Colonel Chabert, Honoré de Balzac [motivational novels TXT] 📗

your

notary, Alexandre Crottat, is your first husband, Comte Chabert. By

the second clause Comte Chabert, to secure your happiness, will

undertake to assert his rights only under certain circumstances set

forth in the deed.—And these,” said Derville, in a parenthesis, “are

none other than a failure to carry out the conditions of this secret

agreement.—M. Chabert, on his part, agrees to accept judgment on a

friendly suit, by which his certificate of death shall be annulled,

and his marriage dissolved.”

 

“That will not suit me in the least,” said the Countess with surprise.

“I will be a party to no suit; you know why.”

 

“By the third clause,” Derville went on, with imperturbable coolness,

“you pledge yourself to secure to Hyacinthe Comte Chabert an income of

twenty-four thousand francs on government stock held in his name, to

revert to you at his death—”

 

“But it is much too dear!” exclaimed the Countess.

 

“Can you compromise the matter cheaper?”

 

“Possibly.”

 

“But what do you want, madame?”

 

“I want—I will not have a lawsuit. I want—”

 

“You want him to remain dead?” said Derville, interrupting her

hastily.

 

“Monsieur,” said the Countess, “if twenty-four thousand francs a year

are necessary, we will go to law—”

 

“Yes, we will go to law,” said the Colonel in a deep voice, as he

opened the door and stood before his wife, with one hand in his

waistcoat and the other hanging by his side—an attitude to which the

recollection of his adventure gave horrible significance.

 

“It is he,” said the Countess to herself.

 

“Too dear!” the old soldier exclaimed. “I have given you near on a

million, and you are cheapening my misfortunes. Very well; now I will

have you—you and your fortune. Our goods are in common, our marriage

is not dissolved—”

 

“But monsieur is not Colonel Chabert!” cried the Countess, in feigned

amazement.

 

“Indeed!” said the old man, in a tone of intense irony. “Do you want

proofs? I found you in the Palais Royal–-”

 

The Countess turned pale. Seeing her grow white under her rouge, the

old soldier paused, touched by the acute suffering he was inflicting

on the woman he had once so ardently loved; but she shot such a

venomous glance at him that he abruptly went on:

 

“You were with La—”

 

“Allow me, Monsieur Derville,” said the Countess to the lawyer. “You

must give me leave to retire. I did not come here to listen to such

dreadful things.”

 

She rose and went out. Derville rushed after her; but the Countess had

taken wings, and seemed to have flown from the place.

 

On returning to his private room, he found the Colonel in a towering

rage, striding up and down.

 

“In those times a man took his wife where he chose,” said he. “But I

was foolish and chose badly; I trusted to appearances. She has no

heart.”

 

“Well, Colonel, was I not right to beg you not to come?—I am now

positive of your identity; when you came in, the Countess gave a

little start, of which the meaning was unequivocal. But you have lost

your chances. Your wife knows that you are unrecognizable.”

 

“I will kill her!”

 

“Madness! you will be caught and executed like any common wretch.

Besides you might miss! That would be unpardonable. A man must not

miss his shot when he wants to kill his wife.—Let me set things

straight; you are only a big child. Go now. Take care of yourself; she

is capable of setting some trap for you and shutting you up in

Charenton. I will notify her of our proceedings to protect you against

a surprise.”

 

The unhappy Colonel obeyed his young benefactor, and went away,

stammering apologies. He slowly went down the dark staircase, lost in

gloomy thoughts, and crushed perhaps by the blow just dealt him—the

most cruel he could feel, the thrust that could most deeply pierce his

heart—when he heard the rustle of a woman’s dress on the lowest

landing, and his wife stood before him.

 

“Come, monsieur,” said she, taking his arm with a gesture like those

familiar to him of old. Her action and the accent of her voice, which

had recovered its graciousness, were enough to allay the Colonel’s

wrath, and he allowed himself to be led to the carriage.

 

“Well, get in!” said she, when the footman had let down the step.

 

And as if by magic, he found himself sitting by his wife in the

brougham.

 

“Where to?” asked the servant.

 

“To Groslay,” said she.

 

The horses started at once, and carried them all across Paris.

 

“Monsieur,” said the Countess, in a tone of voice which betrayed one

of those emotions which are rare in our lives, and which agitate every

part of our being. At such moments the heart, fibres, nerves,

countenance, soul, and body, everything, every pore even, feels a

thrill. Life no longer seems to be within us; it flows out, springs

forth, is communicated as if by contagion, transmitted by a look, a

tone of voice, a gesture, impressing our will on others. The old

soldier started on hearing this single word, this first, terrible

“monsieur!” But still it was at once a reproach and a pardon, a hope

and a despair, a question and an answer. This word included them all;

none but an actress could have thrown so much eloquence, so many

feelings into a single word. Truth is less complete in its utterance;

it does not put everything on the outside; it allows us to see what is

within. The Colonel was filled with remorse for his suspicions, his

demands, and his anger; he looked down not to betray his agitation.

 

“Monsieur,” repeated she, after an imperceptible pause, “I knew you at

once.”

 

“Rosine,” said the old soldier, “those words contain the only balm

that can help me to forget my misfortunes.”

 

Two large tears rolled hot on to his wife’s hands, which he pressed to

show his paternal affection.

 

“Monsieur,” she went on, “could you not have guessed what it cost me

to appear before a stranger in a position so false as mine now is? If

I have to blush for it, at least let it be in the privacy of my

family. Ought not such a secret to remain buried in our hearts? You

will forgive me, I hope, for my apparent indifference to the woes of a

Chabert in whose existence I could not possibly believe. I received

your letters,” she hastily added, seeing in his face the objection it

expressed, “but they did not reach me till thirteen months after the

battle of Eylau. They were opened, dirty, the writing was

unrecognizable; and after obtaining Napoleon’s signature to my second

marriage contract, I could not help believing that some clever

swindler wanted to make a fool of me. Therefore, to avoid disturbing

Monsieur Ferraud’s peace of mind, and disturbing family ties, I was

obliged to take precautions against a pretended Chabert. Was I not

right, I ask you?”

 

“Yes, you were right. It was I who was the idiot, the owl, the dolt,

not to have calculated better what the consequences of such a position

might be.—But where are we going?” he asked, seeing that they had

reached the barrier of La Chapelle.

 

“To my country house near Groslay, in the valley of Montmorency.

There, monsieur, we will consider the steps to be taken. I know my

duties. Though I am yours by right, I am no longer yours in fact. Can

you wish that we should become the talk of Paris? We need not inform

the public of a situation, which for me has its ridiculous side, and

let us preserve our dignity. You still love me,” she said, with a sad,

sweet gaze at the Colonel, “but have not I been authorized to form

other ties? In so strange a position, a secret voice bids me trust to

your kindness, which is so well known to me. Can I be wrong in taking

you as the sole arbiter of my fate? Be at once judge and party to the

suit. I trust in your noble character; you will be generous enough to

forgive me for the consequences of faults committed in innocence. I

may then confess to you: I love M. Ferraud. I believed that I had a

right to love him. I do not blush to make this confession to you; even

if it offends you, it does not disgrace us. I cannot conceal the

facts. When fate made me a widow, I was not a mother.”

 

The Colonel with a wave of his hand bid his wife be silent, and for a

mile and a half they sat without speaking a single word. Chabert could

fancy he saw the two little ones before him.

 

“Rosine.”

 

“Monsieur?”

 

“The dead are very wrong to come to life again.”

 

“Oh, monsieur, no, no! Do not think me ungrateful. Only, you find me a

lover, a mother, while you left me merely a wife. Though it is no

longer in my power to love, I know how much I owe you, and I can still

offer you all the affection of a daughter.”

 

“Rosine,” said the old man in a softened tone, “I no longer feel any

resentment against you. We will forget anything,” he added, with one

of those smiles which always reflect a noble soul; “I have not so

little delicacy as to demand the mockery of love from a wife who no

longer loves me.”

 

The Countess gave him a flashing look full of such deep gratitude that

poor Chabert would have been glad to sink again into his grave at

Eylau. Some men have a soul strong enough for such self-devotion, of

which the whole reward consists in the assurance that they have made

the person they love happy.

 

“My dear friend, we will talk all this over later when our hearts have

rested,” said the Countess.

 

The conversation turned to other subjects, for it was impossible to

dwell very long on this one. Though the couple came back again and

again to their singular position, either by some allusion or of

serious purpose, they had a delightful drive, recalling the events of

their former life together and the times of the Empire. The Countess

knew how to lend peculiar charm to her reminiscences, and gave the

conversation the tinge of melancholy that was needed to keep it

serious. She revived his love without awakening his desires, and

allowed her first husband to discern the mental wealth she had

acquired while trying to accustom him to moderate his pleasure to that

which a father may feel in the society of a favorite daughter.

 

The Colonel had known the Countess of the Empire; he found her a

Countess of the Restoration.

 

At last, by a cross-road, they arrived at the entrance to a large park

lying in the little valley which divides the heights of Margency from

the pretty village of Groslay. The Countess had there a delightful

house, where the Colonel on arriving found everything in readiness for

his stay there, as well as for his wife’s. Misfortune is a kind of

talisman whose virtue consists in its power to confirm our original

nature; in some men it increases their distrust and malignancy, just

as it improves the goodness of those who have a kind heart.

 

Sorrow had made the Colonel even more helpful and good than he had

always been, and he could understand some secrets of womanly distress

which are unrevealed to most men. Nevertheless, in spite of his loyal

trustfulness, he could not help saying to his wife:

 

“Then you felt