Colonel Chabert by Honoré de Balzac (pdf e book reader TXT) 📖
- Author: Honoré de Balzac
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their worst. She wiped her eyes as if she had been weeping, and played
absently with the pink ribbons of her sash. Nevertheless, in spite of
her apparent assurance, she could not help shuddering slightly when
she saw before her her venerable benefactor, standing with folded
arms, his face pale, his brow stern.
“Madame,” he said, after gazing at her fixedly for a moment and
compelling her to blush, “Madame, I do not curse you—I scorn you. I
can now thank the chance that has divided us. I do not feel even a
desire for revenge; I no longer love you. I want nothing from you.
Live in peace on the strength of my word; it is worth more than the
scrawl of all the notaries in Paris. I will never assert my claim to
the name I perhaps have made illustrious. I am henceforth but a poor
devil named Hyacinthe, who asks no more than his share of the
sunshine.—Farewell!”
The Countess threw herself at his feet; she would have detained him by
taking his hands, but he pushed her away with disgust, saying:
“Do not touch me!”
The Countess’ expression when she heard her husband’s retreating steps
is quite indescribable. Then, with the deep perspicacity given only by
utter villainy, or by fierce worldly selfishness, she knew that she
might live in peace on the word and the contempt of this loyal
veteran.
Chabert, in fact, disappeared. The dairyman failed in business, and
became a hackney-cab driver. The Colonel, perhaps, took up some
similar industry for a time. Perhaps, like a stone flung into a chasm,
he went falling from ledge to ledge, to be lost in the mire of rags
that seethes through the streets of Paris.
Six months after this event, Derville, hearing no more of Colonel
Chabert or the Comtesse Ferraud, supposed that they had no doubt come
to a compromise, which the Countess, out of revenge, had had arranged
by some other lawyer. So one morning he added up the sums he had
advanced to the said Chabert with the costs, and begged the Comtesse
Ferraud to claim from M. le Comte Chabert the amount of the bill,
assuming that she would know where to find her first husband.
The very next day Comte Ferraud’s man of business, lately appointed
President of the County Court in a town of some importance, wrote this
distressing note to Derville:
“MONSIEUR,—
“Madame la Comtesse Ferraud desires me to inform you that your
client took complete advantage of your confidence, and that the
individual calling himself Comte Chabert has acknowledged that he
came forward under false pretences.
“Yours, etc., DELBECQ.”
“One comes across people who are, on my honor, too stupid by half,”
cried Derville. “They don’t deserve to be Christians! Be humane,
generous, philanthropical, and a lawyer, and you are bound to be
cheated! There is a piece of business that will cost me two thousand-franc notes!”
Some time after receiving this letter, Derville went to the Palais de
Justice in search of a pleader to whom he wished to speak, and who was
employed in the Police Court. As chance would have it, Derville went
into Court Number 6 at the moment when the Presiding Magistrate was
sentencing one Hyacinthe to two months’ imprisonment as a vagabond,
and subsequently to be taken to the Mendicity House of Detention, a
sentence which, by magistrates’ law, is equivalent to perpetual
imprisonment. On hearing the name of Hyacinthe, Derville looked at the
deliquent, sitting between two gendarmes on the bench for the
accused, and recognized in the condemned man his false Colonel
Chabert.
The old soldier was placid, motionless, almost absentminded. In spite
of his rags, in spite of the misery stamped on his countenance, it
gave evidence of noble pride. His eye had a stoical expression which
no magistrate ought to have misunderstood; but as soon as a man has
fallen into the hands of justice, he is no more than a moral entity, a
matter of law or of fact, just as to statists he has become a zero.
When the veteran was taken back to the lock-up, to be removed later
with the batch of vagabonds at that moment at the bar, Derville
availed himself of the privilege accorded to lawyers of going wherever
they please in the Courts, and followed him to the lock-up, where he
stood scrutinizing him for some minutes, as well as the curious crew
of beggars among whom he found himself. The passage to the lock-up at
that moment afforded one of those spectacles which, unfortunately,
neither legislators, nor philanthropists, nor painters, nor writers
come to study. Like all the laboratories of the law, this ante-room is
a dark and malodorous place; along the walls runs a wooden seat,
blackened by the constant presence there of the wretches who come to
this meeting-place of every form of social squalor, where not one of
them is missing.
A poet might say that the day was ashamed to light up this dreadful
sewer through which so much misery flows! There is not a spot on that
plank where some crime has not sat, in embryo or matured; not a corner
where a man has never stood who, driven to despair by the blight which
justice has set upon him after his first fault, has not there begun a
career, at the end of which looms the guillotine or the pistol-snap of
the suicide. All who fall on the pavement of Paris rebound against
these yellow-gray walls, on which a philanthropist who was not a
speculator might read a justification of the numerous suicides
complained of by hypocritical writers who are incapable of taking a
step to prevent them—for that justification is written in that ante-room, like a preface to the dramas of the Morgue, or to those enacted
on the Place de la Greve.
At this moment Colonel Chabert was sitting among these men—men with
coarse faces, clothed in the horrible livery of misery, and silent at
intervals, or talking in a low tone, for three gendarmes on duty paced
to and fro, their sabres clattering on the floor.
“Do you recognize me?” said Derville to the old man, standing in front
of him.
“Yes, sir,” said Chabert, rising.
“If you are an honest man,” Derville went on in an undertone, “how
could you remain in my debt?”
The old soldier blushed as a young girl might when accused by her
mother of a clandestine love affair.
“What! Madame Ferraud has not paid you?” cried he in a loud voice.
“Paid me?” said Derville. “She wrote to me that you were a swindler.”
The Colonel cast up his eyes in a sublime impulse of horror and
imprecation, as if to call heaven to witness to this fresh subterfuge.
“Monsieur,” said he, in a voice that was calm by sheer huskiness, “get
the gendarmes to allow me to go into the lock-up, and I will sign an
order which will certainly be honored.”
At a word from Derville to the sergeant he was allowed to take his
client into the room, where Hyacinthe wrote a few lines, and addressed
them to the Comtesse Ferraud.
“Send her that,” said the soldier, “and you will be paid your costs
and the money you advanced. Believe me, monsieur, if I have not shown
you the gratitude I owe you for your kind offices, it is not the less
there,” and he laid his hand on his heart. “Yes, it is there, deep and
sincere. But what can the unfortunate do? They live, and that is all.”
“What!” said Derville. “Did you not stipulate for an allowance?”
“Do not speak of it!” cried the old man. “You cannot conceive how deep
my contempt is for the outside life to which most men cling. I was
suddenly attacked by a sickness—disgust of humanity. When I think
that Napoleon is at Saint-Helena, everything on earth is a matter of
indifference to me. I can no longer be a soldier; that is my only real
grief. After all,” he added with a gesture of childish simplicity, “it
is better to enjoy luxury of feeling than of dress. For my part, I
fear nobody’s contempt.”
And the Colonel sat down on his bench again.
Derville went away. On returning to his office, he sent Godeschal, at
that time his second clerk, to the Comtesse Ferraud, who, on reading
the note, at once paid the sum due to Comte Chabert’s lawyer.
In 1840, towards the end of June, Godeschal, now himself an attorney,
went to Ris with Derville, to whom he had succeeded. When they reached
the avenue leading from the highroad to Bicetre, they saw, under one
of the elm-trees by the wayside, one of those old, broken, and hoary
paupers who have earned the Marshal’s staff among beggars by living on
at Bicetre as poor women live on at la Salpetriere. This man, one of
the two thousand poor creatures who are lodged in the infirmary for
the aged, was seated on a corner-stone, and seemed to have
concentrated all his intelligence on an operation well known to these
pensioners, which consists in drying their snuffy pocket-handkerchiefs
in the sun, perhaps to save washing them. This old man had an
attractive countenance. He was dressed in a reddish cloth wrapper-coat
which the workhouse affords to its inmates, a sort of horrible
livery.
“I say, Derville,” said Godeschal to his traveling companion, “look at
that old fellow. Isn’t he like those grotesque carved figures we get
from Germany? And it is alive, perhaps it is happy.”
Derville looked at the poor man through his eyeglass, and with a
little exclamation of surprise he said:
“That old man, my dear fellow, is a whole poem, or, as the romantics
say, a drama.—Did you ever meet the Comtesse Ferraud?”
“Yes; she is a clever woman, and agreeable; but rather too pious,”
said Godeschal.
“That old Bicetre pauper is her lawful husband, Comte Chabert, the old
Colonel. She has had him sent here, no doubt. And if he is in this
workhouse instead of living in a mansion, it is solely because he
reminded the pretty Countess that he had taken her, like a hackney
cab, on the street. I can remember now the tiger’s glare she shot at
him at that moment.”
This opening having excited Godeschal’s curiosity, Derville related
the story here told.
Two days later, on Monday morning, as they returned to Paris, the two
friends looked again at Bicetre, and Derville proposed that they
should call on Colonel Chabert. Halfway up the avenue they found the
old man sitting on the trunk of a felled tree. With his stick in one
hand, he was amusing himself with drawing lines in the sand. On
looking at him narrowly, they perceived that he had been breakfasting
elsewhere than at Bicetre.
“Good-morning, Colonel Chabert,” said Derville.
“Not Chabert! not Chabert! My name is Hyacinthe,” replied the veteran.
“I am no longer a man, I am No. 164, Room 7,” he added, looking at
Derville with timid anxiety, the fear of an old man and a child.—“Are
you going to visit the man condemned to death?” he asked after a
moment’s silence. “He is not married! He is very lucky!”
“Poor fellow!” said Godeschal. “Would you like something to buy
snuff?”
With all the simplicity of a street Arab, the Colonel eagerly held out
his hand to the two strangers, who each gave him a twenty-franc piece;
he thanked them with a puzzled look, saying:
“Brave troopers!”
He ported arms, pretended to take aim at them, and shouted with a
smile:
“Fire! both arms! Vive Napoleon!” And
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