The jeweler asked:
“What is your name, sir?”
“Lantin—I am in the employ of the Minister of the Interior. I live at number sixteen Rue des Martyrs.”
The merchant looked through his books, found the entry, and said: “That necklace was sent to Madame Lantin's address, sixteen Rue des Martyrs, July 20, 1876.”
The two men looked into each other's eyes—the widower speechless with astonishment; the jeweler scenting a thief. The latter broke the silence.
“Will you leave this necklace here for twenty-four hours?” said he; “I will give you a receipt.”
Monsieur Lantin answered hastily: “Yes, certainly.” Then, putting the ticket in his pocket, he left the store.
He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his mind in a state of dreadful confusion. He tried to reason, to understand. His wife could not afford to purchase such a costly ornament. Certainly not.
But, then, it must have been a present!—a present!—a present, from whom? Why was it given her?
He stopped, and remained standing in the middle of the street. A horrible doubt entered his mind—She? Then, all the other jewels must have been presents, too! The earth seemed to tremble beneath him—the tree before him to be falling; he threw up his arms, and fell to the ground, unconscious. He recovered his senses in a pharmacy, into which the passers-by had borne him. He asked to be taken home, and, when he reached the house, he shut himself up in his room, and wept until nightfall. Finally, overcome with fatigue, he went to bed and fell into a heavy sleep.