, and always in good taste, but unpretentious; and her tender grace, her irresistible, humble, smiling charm, seemed to be enhanced by the simplicity of her dresses. But she soon began to ornament her ears with huge rhinestones, which glittered and sparkled like real diamonds. She wore strings of false pearls, bracelets of imitation gold, and combs ornamented with glass made up to look like real stones.
Her husband, who was rather shocked by this love of show, frequently used to say:
“My dear, as you cannot afford to buy real gems, you ought to appear adorned with your beauty and modesty alone, those are the rarest ornaments of your sex.”
But she would smile sweetly, and say:
“What can I do? I like it. It is my only weakness. I know you are right but we cannot change our natures. I should love to have jewelry.”
Then she would roll the pearl necklaces around her fingers, and make the cut glass flash, saying:
“Look, are they not lovely? One would swear they were real.”
He would then answer, smilingly:
“You have the tastes of a gipsy, my dear.”
Often in the evening, when they were enjoying a tête-à-tête by the fireside, she would place on the tea table the leather box containing the “trash,” as M. Lantin called it. She would examine the false gems with a passionate attention as though she were tasting a deep and secret joy; and she often insisted on passing a necklace around her husband’s neck, and then, laughing heartily, she would exclaim: “How funny you look!” Then she would throw herself into his arms and kiss him passionately.
One evening in winter when she went to the opera, she returned chilled through and through. The next morning she coughed, and eight days later she died of inflammation of the lungs.
Lantin nearly followed her to the grave. His despair was so great that his hair became white in one month. He wept from morning to night, his heart torn with intolerable grief, and his mind haunted by the remembrance, the smile, the voice—by every charm of his dead wife.
Time did not assuage his grief. Often during office hours, while his colleagues were discussing the topics of the day, his face would begin to twitch, his eyes would suddenly fill with tears, and with distorted features he would begin to sob. He had kept his wife’s room untouched, and here he would seclude himself daily and think of her, while all the furniture, even her clothes, remained as they were the last day she was alive.
But life soon became a struggle. His income, which in the hands of his wife had covered all household expenses, was now no longer sufficient for his own immediate wants; and he wondered how she could have managed to buy such excellent wines, and such rare delicacies, things which he could no longer procure with his modest resources.
He incurred some debts and he pursued money as people do who are reduced to expedients. One morning, finding himself without a cent in his pocket, a whole week before the end of the month, he resolved to sell something, and, immediately, the thought occurred to him of disposing of his wife’s paste jewels. He cherished in his heart a sort of rancour against the false gems, which had always irritated him in the past. The very sight of them spoiled somewhat the memory of his lost darling.
He searched for a long time in the heap of glittering things, for to the last days of her life she had continued obstinately to make purchases, bringing home new gems almost every evening. He decided to sell the heavy necklace which she seemed to prefer, and which, he thought, ought to be worth about six or seven francs; for although paste, it was, nevertheless, of very fine workmanship.
He put it in his pocket and started out for the Ministry, following the Boulevards in search of a jeweler’s shop. He entered the first one he saw; feeling a little ashamed to expose his poverty, and also to offer such a worthless article for sale.
“Sir,” said he to the merchant, “I would like to know what this is worth.”
The man took the necklace, examined it, turned it over, weighed it, used his magnifying glass, called his clerk and made some remarks in an undertone; then he put the ornament back on the counter, and looked at it from a distance to judge of the effect.
M. Lantin was annoyed by all this ritual and was on the point of saying: “Oh! I know well enough it is not worth anything,” when the jeweler said: “Sir, that necklace is worth from twelve to fifteen thousand francs; but I could not buy it unless you tell me exactly where it comes from.”
The widower opened his eyes wide and remained gaping, unable to grasp the merchant’s meaning. Finally he stammered: “You say—are you sure?” The other replied dryly: “You can look elsewhere and see if anyone will offer you more. I consider it worth fifteen thousand at the most. Come back here if you cannot do better.”
M. Lantin, gaping with astonishment, took up the necklace and went out, in obedience to a vague desire to be alone and to think.
Once outside, he felt inclined to laugh, and said to himself: “The idiot! Had I only taken him at his word! That jeweler cannot distinguish real diamonds from paste.”
A few minutes after, he entered another store in the Rue de la Paix. As soon as the proprietor glanced at the necklace, he cried out:
“Ah, parbleu! I know it well; it was bought here.”
M. Lantin was disturbed, and asked:
“How much is it worth?”
“Well, I sold it for twenty-five thousand francs. I am willing to take it back for eighteen thousand when you inform me, according to our legal formality, how it comes to be in your possession.”
This time M. Lantin sat down, paralysed with astonishment. He replied:
“But—but—examine it well. Until this moment I was under the impression that it was paste.”
Said the jeweler:
“What is your name, sir?”
“Lantin—I am a clerk in the Ministry of the Interior. I live at No. 16 Rue des Martyrs.”
The merchant opened his books, looked through them and said: “That necklace was sent to Mme. Lantin’s address, 16 Rue des Martyrs, July 20, 1876.”
The two men looked into each other’s eyes—the widower speechless with astonishment, the jeweler scenting a thief. The latter broke the silence by saying:
“Will you leave this necklace here for twenty-four hours? I will give you a receipt.”
“Certainly,” answered M. Lantin, hastily. Then, putting the ticket in his pocket, he went out.
He crossed the street, walked up it again, saw that he had taken the wrong way, went down again to the Tuileries Gardens, crossed the Seine, noticed he had again gone wrong, and returned to the Champs Élysées, his mind a complete blank. He tried to argue it out, to understand. His wife could not afford to purchase such a costly ornament. Certainly not. But, then, it must have been a present!—a present!—a present from whom? Why was it given her?
He stopped and remained standing in the middle of the avenue. A horrible doubt entered his mind—she? Then all the other gems must have been presents, too! The earth seemed to tremble beneath him—the tree before him was falling—throwing up his arms, he fell to the ground, unconscious. He recovered his senses in a pharmacy into which the passersby had taken him.
He told them to take him home, where he shut himself up in his room. He wept until nightfall, biting a handkerchief so as not to shriek. Finally, overcome with grief and fatigue, he threw himself on the bed, where he slept heavily.
A ray of sunlight awoke him and he arose and prepared to go to the office. It was hard to work after such a shock. He sent a letter to his chief requesting to be excused. Then he remembered that he had to return to the jeweler’s. He was filled with shame, and remained sunk in thought for a long time, but he could not leave the necklace with that man. So he dressed and went out.
It was a lovely day; a clear blue sky spread over the smiling city. Strollers with nothing to do were walking about with their hands in their pockets.
Observing them, Lantin said to himself: “The rich, indeed, are happy. With money it is possible to forget even the deepest sorrow. One can go where one pleases; one can travel and forget. Oh! if I were only rich!”
He began to feel hungry, but his pocket was empty. He again remembered the necklace. Eighteen thousand francs! Eighteen thousand francs! What a sum!
He soon arrived in the Rue de la Paix, and walked up and down opposite the jeweler’s. Eighteen thousand francs! Twenty times he almost went in, but shame kept him back. He was hungry, however—very hungry, and had not a cent in his pocket. He decided quickly, ran across the street in order not to have time for reflection, and entered the shop.
As soon as he saw him the proprietor came forward, and politely offered him a chair; even the clerks came and looked in his direction, with a knowing smile about their eyes and lips.
“I have made inquiries,” said the jeweler, “and if you are still resolved to dispose of the gems, I am ready to pay you the price I offered.”
“Certainly,” stammered M. Lantin.
Whereupon the proprietor took from a drawer eighteen large bills, counted and handed them to Lantin, who signed a receipt and with a trembling hand put the money into his pocket.
As he was about to leave the store, he turned toward the merchant, who still wore the same smile, and lowering his eyes, said:
“I have—I have other gems which I have inherited from the same person. Will you buy them also?”
The merchant bowed: “Certainly, sir.”
One of the clerks retired, unable to contain his laughter. Another blew his nose violently.
Lantin, impassive, blushing and serious, replied: “I will bring them to you.”
He took a cab to go and fetch the jewels. An hour later, when he returned to the shop, he had not yet breakfasted. They began to examine each item separately, estimating the value of every one. Almost all of them had been bought there. Lantin now began to argue about the valuations, lost his temper, and insisted upon seeing the records of the sales. He became more domineering as the figures increased.
The large diamond earrings were worth twenty thousand francs; the bracelets, thirty-five thousand; the rings, brooches and medallions, sixteen thousand; a set of emeralds and sapphires, fourteen thousand; a gold chain with solitaire pendant, in the form of a necklace, forty thousand—making a total sum of one hundred and ninety-six thousand francs.
The jeweler remarked jokingly:
“These come from someone who invested all her savings in precious stones.”
M. Lantin replied, seriously:
“It is as good a way as any other of investing one’s money.”
And he went off after having arranged with the purchaser to have another expert’s opinion the next day.
When he got to the street he looked at the Colonne Vendôme and felt tempted to climb it, as if it were a greasy pole. He felt so happy he could have played leapfrog with the statue of the Emperor, perched up there in the sky.
He lunched at Voisin’s and drank wine at twenty francs a bottle. Then he hired a carriage and drove around the Bois, and as he scanned the various turnouts with a contemptuous air he could hardly refrain from crying out to the passersby:
“I, too, am rich!—I am worth two hundred thousand francs.”
Suddenly he thought of the Ministry. He drove up to the office, and deliberately entered the office of his chief, saying:
“Sir, I have come to resign my position. I have just inherited three hundred thousand francs.”
He shook hands with his former colleagues and confided to them some of his projects for his new life; then he went off to dine at the Café Anglais.
Finding himself beside a gentleman of aristocratic bearing, he could not resist the desire to inform him, with some pride, that he had just inherited a fortune of four hundred thousand francs.
For the first time in his life he was not bored at the theatre, and spent the rest of the night with some women.
Six months afterwards he married again. His second wife was a very virtuous woman, but very cantankerous. She made him suffer a great deal.