Colonel Chabert by Honoré de Balzac (pdf e book reader TXT) 📖
- Author: Honoré de Balzac
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have time to grow old in the bitterest regrets.”
“And my fortune?”
“Do you suppose you had a fine fortune?”
“Had I not thirty thousand francs a year?”
“My dear Colonel, in 1799 you made a will before your marriage,
leaving one-quarter of your property to hospitals.”
“That is true.”
“Well, when you were reported dead, it was necessary to make a
valuation, and have a sale, to give this quarter away. Your wife was
not particular about honesty as to the poor. The valuation, in which
she no doubt took care not to include the ready money or jewelry, or
too much of the plate, and in which the furniture would be estimated
at two-thirds of its actual cost, either to benefit her, or to lighten
the succession duty, and also because a valuer can be held responsible
for the declared value—the valuation thus made stood at six hundred
thousand francs. Your wife had a right of half for her share.
Everything was sold and bought in by her; she got something out of it
all, and the hospitals got their seventy-five thousand francs. Then,
as the remainder went to the State, since you had made no mention of
your wife in your will, the Emperor restored to your widow by decree
the residue which would have reverted to the Exchequer. So, now, what
can you claim? Three hundred thousand francs, no more, and minus the
costs.”
“And you call that justice!” said the Colonel, in dismay.
“Why, certainly—”
“A pretty kind of justice!”
“So it is, my dear Colonel. You see, that what you thought so easy is
not so. Madame Ferraud might even choose to keep the sum given to her
by the Emperor.”
“But she was not a widow. The decree is utterly void–-”
“I agree with you. But every case can get a hearing. Listen to me. I
think that under these circumstances a compromise would be both for
her and for you the best solution of the question. You will gain by it
a more considerable sum than you can prove a right to.”
“That would be to sell my wife!”
“With twenty-four thousand francs a year you could find a woman who,
in the position in which you are, would suit you better than your own
wife, and make you happier. I propose going this very day to see the
Comtesse Ferraud and sounding the ground; but I would not take such a
step without giving you due notice.”
“Let us go together.”
“What, just as you are?” said the lawyer. “No, my dear Colonel, no.
You might lose your case on the spot.”
“Can I possibly gain it?”
“On every count,” replied Derville. “But, my dear Colonel Chabert, you
overlook one thing. I am not rich; the price of my connection is not
wholly paid up. If the bench should allow you a maintenance, that is
to say, a sum advanced on your prospects, they will not do so till you
have proved that you are Comte Chabert, grand officer of the Legion of
Honor.”
“To be sure, I am a grand officer of the Legion of Honor; I had
forgotten that,” said he simply.
“Well, until then,” Derville went on, “will you not have to engage
pleaders, to have documents copied, to keep the underlings of the law
going, and to support yourself? The expenses of the preliminary
inquiries will, at a rough guess, amount to ten or twelve thousand
francs. I have not so much to lend you—I am crushed as it is by the
enormous interest I have to pay on the money I borrowed to buy my
business; and you?—Where can you find it.”
Large tears gathered in the poor veteran’s faded eyes, and rolled down
his withered cheeks. This outlook of difficulties discouraged him. The
social and the legal world weighed on his breast like a nightmare.
“I will go to the foot of the Vendome column!” he cried. “I will call
out: ‘I am Colonel Chabert who rode through the Russian square at
Eylau!’—The statue—he—he will know me.”
“And you will find yourself in Charenton.”
At this terrible name the soldier’s transports collapsed.
“And will there be no hope for me at the Ministry of War?”
“The war office!” said Derville. “Well, go there; but take a formal
legal opinion with you, nullifying the certificate of your death. The
government offices would be only too glad if they could annihilate the
men of the Empire.”
The Colonel stood for a while, speechless, motionless, his eyes fixed,
but seeing nothing, sunk in bottomless despair. Military justice is
ready and swift; it decides with Turk-like finality, and almost always
rightly. This was the only justice known to Chabert. As he saw the
labyrinth of difficulties into which he must plunge, and how much
money would be required for the journey, the poor old soldier was
mortally hit in that power peculiar to man, and called the Will. He
thought it would be impossible to live as party to a lawsuit; it
seemed a thousand times simpler to remain poor and a beggar, or to
enlist as a trooper if any regiment would pass him.
His physical and mental sufferings had already impaired his bodily
health in some of the most important organs. He was on the verge of
one of those maladies for which medicine has no name, and of which the
seat is in some degree variable, like the nervous system itself, the
part most frequently attacked of the whole human machine, a malady
which may be designated as the heart-sickness of the unfortunate.
However serious this invisible but real disorder might already be, it
could still be cured by a happy issue. But a fresh obstacle, an
unexpected incident, would be enough to wreck this vigorous
constitution, to break the weakened springs, and produce the
hesitancy, the aimless, unfinished movements, which physiologists know
well in men undermined by grief.
Derville, detecting in his client the symptoms of extreme dejection,
said to him:
“Take courage; the end of the business cannot fail to be in your
favor. Only, consider whether you can give me your whole confidence
and blindly accept the result I may think best for your interests.”
“Do what you will,” said Chabert.
“Yes, but you surrender yourself to me like a man marching to his
death.”
“Must I not be left to live without a position, without a name? Is
that endurable?”
“That is not my view of it,” said the lawyer. “We will try a friendly
suit, to annul both your death certificate and your marriage, so as to
put you in possession of your rights. You may even, by Comte Ferraud’s
intervention, have your name replaced on the army list as general, and
no doubt you will get a pension.”
“Well, proceed then,” said Chabert. “I put myself entirely in your
hands.”
“I will send you a power of attorney to sign,” said Derville. “Good-bye. Keep up your courage. If you want money, rely on me.”
Chabert warmly wrung the lawyer’s hand, and remained standing with his
back against the wall, not having the energy to follow him excepting
with his eyes. Like all men who know but little of legal matters, he
was frightened by this unforeseen struggle.
During their interview, several times, the figure of a man posted in
the street had come forward from behind one of the gate-pillars,
watching for Derville to depart, and he now accosted the lawyer. He
was an old man, wearing a blue waistcoat and a white-pleated kilt,
like a brewer’s; on his head was an otter-skin cap. His face was
tanned, hollow-cheeked, and wrinkled, but ruddy on the cheek-bones by
hard work and exposure to the open air.
“Asking your pardon, sir,” said he, taking Derville by the arm, “if I
take the liberty of speaking to you. But I fancied, from the look of
you, that you were a friend of our General’s.”
“And what then?” replied Derville. “What concern have you with him?—
But who are you?” said the cautious lawyer.
“I am Louis Vergniaud,” he replied at once. “I have a few words to say
to you.”
“So you are the man who has lodged Comte Chabert as I have found him?”
“Asking your pardon, sir, he has the best room. I would have given him
mine if I had had but one; I could have slept in the stable. A man who
has suffered as he has, who teaches my kids to read, a general, an
Egyptian, the first lieutenant I ever served under—What do you think?
—Of us all, he is best served. I shared what I had with him.
Unfortunately, it is not much to boast of—bread, milk, eggs. Well,
well; it’s neighbors’ fare, sir. And he is heartily welcome.—But he
has hurt our feelings.”
“He?”
“Yes, sir, hurt our feelings. To be plain with you, I have taken a
larger business than I can manage, and he saw it. Well, it worried
him; he must needs mind the horse! I says to him, ‘Really,
General–-‘ ‘Bah!’ says he, ‘I am not going to eat my head off doing
nothing. I learned to rub a horse down many a year ago.’—I had some
bills out for the purchase money of my dairy—a fellow named Grados—
Do you know him, sir?”
“But, my good man, I have not time to listen to your story. Only tell
me how the Colonel offended you.”
“He hurt our feelings, sir, as sure as my name is Louis Vergniaud, and
my wife cried about it. He heard from our neighbors that we had not a
sou to begin to meet the bills with. The old soldier, as he is, he
saved up all you gave him, he watched for the bill to come in, and he
paid it. Such a trick! While my wife and me, we knew he had no
tobacco, poor old boy, and went without.—Oh! now—yes, he has his
cigar every morning! I would sell my soul for it—No, we are hurt.
Well, so I wanted to ask you—for he said you were a good sort—to
lend us a hundred crowns on the stock, so that we may get him some
clothes, and furnish his room. He thought he was getting us out of
debt, you see? Well, it’s just the other way; the old man is running
us into debt—and hurt our feelings!—He ought not to have stolen a
march on us like that. And we his friends, too!—On my word as an
honest man, as sure as my name is Louis Vergniaud, I would sooner sell
up and enlist than fail to pay you back your money–-”
Derville looked at the dairyman, and stepped back a few paces to
glance at the house, the yard, the manure-pool, the cowhouse, the
rabbits, the children.
“On my honor, I believe it is characteristic of virtue to have nothing
to do with riches!” thought he.
“All right, you shall have your hundred crowns, and more. But I shall
not give them to you; the Colonel will be rich enough to help, and I
will not deprive him of the pleasure.”
“And will that be soon?”
“Why, yes.”
“Ah, dear God! how glad my wife will be!” and the cowkeeper’s tanned
face seemed to expand.
“Now,” said Derville to himself, as he got into his cab again, “let us
call on our opponent. We must not show our hand, but try to see hers,
and win the game at one stroke. She must be frightened. She is
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