The Diamond Necklace

"The Diamond Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant is a poignant short story that explores themes of vanity, pride, and the pursuit of wealth. It follows Mathilde Loisel, a beautiful but discontented woman who yearns for a life of luxury and glamour. When she borrows a stunning diamond necklace to wear to a high-society ball, her dreams seem to come true. However, the evening takes a dark turn when she loses the necklace and must struggle for years to repay the debt incurred to replace it. The story culminates in a bitter twist, revealing the harsh realities of ambition and the price of superficial desires. Maupassant's tale serves as a powerful commentary on social class and the illusions of wealth.

								
The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures 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, married 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
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 family and birth. 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 the 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 marvellous plates and of
the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile
while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or 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 reached 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 palace 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. Every one
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 toward the corners of her
mouth.

“What's the matter? What's the matter?” he answered.

By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice,
while she wiped her wet cheeks:

“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 hesitating:

“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 of
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 jewelry, 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 very
stylish 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 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, outside her
high-necked waist, 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,

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