Continuation of Maupassant’s “The Jewels of M. Lantin”

Echo 李华英 220110825

After yet another argument with his second wife, Lantin watched helplessly as she stormed out the door. He did not chase after her, believing they both needed time to calm down.

Lantin crumpled against the wall and sat down on the carpet. His eyes wandered around the familiar yet foreign home, still filled with traces of his first wife. He realized he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. He could see the dishes she had personally chosen, the tassels she had tied to the curtains—all so exquisite, just like her.

Suddenly, Lantin rushed into the bedroom and frantically reached under the bed. After a moment, he pulled out a small box, now lightly dusted. He wiped away the grime, revealing its originally elegant surface. This was the jewelry box she had used. It used to be full; now, only a woman’s handkerchief remained inside.

Memories of the days after her departure flooded back, and his heart ached with a familiar, needle-like pain, tinged with guilt. But this time, something was different. He noticed the bottom of the box had loosened slightly. With a gentle tug, the board just opened up, revealing a hidden compartment—and inside, a letter.

A surge of anticipation and dread washed over him. He longed to know what she had left for him, whether there was more, whether she had foreseen this moment. Yet, he was afraid—afraid of seeing her handwriting, as if she were standing right before him.

After a long pause, he finally unfolded the letter. The familiar, albeit slightly shaky script greeted him:

“My Dear Lantin,

I don’t know if you’ll ever see this letter. If you do, perhaps by then this box will be empty. I’m glad it’s worthless—otherwise, you might have sold it too. But maybe that’s for the best. If you never read this, you’ll never have to know the truth.”

Lantin recalled that, during her illness, when she could no longer buy trinkets for herself, she had asked him out to do so. She must have written this letter in secret, enduring the pain.

“I truly loved going to the theater. I knew you disliked my obsession with jewelry, but do you know why I kept buying it? I thought that only by appearing flawless could I escape their scorn. But I forgot—those people never truly accepted me. To them, I was always beneath them. Yet, I had my beauty, the one thing that was truly mine. And those men? From the start, they coveted it. At first, I wanted you to come with me because I was sick of their gazes. With you around, they wouldn’t dare. But I felt your growing impatience, and I grew weary of the women’s sneers. So, I decided to take revenge. I accepted their advances, reveled in their wealth and jewels—after all, wasn’t that what you wanted? I secretly hoped you’d notice. I wanted to see your anger, your jealousy. I wanted you to hate me. But you never did. So, I kept indulging until I could no longer distinguish truth from illusion. Perhaps, until the end, you believed I died from fever and cold. But only I knew the truth—though it hardly matters now. The only thing I regret leaving behind is my jewelry. After all, isn’t that what you thought of me? You always believed they were fake. Well, maybe one day, you’ll find out.”