He had not thought of that.  He stammered: 

“Why, the dress you go to the theatre in.  It seems all right to me.”

He stopped, stupefied, distracted, on seeing that his wife was crying.  Two great tears descended slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.  He stuttered: 

“What’s the matter?  What’s the matter?”

By a violent effort she subdued her feelings and replied in a calm voice, as she wiped her wet cheeks: 

“Nothing.  Only I have no dress and consequently I cannot go to this ball.  Give your invitation to some friend whose wife has better clothes than I.”

He was in despair, but began again: 

“Let us see, Mathilde.  How much would it cost, a suitable dress, which you could wear again on future occasions, something very simple?”

She reflected for some seconds, computing the cost, and also wondering what sum she could ask without bringing down upon herself an immediate refusal and an astonished exclamation from the economical clerk.

At last she answered hesitatingly: 

“I don’t know exactly, but it seems to me that with four hundred francs I could manage.”

He turned a trifle pale, for he had been saving just that sum to buy a gun and treat himself to a little hunting trip the following summer, in the country near Nanterre, with a few friends who went there to shoot larks on Sundays.

However, he said: 

“Well, I think I can give you four hundred francs.  But see that you have a pretty dress.”

* * * * *

The day of the ball drew near, and Madame Loisel seemed sad, restless, anxious.  Her dress was ready, however.  Her husband said to her one evening: 

“What is the matter?  Come, now, you’ve been looking queer these last three days.”

And she replied: 

“It worries me that I have no jewels, not a single stone, nothing to put on.  I shall look wretched enough.  I would almost rather not go to this party.”

He answered: 

“You might wear natural flowers.  They are very fashionable this season.  For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses.”

She was not convinced.

“No; there is nothing more humiliating than to look poor among a lot of rich women.”

But her husband cried: 

“How stupid you are!  Go and find your friend Madame Forestier and ask her to lend you some jewels.  You are intimate enough with her for that.”

She uttered a cry of joy.

“Of course.  I had not thought of that.”

The next day she went to her friend’s house and told her distress.

Madame Forestier went to her handsome wardrobe, took out a large casket, brought it back, opened it, and said to Madame Loisel: 

“Choose, my dear.”

She saw first of all some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross of gold set with precious stones of wonderful workmanship.  She tried on the ornaments before the glass, hesitated, could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back.  She kept asking: