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.

He put it in his pocket, and started out in search of what seemed a
reliable jeweler's shop. At length he found one, and went in, feeling a
little ashamed to expose his misery, and also to offer such a worthless
article for sale.

"Sir," said he to the merchant, "I would like to know what this is
worth."

The man took the necklace, examined it, called his clerk, and made some
remarks in an undertone; he then put the ornament back on the counter,
and