She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries.  She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from 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 regrets which were despairing, and distracted dreams.  She thought of the silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of the two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove.  She thought of the long salons fatted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks 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 three days old, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with an enchanted air, “Ah, the good pot-au-feu!  I don’t know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry which 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 marvelous plates, and of the whispered gallantries which you listen to with a sphinx-like smile, while you are eating the pink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail.

She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing.  And she loved nothing but that; she felt made for that.  She would so have liked 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 and see any more, because she suffered so much when she came back.

But, one evening, her husband returned home with a triumphant air, and holding a large envelope in his hand.

“There,” said he, “here is something for you.”

She tore the paper sharply, and drew out a printed card which bore these words: 

“The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Mme. Loisel’s company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.”

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she threw the invitation on the table with disdain, murmuring: 

“What do you want me to do with that?”

“But, my dear, I thought you would be glad.  You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity.  I had awful trouble to get it.  Everyone wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations to clerks.  The whole official world will be there.”