Colonel Chabert by Honoré de Balzac (pdf e book reader TXT) 📖
- Author: Honoré de Balzac
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“Yes,” replied she, “if I found Colonel Chabert in Derville’s client.”
The appearance of truth she contrived to give to this answer
dissipated the slight suspicions which the Colonel was ashamed to have
felt. For three days the Countess was quite charming to her first
husband. By tender attentions and unfailing sweetness she seemed
anxious to wipe out the memory of the sufferings he had endured, and
to earn forgiveness for the woes which, as she confessed, she had
innocently caused him. She delighted in displaying for him the charms
she knew he took pleasure in, while at the same time she assumed a
kind of melancholy; for men are more especially accessible to certain
ways, certain graces of the heart or of the mind which they cannot
resist. She aimed at interesting him in her position, and appealing to
his feelings so far as to take possession of his mind and control him
despotically.
Ready for anything to attain her ends, she did not yet know what she
was to do with this man; but at any rate she meant to annihilate him
socially. On the evening of the third day she felt that in spite of
her efforts she could not conceal her uneasiness as to the results of
her manoeuvres. To give herself a minute’s reprieve she went up to her
room, sat down before her writing-table, and laid aside the mask of
composure which she wore in Chabert’s presence, like an actress who,
returning to her dressing-room after a fatiguing fifth act, drops half
dead, leaving with the audience an image of herself which she no
longer resembles. She proceeded to finish a letter she had begun to
Delbecq, whom she desired to go in her name and demand of Derville the
deeds relating to Colonel Chabert, to copy them, and to come to her at
once to Groslay. She had hardly finished when she heard the Colonel’s
step in the passage; uneasy at her absence, he had come to look for
her.
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “I wish I were dead! My position is
intolerable …”
“Why, what is the matter?” asked the good man.
“Nothing, nothing!” she replied.
She rose, left the Colonel, and went down to speak privately to her
maid, whom she sent off to Paris, impressing on her that she was
herself to deliver to Delbecq the letter just written, and to bring it
back to the writer as soon as he had read it. Then the Countess went
out to sit on a bench sufficiently in sight for the Colonel to join
her as soon as he might choose. The Colonel, who was looking for her,
hastened up and sat down by her.
“Rosine,” said he, “what is the matter with you?”
She did not answer.
It was one of those glorious, calm evenings in the month of June,
whose secret harmonies infuse such sweetness into the sunset. The air
was clear, the stillness perfect, so that far away in the park they
could hear the voices of some children, which added a kind of melody
to the sublimity of the scene.
“You do not answer me?” the Colonel said to his wife.
“My husband–-” said the Countess, who broke off, started a little,
and with a blush stopped to ask him, “What am I to say when I speak of
M. Ferraud?”
“Call him your husband, my poor child,” replied the Colonel, in a kind
voice. “Is he not the father of your children?”
“Well, then,” she said, “if he should ask what I came here for, if he
finds out that I came here, alone, with a stranger, what am I to say
to him? Listen, monsieur,” she went on, assuming a dignified attitude,
“decide my fate, I am resigned to anything—”
“My dear,” said the Colonel, taking possession of his wife’s hands, “I
have made up my mind to sacrifice myself entirely for your
happiness—”
“That is impossible!” she exclaimed, with a sudden spasmodic movement.
“Remember that you would have to renounce your identity, and in an
authenticated form.”
“What?” said the Colonel. “Is not my word enough for you?”
The word “authenticated” fell on the old man’s heart, and roused
involuntary distrust. He looked at his wife in a way that made her
color, she cast down her eyes, and he feared that he might find
himself compelled to despise her. The Countess was afraid lest she had
scared the shy modesty, the stern honesty, of a man whose generous
temper and primitive virtues were known to her. Though these feelings
had brought the clouds to her brow, they immediately recovered their
harmony. This was the way of it. A child’s cry was heard in the
distance.
“Jules, leave your sister in peace,” the Countess called out.
“What, are your children here?” said Chabert.
“Yes, but I told them not to trouble you.”
The old soldier understood the delicacy, the womanly tact of so
gracious a precaution, and took the Countess’ hand to kiss it.
“But let them come,” said he.
The little girl ran up to complain of her brother.
“Mamma!”
“Mamma!”
“It was Jules—”
“It was her—”
Their little hands were held out to their mother, and the two childish
voices mingled; it was an unexpected and charming picture.
“Poor little things!” cried the Countess, no longer restraining her
tears, “I shall have to leave them. To whom will the law assign them?
A mother’s heart cannot be divided; I want them, I want them.”
“Are you making mamma cry?” said Jules, looking fiercely at the
Colonel.
“Silence, Jules!” said the mother in a decided tone.
The two children stood speechless, examining their mother and the
stranger with a curiosity which it is impossible to express in words.
“Oh yes!” she cried. “If I am separated from the Count, only leave me
my children, and I will submit to anything …”
This was the decisive speech which gained all that she had hoped from
it.
“Yes,” exclaimed the Colonel, as if he were ending a sentence already
begun in his mind, “I must return underground again. I had told myself
so already.”
“Can I accept such a sacrifice?” replied his wife. “If some men have
died to save a mistress’ honor, they gave their life but once. But in
this case you would be giving your life every day. No, no. It is
impossible. If it were only your life, it would be nothing; but to
sign a declaration that you are not Colonel Chabert, to acknowledge
yourself an imposter, to sacrifice your honor, and live a lie every
hour of the day! Human devotion cannot go so far. Only think!—No. But
for my poor children I would have fled with you by this time to the
other end of the world.”
“But,” said Chabert, “cannot I live here in your little lodge as one
of your relations? I am as worn out as a cracked cannon; I want
nothing but a little tobacco and the Constitutionnel.”
The Countess melted into tears. There was a contest of generosity
between the Comtesse Ferraud and Colonel Chabert, and the soldier came
out victorious. One evening, seeing this mother with her children, the
soldier was bewitched by the touching grace of a family picture in the
country, in the shade and the silence; he made a resolution to remain
dead, and, frightened no longer at the authentication of a deed, he
asked what he could do to secure beyond all risk the happiness of this
family.
“Do exactly as you like,” said the Countess. “I declare to you that I
will have nothing to do with this affair. I ought not.”
Delbecq had arrived some days before, and in obedience to the
Countess’ verbal instructions, the intendant had succeeded in gaining
the old soldier’s confidence. So on the following morning Colonel
Chabert went with the erewhile attorney to Saint-Leu-Taverny, where
Delbecq had caused the notary to draw up an affidavit in such terms
that, after hearing it read, the Colonel started up and walked out of
the office.
“Turf and thunder! What a fool you must think me! Why, I should make
myself out a swindler!” he exclaimed.
“Indeed, monsieur,” said Delbecq, “I should advise you not to sign in
haste. In your place I would get at least thirty thousand francs a
year out of the bargain. Madame would pay them.”
After annihilating this scoundrel emeritus by the lightning look of
an honest man insulted, the Colonel rushed off, carried away by a
thousand contrary emotions. He was suspicious, indignant, and calm
again by turns.
Finally he made his way back into the park of Groslay by a gap in a
fence, and slowly walked on to sit down and rest, and meditate at his
ease, in a little room under a gazebo, from which the road to Saint-Leu could be seen. The path being strewn with the yellowish sand which
is used instead of river-gravel, the Countess, who was sitting in the
upper room of this little summer-house, did not hear the Colonel’s
approach, for she was too much preoccupied with the success of her
business to pay the smallest attention to the slight noise made by her
husband. Nor did the old man notice that his wife was in the room over
him.
“Well, Monsieur Delbecq, has he signed?” the Countess asked her
secretary, whom she saw alone on the road beyond the hedge of a haha.
“No, madame. I do not even know what has become of our man. The old
horse reared.”
“Then we shall be obliged to put him into Charenton,” said she, “since
we have got him.”
The Colonel, who recovered the elasticity of youth to leap the haha,
in the twinkling of an eye was standing in front of Delbecq, on whom
he bestowed the two finest slaps that ever a scoundrel’s cheeks
received.
“And you may add that old horses can kick!” said he.
His rage spent, the Colonel no longer felt vigorous enough to leap the
ditch. He had seen the truth in all its nakedness. The Countess’
speech and Delbecq’s reply had revealed the conspiracy of which he was
to be the victim. The care taken of him was but a bait to entrap him
in a snare. That speech was like a drop of subtle poison, bringing on
in the old soldier a return of all his sufferings, physical and moral.
He came back to the summer-house through the park gate, walking slowly
like a broken man.
Then for him there was to be neither peace nor truce. From this moment
he must begin the odious warfare with this woman of which Derville had
spoken, enter on a life of litigation, feed on gall, drink every
morning of the cup of bitterness. And then—fearful thought!—where
was he to find the money needful to pay the cost of the first
proceedings? He felt such disgust of life, that if there had been any
water at hand he would have thrown himself into it; that if he had had
a pistol, he would have blown out his brains. Then he relapsed into
the indecision of mind which, since his conversation with Derville at
the dairyman’s had changed his character.
At last, having reached the kiosque, he went up to the gazebo, where
little rose-windows afforded a view over each lovely landscape of the
valley, and where he found his wife seated on a chair. The Countess
was gazing at the distance, and preserved a calm countenance, showing
that impenetrable face which women can assume when resolved
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