Guy DE Manupassant

Guy de Maupassant

The Necklace

She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered

over her, into a family of artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations, no

means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded by a man of wealth and

distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of

Education. Her tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any

other, but she was as unhappy as though she had married beneath her; for women

have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or

family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit, are

their only mark of rank, and put the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in the

land.

She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She

suffered from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly

curtains. All these things, of which other women of her class would not even have

been aware, tormented and insulted her. The sight of the little Breton girl who came

to do the work in her little house aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams

in her mind. She imagined silent antechambers, heavy with Oriental tapestries, lit by

torches in lofty bronze sockets, with two tall footmen in knee-breeches sleeping in

large arm-chairs, overcome by the heavy warmth of the stove. She imagined vast

saloons hung with antique silks, exquisite pieces of furniture supporting priceless

ornaments, and small, charming, perfumed rooms, created just for little parties of

intimate friends, men who were famous and sought after, whose homage roused

every other woman's envious longings.

When she sat down for dinner at the round table covered with a three-days-old

cloth, opposite her husband, who took the cover off the soup-tureen, exclaiming

delightedly: "Aha! Scotch broth! What could be better?" she imagined delicate

meals, gleaming silver, tapestries peopling the walls with folk of a past age and

strange birds in faery forests; she imagined delicate food served in marvelous dishes,

murmured gallantries, listened to with an inscrutable smile as one trifled with the

rosy flesh of trout or wings of asparagus chicken.

< 2 >

She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. And these were the only things she loved;

she felt that she was made for them. She had longed so eagerly to charm, to be

desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after.

She had a rich friend, an old school friend whom she refused to visit, because she

suffered so keenly when she returned home. She would weep whole days, with grief,

regret, despair, and misery.

*

One evening her husband came home with an exultant air, holding a large envelope

in his hand.

"Here's something for you," he said.

Swiftly she tore the paper and drew out a printed card on which were these words:

"The Minister of Education and Madame Ramponneau request the pleasure of

the company of Monsieur and Madame Loisel at the Ministry on the evening of

Monday, January the 18th."

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she flung the invitation

petulantly across the table, murmuring:

"What do you want me to do with this?"

"Why, darling, I thought you'd be pleased. You never go out, and this is a great

occasion. I had tremendous trouble to get it. Everyone wants one; it's very select,

and very few go to the clerks. You'll see all the really big people there."

She looked at him out of furious eyes, and said impatiently: "And what do you

suppose I am to wear at such an affair?"

He had not thought about it; he stammered:

"Why, the dress you go to the theatre in. It looks very nice, to me . . ."

He stopped, stupefied and utterly at a loss when he saw that his wife was beginning

to cry. Two large tears ran slowly down from the corners of her eyes towards the

corners of her mouth.

< 3 >

"What's the matter with you? What's the matter with you?" he faltered.

But with a violent effort she overcame her grief and replied in a calm voice,

wiping her wet cheeks:

"Nothing. Only I haven't a dress and so I can't go to this party. Give your invitation

to some friend of yours whose wife will be turned out better than I shall."

He was heart-broken.

"Look here, Mathilde," he persisted. "What would be the cost of a suitable dress,

which you could use on other occasions as well, something very simple?"

She thought for several seconds, reckoning up prices and also wondering for how

large a sum she could ask without bringing upon herself an immediate refusal and

an exclamation of horror from the careful-minded clerk.

At last she replied with some hesitation:

"I don't know exactly, but I think I could do it on four hundred francs."

He grew slightly pale, for this was exactly the amount he had been saving for a

gun, intending to get a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre with

some friends who went lark-shooting there on Sundays.

Nevertheless he said: "Very well. I'll give you four hundred francs. But try and

get a really nice dress with the money."

The day of the party drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy and

anxious. Her dress was ready, however. One evening her husband said to her:

"What's the matter with you? You've been very odd for the last three days."

"I'm utterly miserable at not having any jewels, not a single stone, to wear," she

replied. "I shall look absolutely no one. I would almost rather not go to the party."

< 4 >

"Wear flowers," he said. "They're very smart at this time of the year. For ten

francs you could get two or three gorgeous roses."

She was not convinced.

"No . . . there's nothing so humiliating as looking poor in the middle of a lot of

rich women."

"How stupid you are!" exclaimed her husband. "Go and see Madame Forestier

and ask her to lend you some jewels. You know her quite well enough for that."

She uttered a cry of delight.

"That's true. I never thought of it."

Next day she went to see her friend and told her trouble.

Madame Forestier went to her dressing-table, took up a large box, brought it to

Madame Loisel, opened it, and said:

"Choose, my dear."

First she saw some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross in gold

and gems, of exquisite workmanship. She tried the effect of the jewels before the

mirror, hesitating, unable to make up her mind to leave them, to give them up. She

kept on asking:

"Haven't you anything else?"

"Yes. Look for yourself. I don't know what you would like best."

Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin case, a superb diamond necklace; her

heart began to beat covetously. Her hands trembled as she lifted it. She fastened it

round her neck, upon her high dress, and remained in ecstasy at sight of herself.

Then, with hesitation, she asked in anguish:

"Could you lend me this, just this alone?"

"Yes, of course."

She flung herself on her friend's breast, embraced her frenziedly, and went away

with her treasure. The day of the party arrived. Madame Loisel was a success. She

was the prettiest woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling, and quite above herself

with happiness. All the men stared at her, inquired her name, and asked to be

introduced to her. All the Under-Secretaries of State were eager to waltz with her.

The Minister noticed her.

< 5 >

She danced madly, ecstatically, drunk with pleasure, with no thought for anything,

in the triumph of her beauty, in the pride of her success, in a cloud of happiness made

up of this universal homage and admiration, of the desires she had aroused, of the

completeness of a victory so dear to her feminine heart.

She left about four o'clock in the morning. Since midnight her husband had been

dozing in a deserted little room, in company with three other men whose wives were

having a good time. He threw over her shoulders the garments he had brought for

them to go home in, modest everyday clothes, whose poverty clashed with the beauty

of the ball-dress. She was conscious of this and was anxious to hurry away, so that

she should not be noticed by the other women putting on their costly furs.

Loisel restrained her.

"Wait a little. You'll catch cold in the open. I'm going to fetch a cab."

But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the staircase. When they were

out in the street they could not find a cab; they began to look for one, shouting at the

drivers whom they saw passing in the distance.

They walked down towards the Seine, desperate and shivering. At last they found

on the quay one of those old night prowling carriages which are only to be seen in

Paris after dark, as though they were ashamed of their shabbiness in the daylight.

It brought them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they walked up to

their own apartment. It was the end, for her. As for him, he was thinking that he must

be at the office at ten.

She took off the garments in which she had wrapped her shoulders, so as to see

herself in all her glory before the mirror. But suddenly she uttered a cry. The

necklace was no longer round her neck!

< 6 >

"What's the matter with you?" asked her husband, already half undressed.

She turned towards him in the utmost distress.

"I . . . I . . . I've no longer got Madame Forestier's necklace. . . ."

He started with astonishment.

"What! . . . Impossible!"

They searched in the folds of her dress, in the folds of the coat, in the pockets,

everywhere. They could not find it.

"Are you sure that you still had it on when you came away from the ball?" he

asked.

"Yes, I touched it in the hall at the Ministry."

"But if you had lost it in the street, we should have heard it fall."

"Yes. Probably we should. Did you take the number of the cab?"

"No. You didn't notice it, did you?"

"No."

They stared at one another, dumbfounded. At last Loisel put on his clothes again.

"I'll go over all the ground we walked," he said, "and see if I can't find it."

And he went out. She remained in her evening clothes, lacking strength to get

into bed, huddled on a chair, without volition or power of thought.

Her husband returned about seven. He had found nothing.

He went to the police station, to the newspapers, to offer a reward, to the cab

companies, everywhere that a ray of hope impelled him.

She waited all day long, in the same state of bewilderment at this fearful

catastrophe.

Loisel came home at night, his face lined and pale; he had discovered nothing.

< 7 >

"You must write to your friend," he said, "and tell her that you've broken the

clasp of her necklace and are getting it mended. That will give us time to look

about us."

She wrote at his dictation.

*

By the end of a week they had lost all hope.

Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:

"We must see about replacing the diamonds."

Next day they took the box which had held the necklace and went to the jewelers

whose name was inside. He consulted his books.

"It was not I who sold this necklace, Madame; I must have merely supplied the

clasp."

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for another necklace like the

first, consulting their memories, both ill with remorse and anguish of mind.

In a shop at the Palais-Royal they found a string of diamonds which seemed to

them exactly like the one they were looking for. It was worth forty thousand francs.

They were allowed to have it for thirty-six thousand.

They begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days. And they arranged matters

on the understanding that it would be taken back for thirty-four thousand francs, if

the first one were found before the end of February.

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs left to him by his father. He intended

to borrow the rest.

He did borrow it, getting a thousand from one man, five hundred from another,

five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes of hand, entered into ruinous

agreements, did business with usurers and the whole tribe of money-lenders. He

mortgaged the whole remaining years of his existence, risked his signature without

even knowing if he could honor it, and, appalled at the agonizing face of the future,

at the black misery about to fall upon him, at the prospect of every possible physical

privation and moral torture, he went to get the new necklace and put down upon the

jeweler’s counter thirty-six thousand francs.

< 8 >

When Madame Loisel took back the necklace to Madame Forestier, the latter

said to her in a chilly voice:

"You ought to have brought it back sooner; I might have needed it."

She did not, as her friend had feared, open the case. If she had noticed the

substitution, what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would she

not have taken her for a thief?

*

Madame Loisel came to know the ghastly life of abject poverty. From the very first

she played her part heroically. This fearful debt must be paid off. She would pay it.

The servant was dismissed. They changed their flat; they took a garret under the

roof.

She came to know the heavy work of the house, the hateful duties of the kitchen.

She washed the plates, wearing out her pink nails on the coarse pottery and the

bottoms of pans. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts and dish-cloths, and hung

them out to dry on a string; every morning she took the dustbin down into the street

and carried up the water, stopping on each landing to get her breath. And, clad like

a poor woman, she went to the fruitier, to the grocer, to the butcher, a basket on her

arm, haggling, insulted, fighting for every wretched halfpenny of her money.

Every month notes had to be paid off, others renewed, time gained.

Her husband worked in the evenings at putting straight a merchant's accounts,

and often at night he did copying at two pence-halfpenny a page.

And this life lasted ten years.

At the end of ten years everything was paid off, everything, the usurer's charges

and the accumulation of superimposed interest.

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become like all the other strong, hard,

coarse women of poor households. Her hair was badly done, her skirts were awry,

her hands were red. She spoke in a shrill voice, and the water slopped all over the

floor when she scrubbed it. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she

sat down by the window and thought of that evening long ago, of the ball at which

she had been so beautiful and so much admired.

< 9 >

What would have happened if she had never lost those jewels. Who knows? Who

knows? How strange life is, how fickle! How little is needed to ruin or to save!

One Sunday, as she had gone for a walk along the Champs-Elysees to freshen

herself after the labors of the week, she caught sight suddenly of a woman who was

taking a child out for a walk. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful,

still attractive.

Madame Loisel was conscious of some emotion. Should she speak to her? Yes,

certainly. And now that she had paid, she would tell her all. Why not?

She went up to her.

"Good morning, Jeanne."

The other did not recognize her, and was surprised at being thus familiarly

addressed by a poor woman.

"But . . . Madame . . ." she stammered. "I don't know . . . you must be making a

mistake."

"No . . . I am Mathilde Loisel."

Her friend uttered a cry.

"Oh! . . . my poor Mathilde, how you have changed! . . ."

"Yes, I've had some hard times since I saw you last; and many sorrows . . . and

all on your account."

"On my account! . . . How was that?"

"You remember the diamond necklace you lent me for the ball at the Ministry?"

"Yes. Well?"

"Well, I lost it."

"How could you? Why, you brought it back."

"I brought you another one just like it. And for the last ten years we have been

paying for it. You realize it wasn't easy for us; we had no money. . . . Well, it's paid

for at last, and I'm glad indeed."

< 10 >

Madame Forestier had halted.

"You say you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?"

"Yes. You hadn't noticed it? They were very much alike."

And she smiled in proud and innocent happiness.

Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her two hands.

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! But mine was imitation. It was worth at the very most

five hundred francs! . . . "