She removed the wraps, which covered her shoulders, before the glass, so as once more to see herself in all her glory.  But suddenly she uttered a cry.  She had no longer the necklace around her neck!

Her husband, already half undressed, demanded: 

“What is the matter with you?”

She turned madly toward him: 

“I have—­I have—­I’ve lost Mme. Forestier’s necklace.”

He stood up, distracted.

“What!—­how?—­Impossible!”

And they looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere.  They did not find it.

He asked: 

“You’re sure you had it on when you left the ball?”

“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the palace.”

“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall.  It must be in the cab.”

“Yes.  Probably.  Did you take his number?”

“No.  And you, didn’t you notice it?”

“No.”

They looked, thunderstruck, at one another.  At last Loisel put on his clothes.

“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route which we have taken, to see if I can’t find it.”

And he went out.  She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without fire, without a thought.

Her husband came back about seven o’clock.  He had found nothing.

He went to Police Headquarters, to the newspaper offices, to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies—­everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least suspicion of hope.

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face; he had discovered nothing.

“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended.  That will give us time to turn round.”

She wrote at his dictation.

At the end of a week they had lost all hope.

And Loisel, who had aged five years, declared: 

“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”

The next day they took the box which had contained it, and they went to the jeweler whose name was found within.  He consulted his books.

“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case.”

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, consulting their memories, sick both of them with chagrin and with anguish.

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they looked for.  It was worth forty thousand francs.  They could have it for thirty-six.

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet.  And they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs in case they found the other one before the end of February.