Colonel Chabert - Honoré de Balzac (free books to read txt) 📗
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shadow that a man of imagination might have supposed the old head was
due to some chance play of light and shade, or have taken it for a
portrait by Rembrandt, without a frame. The brim of the hat which
covered the old man’s brow cast a black line of shadow on the upper
part of the face. This grotesque effect, though natural, threw into
relief by contrast the white furrows, the cold wrinkles, the colorless
tone of the corpse-like countenance. And the absence of all movement
in the figure, of all fire in the eye, were in harmony with a certain
look of melancholy madness, and the deteriorating symptoms
characteristic of senility, giving the face an indescribably ill-starred look which no human words could render.
But an observer, especially a lawyer, could also have read in this
stricken man the signs of deep sorrow, the traces of grief which had
worn into this face, as drops of water from the sky falling on fine
marble at last destroy its beauty. A physician, an author, or a judge
might have discerned a whole drama at the sight of its sublime horror,
while the least charm was its resemblance to the grotesques which
artists amuse themselves by sketching on a corner of the lithographic
stone while chatting with a friend.
On seeing the attorney, the stranger started, with the convulsive
thrill that comes over a poet when a sudden noise rouses him from a
fruitful reverie in silence and at night. The old man hastily removed
his hat and rose to bow to the young man; the leather lining of his
hat was doubtless very greasy; his wig stuck to it without his
noticing it, and left his head bare, showing his skull horribly
disfigured by a scar beginning at the nape of the neck and ending over
the right eye, a prominent seam all across his head. The sudden
removal of the dirty wig which the poor man wore to hide this gash
gave the two lawyers no inclination to laugh, so horrible to behold
was this riven skull. The first idea suggested by the sight of this
old wound was, “His intelligence must have escaped through that cut.”
“If this is not Colonel Chabert, he is some thorough-going trooper!”
thought Boucard.
“Monsieur,” said Derville, “to whom have I the honor of speaking?”
“To Colonel Chabert.”
“Which?”
“He who was killed at Eylau,” replied the old man.
On hearing this strange speech, the lawyer and his clerk glanced at
each other, as much as to say, “He is mad.”
“Monsieur,” the Colonel went on, “I wish to confide to you the secret
of my position.”
A thing worthy of note is the natural intrepidity of lawyers. Whether
from the habit of receiving a great many persons, or from the deep
sense of the protection conferred on them by the law, or from
confidence in their missions, they enter everywhere, fearing nothing,
like priests and physicians. Derville signed to Boucard, who vanished.
“During the day, sir,” said the attorney, “I am not so miserly of my
time, but at night every minute is precious. So be brief and concise.
Go to the facts without digression. I will ask for any explanations I
may consider necessary. Speak.”
Having bid his strange client to be seated, the young man sat down at
the table; but while he gave his attention to the deceased Colonel, he
turned over the bundles of papers.
“You know, perhaps,” said the dead man, “that I commanded a cavalry
regiment at Eylau. I was of important service to the success of
Murat’s famous charge which decided the victory. Unhappily for me, my
death is a historical fact, recorded in Victoires et Conquetes,
where it is related in full detail. We cut through the three Russian
lines, which at once closed up and formed again, so that we had to
repeat the movement back again. At the moment when we were nearing the
Emperor, after having scattered the Russians, I came against a
squadron of the enemy’s cavalry. I rushed at the obstinate brutes. Two
Russian officers, perfect giants, attacked me both at once. One of
them gave me a cut across the head that crashed through everything,
even a black silk cap I wore next my head, and cut deep into the
skull. I fell from my horse. Murat came up to support me. He rode over
my body, he and all his men, fifteen hundred of them—there might have
been more! My death was announced to the Emperor, who as a precaution
—for he was fond of me, was the master—wished to know if there were
no hope of saving the man he had to thank for such a vigorous attack.
He sent two surgeons to identify me and bring me into Hospital,
saying, perhaps too carelessly, for he was very busy, ‘Go and see
whether by any chance poor Chabert is still alive.’ These rascally
saw-bones, who had just seen me lying under the hoofs of the horses of
two regiments, no doubt did not trouble themselves to feel my pulse,
and reported that I was quite dead. The certificate of death was
probably made out in accordance with the rules of military
jurisprudence.”
As he heard his visitor express himself with complete lucidity, and
relate a story so probable though so strange, the young lawyer ceased
fingering the papers, rested his left elbow on the table, and with his
head on his hand looked steadily at the Colonel.
“Do you know, monsieur, that I am lawyer to the Countess Ferraud,” he
said, interrupting the speaker, “Colonel Chabert’s widow?”
“My wife—yes monsieur. Therefore, after a hundred fruitless attempts
to interest lawyers, who have all thought me mad, I made up my mind to
come to you. I will tell you of my misfortunes afterwards; for the
present, allow me to prove the facts, explaining rather how things
must have fallen out rather than how they did occur. Certain
circumstances, known, I suppose to no one but the Almighty, compel me
to speak of some things as hypothetical. The wounds I had received
must presumably have produced tetanus, or have thrown me into a state
analogous to that of a disease called, I believe, catalepsy. Otherwise
how is it conceivable that I should have been stripped, as is the
custom in time of the war, and thrown into the common grave by the men
ordered to bury the dead?
“Allow me here to refer to a detail of which I could know nothing till
after the event, which, after all, I must speak of as my death. At
Stuttgart, in 1814, I met an old quartermaster of my regiment. This
dear fellow, the only man who chose to recognize me, and of whom I
will tell you more later, explained the marvel of my preservation, by
telling me that my horse was shot in the flank at the moment when I
was wounded. Man and beast went down together, like a monk cut out of
card-paper. As I fell, to the right or to the left, I was no doubt
covered by the body of my horse, which protected me from being
trampled to death or hit by a ball.
“When I came to myself, monsieur, I was in a position and an
atmosphere of which I could give you no idea if I talked till
to-morrow. the little air there was to breathe was foul. I wanted to
move, and found no room. I opened my eyes, and saw nothing. The most
alarming circumstance was the lack of air, and this enlightened me as
to my situation. I understood that no fresh air could penetrate to me,
and that I must die. This thought took off the sense of intolerable
pain which had aroused me. There was a violent singing in my ears. I
heard—or I thought I heard, I will assert nothing—groans from the
world of dead among whom I was lying. Some nights I still think I hear
those stifled moans; though the remembrance of that time is very
obscure, and my memory very indistinct, in spite of my impressions of
far more acute suffering I was fated to go through, and which have
confused my ideas.
“But there was something more awful than cries; there was a silence
such as I have never known elsewhere—literally, the silence of the
grave. At last, by raising my hands and feeling the dead, I discerned
a vacant space between my head and the human carrion above. I could
thus measure the space, granted by a chance of which I knew not the
cause. It would seem that, thanks to the carelessness and the haste
with which we had been pitched into the trench, two dead bodies had
leaned across and against each other, forming an angle like that made
by two cards when a child is building a card castle. Feeling about me
at once, for there was no time for play, I happily felt an arm lying
detached, the arm of a Hercules! A stout bone, to which I owed my
rescue. But for this unhoped-for help, I must have perished. But with
a fury you may imagine, I began to work my way through the bodies
which separated me from the layer of earth which had no doubt been
thrown over us—I say us, as if there had been others living! I worked
with a will, monsieur, for here I am! But to this day I do not know
how I succeeded in getting through the pile of flesh which formed a
barrier between me and life. You will say I had three arms. This
crowbar, which I used cleverly enough, opened out a little air between
the bodies I moved, and I economized my breath. At last I saw
daylight, but through snow!
“At that moment I perceived that my head was cut open. Happily my
blood, or that of my comrades, or perhaps the torn skin of my horse,
who knows, had in coagulating formed a sort of natural plaster. But,
in spite of it, I fainted away when my head came into contact with the
snow. However, the little warmth left in me melted the snow about me;
and when I recovered consciousness, I found myself in the middle of a
round hole, where I stood shouting as long as I could. But the sun was
rising, so I had very little chance of being heard. Was there any one
in the fields yet? I pulled myself up, using my feet as a spring,
resting on one of the dead, whose ribs were firm. You may suppose that
this was not the moment for saying, ‘Respect courage in misfortune!’
In short, monsieur, after enduring the anguish, if the word is strong
enough for my frenzy, of seeing for a long time, yes, quite a long
time, those cursed Germans flying from a voice they heard where they
could see no one, I was dug out by a woman, who was brave or curious
enough to come close to my head, which must have looked as though it
had sprouted from the ground like a mushroom. This woman went to fetch
her husband, and between them they got me to their poor hovel.
“It would seem that I must have again fallen into a catalepsy—allow
me to use the word to describe a state of which I have no idea, but
which, from the account given by my hosts, I suppose to have been the
effect of that malady. I remained for six months between life and
death; not speaking, or, if I spoke, talking in delirium. At last, my
hosts got me admitted to the hospital at Heilsberg.
“You
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