"You have Bohemian tastes, my dear."
Often of an evening, when they were enjoying a tete-a-tete 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 they were in some way connected
with a deep and secret joy; and she often insisted on passing a
necklace around her husband's neck, and laughing heartily would
exclaim: "How droll you look!" Then she would throw herself into his
arms and kiss him affectionately.
One evening in winter she attended the opera, and on her return was
chilled through and through. The next morning she coughed, and eight
days later she died of inflammation of the lungs.
M. Lantin's despair was so great that his hair became white in one
month. He wept unceasingly; his heart was torn with grief, and his mind
was haunted by the remembrance, the smile, the voice--by every charm of
his beautiful, dead wife.
Time, the healer, did not assuage his grief. Often during office hours,
while his colleagues were discussing the topics of the day, his eyes
would suddenly fill with tears, and he would give vent to his grief in
heartrending sobs. Everything in his wife's room remained as before her
decease; and here he was wont to seclude himself daily and think of her
who had been his treasure--the joy of his existence.
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 was soon reduced to absolute poverty. One
morning, finding himself without a cent in his pocket, 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 rancor against the false gems. They had always irritated him in the
past, and the very sight of them spoiled somewhat the memory of his
lost darling.
To the last days of her life, she had continued 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 in search of a jeweler's shop.
He entered the first one he saw--feeling a little ashamed to expose his
misery, 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, 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 detail 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 now whence
it comes."
The widower opened his eyes wide and remained gaping, not comprehending
the merchant's meaning. Finally he stammered: "You say--are you sure?"
The other replied dryly: "You can search 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, beside himself with astonishment, took up the necklace and
left the store. He wished time for reflection.
Once outside, he felt inclined to laugh, and said to himself: "The
fool! 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."