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.