Delza's: 2013

Monsieur Lantin had met the young girl at a reception at the house of the
second head of his department, and had fallen head over heels in love
with her.

She was the daughter of a provincial tax collector, who had been dead
several years. She and her mother came to live in Paris, where the
latter, who made the acquaintance of some of the families in her
neighborhood, hoped to find a husband for her daughter.

They had very moderate means, and were honorable, gentle, and quiet.

The young girl was a perfect type of the virtuous woman in whose hands
every sensible young man dreams of one day intrusting his happiness.
Her simple beauty had the charm of angelic modesty, and the imperceptible
smile which constantly hovered about the lips seemed to be the reflection
of a pure and lovely soul. Her praises resounded on every side. People
never tired of repeating: "Happy the man who wins her love! He could not
find a better wife."

Monsieur Lantin, then chief clerk in the Department of the Interior,
enjoyed a snug little salary of three thousand five hundred francs, and
he proposed to this model young girl, and was accepted.

He was unspeakably happy with her. She governed his household with such
clever economy that they seemed to live in luxury. She lavished the most
delicate attentions on her husband, coaxed and fondled him; and so great
was her charm that six years after their marriage, Monsieur Lantin
discovered that he loved his wife even more than during the first days of
their honeymoon.

He found fault with only two of her tastes: Her love for the theatre, and
her taste for imitation jewelry. Her friends (the wives of some petty
officials) frequently procured for her a box at the theatre, often for
the first representations of the new plays; and her husband was obliged
to accompany her, whether he wished it or not, to these entertainments
which bored him excessively after his day's work at the office.

After a time, Monsieur Lantin begged his wife to request some lady of her
acquaintance to accompany her, and to bring her home after the theatre.
She opposed this arrangement, at first; but, after much persuasion,
finally consented, to the infinite delight of her husband.

Now, with her love for the theatre, came also the desire for ornaments.
Her costumes remained as before, simple, in good taste, and always
modest; but she soon began to adorn her ears with huge rhinestones, which
glittered and sparkled like real diamonds. Around her neck she wore
strings of false pearls, on her arms bracelets of imitation gold, and
combs set with glass jewels.

Her husband frequently remonstrated with her, saying:

"My dear, as you cannot afford to buy real jewelry, you ought to appear
adorned with your beauty and modesty alone, which are the rarest
ornaments of your sex."

But she would smile sweetly, and say:

"What can I do? I am so fond of jewelry. It is my only weakness. We
cannot change our nature."

Then she would wind the pearl necklace round her fingers, make the facets
of the crystal gems sparkle, and say:

"Look! are they not lovely? One would swear they were real."

Monsieur Lantin would then answer, smilingly:

"You have bohemian tastes, my dear."

Sometimes, of an evening, when they were enjoying a tete-a-tote by the
fireside, she would place on the tea table the morocco leather box
containing the "trash," as Monsieur Lantin called it. She would examine
the false gems with a passionate attention, as though they imparted some
deep and secret joy; and she often persisted in 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 had been to the opera, and returned home
chilled through and through. The next morning she coughed, and eight
days later she died of inflammation of the lungs.

Monsieur Lantin's despair was so great that his hair became white in one
month. He wept unceasingly; his heart was broken as he remembered her
smile, her voice, 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 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 it was during her
lifetime; all her furniture, even her clothing, being left as it was on
the day of her death. 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, 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 wine and the rare delicacies 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, for he cherished in his heart a sort of
rancor against these "deceptions," which had always irritated him in the
past. 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, and he turned them over some
time before finally deciding to sell the heavy necklace, which she seemed
to prefer, and which, he thought, ought to be worth about six or seven
francs; for it was of very fine workmanship, though only imitation.

He put it in his pocket, and started out in search of what seemed a
reliable jeweler's shop. At length he found one, and went in, 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; he then put the ornament back on the counter,
and looked at it from a distance to judge of the effect.

Monsieur Lantin, annoyed at all these ceremonies, 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 can tell me exactly
where it came from."

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, drily: "You can try elsewhere and see if any one will
offer you more. I consider it worth fifteen thousand at the most. Come
back; here, if you cannot do better."

Monsieur 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!
Oh, the fool! Had I only taken him at his word! That jeweler cannot
distinguish real diamonds from the imitation article."

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."

Monsieur Lantin, greatly disturbed, asked:

"How much is it worth?"

"Well, I sold it for twenty thousand francs. I am willing to take it
back for eighteen thousand, when you inform me, according to our legal
formality, how it came to be in your possession."

This time, Monsieur Lantin was dumfounded. He replied:

"But--but--examine it well. Until this moment I was under the impression
that it was imitation."

The jeweler asked:

"What is your name, sir?"

"Lantin--I am in the employ of the Minister of the Interior. I live at
number sixteen Rue des Martyrs."

The merchant looked through his books, found the entry, and said: "That
necklace was sent to Madame Lantin's address, sixteen 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.

"Will you leave this necklace here for twenty-four hours?" said he; "I
will give you a receipt."

Monsieur Lantin answered hastily: "Yes, certainly." Then, putting the
ticket in his pocket, he left the store.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his mind in a state of
dreadful confusion. He tried to reason, 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 street. A
horrible doubt entered his mind--She? Then, all the other jewels must
have been presents, too! The earth seemed to tremble beneath him--the
tree before him to be falling; he threw up his arms, and fell to the
ground, unconscious. He recovered his senses in a pharmacy, into which
the passers-by had borne him. He asked to be taken home, and, when he
reached the house, he shut himself up in his room, and wept until
nightfall. Finally, overcome with fatigue, he went to bed and fell into
a heavy sleep.

The sun awoke him next morning, and he began to dress slowly to go to the
office. It was hard to work after such shocks. He sent a letter to his
employer, requesting to be excused. Then he remembered that he had to
return to the jeweler's. He did not like the idea; but he could not
leave the necklace with that man. He dressed and went out.

It was a lovely day; a clear, blue sky smiled on the busy city below.
Men of leisure were strolling about with their hands in their pockets.

Monsieur Lantin, observing them, 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, and in travel find that distraction which is
the surest cure for grief. Oh if I were only rich!"

He perceived that he was 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, opposite the jeweler's. Eighteen
thousand francs! Twenty times he resolved to go in, but shame kept him
back. He was hungry, however--very hungry--and not a cent in his pocket.
He decided quickly, ran across the street, in order not to have time for
reflection, and rushed into the store.

The proprietor immediately came forward, and politely offered him a
chair; the clerks glanced at him knowingly.

"I have made inquiries, Monsieur Lantin," 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, sir," stammered Monsieur Lantin.

Whereupon the proprietor took from a drawer eighteen large bills,
counted, and handed them to Monsieur Lantin, who signed a receipt; and,
with 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 knowing smile, and lowering his eyes, said:

"I have--I have other gems, which came from the same source. Will you
buy them, also?"

The merchant bowed: "Certainly, sir."

Monsieur Lantin said gravely: "I will bring them to you." An hour later,
he returned with the gems.

The large diamond earrings were worth twenty thousand francs; the
bracelets, thirty-five thousand; the rings, sixteen thousand; a set of
emeralds and sapphires, fourteen thousand; a gold chain with solitaire
pendant, forty thousand--making the sum of one hundred and forty-three
thousand francs.

The jeweler remarked, jokingly:

"There was a person who invested all her savings in precious stones."

Monsieur Lantin replied, seriously:

"It is only another way of investing one's money."

That day he lunched at Voisin's, and drank wine worth twenty francs a
bottle. Then he hired a carriage and made a tour of the Bois. He gazed
at the various turnouts with a kind of disdain, and could hardly refrain
from crying out to the occupants:

"I, too, am rich!--I am worth two hundred thousand francs."

Suddenly he thought of his employer. He drove up to the bureau, and
entered gaily, 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 the future; he then went off to dine at the Cafe
Anglais.

He seated himself beside a gentleman of aristocratic bearing; and, during
the meal, informed the latter confidentially 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 remainder of the night in a gay frolic.

Six months afterward, he married again. His second wife was a very
virtuous woman; but had a violent temper. She caused him much sorrow.

*
I can tell you neither the name of the country, nor the name of the man.
It was a long, long way from here on a fertile and burning shore. We had
been walking since the morning along the coast, with the blue sea bathed
in sunlight on one side of us, and the shore covered with crops on the
other. Flowers were growing quite close to the waves, those light,
gentle, lulling waves. It was very warm, a soft warmth permeated with
the odor of the rich, damp, fertile soil. One fancied one was inhaling
germs.

I had been told, that evening, that I should meet with hospitality at the
house of a Frenchman who lived in an orange grove at the end of a
promontory. Who was he? I did not know. He had come there one morning
ten years before, and had bought land which he planted with vines and
sowed with grain. He had worked, this man, with passionate energy, with
fury. Then as he went on from month to month, year to year, enlarging
his boundaries, cultivating incessantly the strong virgin soil, he
accumulated a fortune by his indefatigable labor.

But he kept on working, they said. Rising at daybreak, he would remain
in the fields till evening, superintending everything without ceasing,
tormented by one fixed idea, the insatiable desire for money, which
nothing can quiet, nothing satisfy. He now appeared to be very rich.
The sun was setting as I reached his house. It was situated as
described, at the end of a promontory in the midst of a grove of orange
trees. It was a large square house, quite plain, and overlooked the sea.
As I approached, a man wearing a long beard appeared in the doorway.
Having greeted him, I asked if he would give me shelter for the night.
He held out his hand and said, smiling:

"Come in, monsieur, consider yourself at home."

He led me into a room, and put a man servant at my disposal with the
perfect ease and familiar graciousness of a man-of-the-world. Then he
left me saying:

"We will dine as soon as you are ready to come downstairs."

We took dinner, sitting opposite each other, on a terrace facing the sea.
I began to talk about this rich, distant, unknown land. He smiled, as he
replied carelessly:

"Yes, this country is beautiful. But no country satisfies one when they
are far from the one they love."

"You regret France?"

"I regret Paris."

"Why do you not go back?"

"Oh, I will return there."

And gradually we began to talk of French society, of the boulevards, and
things Parisian. He asked me questions that showed he knew all about
these things, mentioned names, all the familiar names in vaudeville known
on the sidewalks.

"Whom does one see at Tortoni's now?

"Always the same crowd, except those who died." I looked at him
attentively, haunted by a vague recollection. I certainly had seen that
head somewhere. But where? And when? He seemed tired, although he was
vigorous; and sad, although he was determined. His long, fair beard fell
on his chest. He was somewhat bald and had heavy eyebrows and a thick
mustache.

The sun was sinking into the sea, turning the vapor from the earth into a
fiery mist. The orange blossoms exhaled their powerful, delicious
fragrance. He seemed to see nothing besides me, and gazing steadfastly
he appeared to discover in the depths of my mind the far-away, beloved
and well-known image of the wide, shady pavement leading from the
Madeleine to the Rue Drouot.

"Do you know Boutrelle?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Has he changed much?"

"Yes, his hair is quite white."

"And La Ridamie?"

"The same as ever."

"And the women? Tell me about the women. Let's see. Do you know
Suzanne Verner?"

"Yes, very much. But that is over."

"Ah! And Sophie Astier?"

"Dead."

"Poor girl. Did you--did you know--"

But he ceased abruptly: And then, in a changed voice, his face suddenly
turning pale, he continued:

"No, it is best that I should not speak of that any more, it breaks my
heart."

Then, as if to change the current of his thoughts he rose.

"Would you like to go in?" he said.

"Yes, I think so."

And he preceded me into the house. The downstairs rooms were enormous,
bare and mournful, and had a deserted look. Plates and glasses were
scattered on the tables, left there by the dark-skinned servants who
wandered incessantly about this spacious dwelling.

Two rifles were banging from two nails, on the wall; and in the corners
of the rooms were spades, fishing poles, dried palm leaves, every
imaginable thing set down at random when people came home in the evening
and ready to hand when they went out at any time, or went to work.

My host smiled as he said:

"This is the dwelling, or rather the kennel, of an exile, but my own room
is cleaner. Let us go there."

As I entered I thought I was in a second-hand store, it was so full of
things of all descriptions, strange things of various kinds that one felt
must be souvenirs. On the walls were two pretty paintings by well-known
artists, draperies, weapons, swords and pistols, and exactly in the
middle, on the principal panel, a square of white satin in a gold frame.

Somewhat surprised, I approached to look at it, and perceived a hairpin
fastened in the centre of the glossy satin. My host placed his hand on
my shoulder.

"That," said he, "is the only thing that I look at here, and the only
thing that I have seen for ten years. M. Prudhomme said: 'This sword is
the most memorable day of my life.' I can say: 'This hairpin is all my
life.'"

I sought for some commonplace remark, and ended by saying:

"You have suffered on account of some woman?"

He replied abruptly:

"Say, rather, that I am suffering like a wretch."

"But come out on my balcony. A name rose to my lips just now which I
dared not utter; for if you had said 'Dead' as you did of Sophie Astier,
I should have fired a bullet into my brain, this very day."

We had gone out on the wide balcony from whence we could see two gulfs,
one to the right and the other to the left, enclosed by high gray
mountains. It was just twilight and the reflection of the sunset still
lingered in the sky.

He continued:

"Is Jeanne de Limours still alive?"

His eyes were fastened on mine and were full of a trembling anxiety. I
smiled.

"Parbleu--she is prettier than ever."

"Do you know her?"

"Yes."

He hesitated and then said:

"Very well?"

"No."

He took my hand.

"Tell me about her," he said.

"Why, I have nothing to tell. She is one of the most charming women, or,
rather, girls, and the most admired in Paris. She leads a delightful
existence and lives like a princess, that is all."

"I love her," he murmured in a tone in which he might have said "I am
going to die." Then suddenly he continued:

"Ah! For three years we lived in a state of terror and delight. I
almost killed her five or six times. She tried to pierce my eyes with
that hairpin that you saw just now. Look, do you see that little white
spot beneath my left eye? We loved each other. How can I explain that
infatuation? You would not understand it."

"There must be a simple form of love, the result of the mutual impulse of
two hearts and two souls. But there is also assuredly an atrocious form,
that tortures one cruelly, the result of the occult blending of two
unlike personalities who detest each other at the same time that they
adore one another."

"In three years this woman had ruined me. I had four million francs
which she squandered in her calm manner, quietly, eat them up with a
gentle smile that seemed to fall from her eyes on to her lips."

"You know her? There is something irresistible about her. What is it?
I do not know. Is it those gray eyes whose glance penetrates you like a
gimlet and remains there like the point of an arrow? It is more likely
the gentle, indifferent and fascinating smile that she wears like a mask.
Her slow grace pervades you little by little; exhales from her like a
perfume, from her slim figure that scarcely sways as she passes you, for
she seems to glide rather than walk; from her pretty voice with its
slight drawl that would seem to be the music of her smile; from her
gestures, also, which are never exaggerated, but always appropriate, and
intoxicate your vision with their harmony. For three years she was the
only being that existed for me on the earth! How I suffered; for she
deceived me as she deceived everyone! Why? For no reason; just for the
pleasure of deceiving. And when I found it out, when I treated her as a
common girl and a beggar, she said quietly: 'Are we married?'

"Since I have been here I have thought so much about her that at last I
understand her. She is Manon Lescaut come back to life. It is Manon,
who could not love without deceiving; Marion for whom love, amusement,
money, are all one."

He was silent. After a few minutes he resumed:

"When I had spent my last sou on her she said simply:

"'You understand, my dear boy, that I cannot live on air and weather.
I love you very much, better than anyone, but I must live. Poverty and
I could not keep house together."

"And if I should tell you what a horrible life I led with her! When I
looked at her I would just as soon have killed her as kissed her. When I
looked at her . . . I felt a furious desire to open my arms to embrace
and strangle her. She had, back of her eyes, something false and
intangible that made me execrate her; and that was, perhaps, the reason I
loved her so well. The eternal feminine, the odious and seductive
feminine, was stronger in her than in any other woman. She was full of
it, overcharged, as with a venomous and intoxicating fluid. She was a
woman to a greater extent than any one has ever been."

"And when I went out with her she would look at all men in such a manner
that she seemed to offer herself to each in a single glance. This
exasperated me, and still it attached me to her all the more. This
creature in just walking along the street belonged to everyone, in spite
of me, in spite of herself, by the very fact of her nature, although she
had a modest, gentle carriage. Do you understand?

"And what torture! At the theatre, at the restaurant she seemed to
belong to others under my very eyes. And as soon as I left her she did
belong to others.

"It is now ten years since I saw her and I love her better than ever."

Night spread over the earth. A strong perfume of orange blossoms
pervaded the air. I said:

"Will you see her again?"

"Parbleu! I now have here, in land and money, seven to eight thousand
francs. When I reach a million I shall sell out and go away. I shall
have enough to live on with her for a year--one whole year. And then,
good-bye, my life will be finished."

"But after that?" I asked.

"After that, I do not know. That will be all, I may possibly ask her to
take me as a valet de chambre."
http://www.fullbooks.com/Original-Short-Stories

Delza's

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