The Necklace Sequel

A Story by barberly

This is a sequel we had to write for English class for a story called "The Necklace" so it might be a little confusing if you haven't read the other story

Mathilde stared at Mme. Forestier, unsure if she’d heard her correctly. “Excuse me,” she spoke, “What did you say?” Mme. Forestier looked at Mathilde and cried, “Oh dear! It was only paste. You should’ve told me you’d lost it immediately. I could’ve easily replaced it.” Mathilde was unsure how she felt, and she just wanted to get home. The brutal heat of the sun, the shrill cries of children playing; it was all driving her crazy. She couldn’t stand to look at the beautiful Madame Forestier’s face any longer, afraid that she might lash out. “Thank you ma’am,” she stuttered, and briskly walked away.

Finally back in her room, Mathilde wept with sorrow and self-pity. If only she had told the woman her necklace was lost, if only she hadn’t even lost it in the first place, then she wouldn’t be living the life of a pauper. Oh, how she pitied herself! She laid in her bed for hours until she realized she couldn’t let her husband find her like this. He couldn’t know what had happened. She’d always hated him. He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t even very attractive. He was actually quite the opposite; an ugly man who was stingy and getting worse with old age. He had gotten in the habit of beating his poor wife, who took it all in stride and never defended herself. No, he couldn’t find out about her moment of weakness.

Alas, Mathilde gathered her strength and dragged herself off the bed to the fire and began to boil water for dinner. As she did so, bitter hatred came upon her. She hated her husband and that Mme. Foestier, who had the life that Mathilde always felt that she herself deserved. I’ll be damned if I don’t get my revenge, and the life I deserve, she thought, as she angrily tossed the cabbage into the pot. Some of the water splashed out and burned Mathilde’s bare skin, but she hardly noticed. She was too preoccupied with her impure thoughts of revenge. The door had flung open wildly and awoke her from her distracted state. Her husband awkwardly lumbered in, obviously drunk. The water was boiling over. Mathilde shrieked in surprise. “You stupid woman,” her husband slurred. He slapped her. Hard. The savage hit knocked Mathilde to the ground. He chuckled and turned his back, but this time, Mathilde was not content with being knocked around. She quietly stood up and grabbed the pot. The searing handle burned her, but she took no notice. Mathilde walked up behind her husband of over twenty years, who had caused her so much pain and grief, and had treated her with such brutality. She walked up behind that evil man and whacked him a good one over the head. He collapsed and shrunk to the ground. She dropped the pot and looked at her hands. There were red, fluid filled blisters and burns from the hot handle. Blood trickled from her husband’s head onto the floor. Mathilde stared dumbly, unsure of what to do next. She slowly went outside to the spigot and gently washed her burned, calloused hands gently. She went back inside and inspected the scene. He was dead. Mathilde was a strong woman, and she dragged the body easily into the dark little closet in the side of the room. She wiped up the blood and tossed the pot in the closet along with the corpse. She went back outside again.

As the recently widowed Mme. Loisel strolled casually through the park, she felt an unexplainable relief that her husband was dead. The warm sun made her feel great. Soon, though, the feeling of relief and lightness went away, and frustration overcame her. She wanted to find Madame Forestier and make her pay. She was aware that her ruinous actions would eventually get her caught, but she was tired of living in poverty and just wanted to know what is was like to be rich. The thought of murdering Mme. Forestier intoxicated her. Mathilde found her way back home and gathered supplies, then set off toward the rich lady’s manor. The cool breeze elicited whispers of encouragement from the leaves on the trees, and the steady clack of her shoes on the sidewalk was confident sounding. She smiled to herself. She was ready.

Mathilde knew that Mme. Forestier sent all her servants away on Sunday for church and to have the day off, so she knocked on the door without hesitation. Forestier herself opened the door looking beautiful as always. “Mathilde,” she breathed, “What are you doing here?” Mathilde lunged for her, taking hard swings at the woman’s unmarked face. Forestier screamed and Mathilde quickly shut the door so no one would hear. She fettered her with some rope and dragged her, kicking and screaming, to the dark damp basement. Mme. Loisel brought a heavy silver candlestick down with her. Holding on with both hands, she rose it above her head and brought it down as Forestier wailed in protest. The candlestick hit the woman with a sickening thud. “You ruined my life,” Mathilde muttered, over and over again as she bludgeoned the woman. Blood sprayed in an almost artistic pattern on Mathilde’s yellowing dress and the wall behind. Madame Forestier’s howling slowly subsided. The deed was done.

Upstairs, the blood-caked Mathilde discovered Mme. Forestier’s magnificent bedroom. She went into the closet and picked out the most extravagant dress she could find, tying the corset tightly in the back. It was a white ball gown with extraordinary beading and lacework. Madame Loisel looked ravishing. She opened the jewelry box and searched for the necklace she spent her whole life paying off. After putting the necklace on, she turned and examined herself in the mirror. Her thick, graying hair was pulled up into a messy French braid. The blood provided a nice contrast between her olive skin, and the white dress. She looked absolutely astonishing. She had always known she was destined to be rich. She could see the coldness in her own eyes and she shuddered.

Back downstairs again, she sat in a comfortable chair in the parlor. A razor was produced; she closed her eyes and prepared herself. Slowly, hesitantly, she slid the razor across her wrinkled, time-worn neck. Blood gushed in red waterfalls down the beautiful dress. It gurgled and bubbled at the slim opened she had created. Mathilde died within a few seconds. It was all over