Colonel Chabert by Honoré de Balzac (best ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📕

are many elements which would prolong the case; you will

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