Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all luxuries.  She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, 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 despairing regrets and bewildering dreams.  She thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the stove.  She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting 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 in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, “Ah, the good soup!  I don’t know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry that 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 marvellous plates and of the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.

She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing.  And she loved nothing but that.  She felt made for that.  She would have liked so much 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 to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.

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

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

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

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

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the table crossly, muttering: 

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

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

She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently: