Having no finery or ornament to wear, simplicity of style was her hallmark. But she suffered terribly from such ignominy. Women generally are bound neither by race nor caste, and their own beauty, gracefulness or charm are all they possess in terms of birthright and heritage. For them, in principle, a simple street sparrow may vie with the sleekest swan.

Nevertheless she suffered all the time. She had been destined, or so she believed, for a delicate life of luxury. She suffered when she looked at the poverty of their accommodation; the peeling walls, the worn upholstery and the hideousness of the soft furnishings. Everything any other woman of her class might scarcely have noticed tortured and consumed her soul. The mere sight of the little Breton girl who saw to their humble needs plunged her into miserable regret for her own shattered dreams.

In her mind’s eye she trod thickly carpeted and silent antechambers lined from floor to ceiling with Oriental hangings and illuminated by huge bronze candelabra beneath which, in huge armchairs, tall, liveried footmen sprawled, slumbering in the heat of wonderful new-fangled heaters. Into her enchanted vision swam enormous drawing rooms hung with ancient silks, where exquisite furniture stood laden with priceless objets d’art; more intimate rooms, cosy and sweet-smelling, where towards evening, close friends and of course the most sought-after men of their acquaintance would call in and pay their respects.

Sitting down to supper at their own round table laid with its three-day-old cloth, opposite her husband who would lift up the lid of the tureen with delight, crying, ‘Stew! What a treat!’ – she dreamed of exquisite dinners, of gleaming silver, of tapestries on the walls depicting illustrious ancestors or extraordinary birds in fairy-tale forests. She imagined the most succulent dishes served in equally splendid vessels; she heard whispered sweet nothings received with a smiling, sphinx-like gaze, as accompaniment to the consumption of pink-fleshed trout or the wings of a delicate hazel grouse.

She had no elegant dresses and no jewellery to wear, or at least nothing in which she could really take pride and nothing in which she felt truly herself. How she wished to please, to be envied, attractive and utterly beguiling. She had a wealthy friend, an old contemporary from the convent where she was educated but whom she now avoided because of what she felt when they met. She wept for days at a time: tears of sorrow, of regret, despair and deep distress.

One night, however, her husband came back from work looking exultant and waving in his hand a large envelope.

‘There you are!’ he said. ‘Here’s a little something for you!’

She tore it open and read the card inside:

The Minister of State for Education and Madame Georges Ramponneau take great pleasure in inviting Monsieur and Madame Loisel to honour a Soirée with their presence at the Ministry of Education, to be held on Monday 18th January.