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
