Colonel Chabert - Honoré de Balzac (free books to read txt) 📗
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grave as naked as I came from my mother’s; so that six months
afterwards, when I remembered, one fine morning, that I had been
Colonel Chabert, and when, on recovering my wits, I tried to exact
from my nurse rather more respect than she paid to any poor devil, all
my companions in the ward began to laugh. Luckily for me, the surgeon,
out of professional pride, had answered for my cure, and was naturally
interested in his patient. When I told him coherently about my former
life, this good man, named Sparchmann, signed a deposition, drawn up
in the legal form of his country, giving an account of the miraculous
way in which I had escaped from the trench dug for the dead, the day
and hour when I had been found by my benefactress and her husband, the
nature and exact spot of my injuries, adding to these documents a
description of my person.
“Well, monsieur, I have neither these important pieces of evidence,
nor the declaration I made before a notary at Heilsberg, with a view
to establishing my identity. From the day when I was turned out of
that town by the events of the war, I have wandered about like a
vagabond, begging my bread, treated as a madman when I have told my
story, without ever having found or earned a sou to enable me to
recover the deeds which would prove my statements, and restore me to
society. My sufferings have often kept me for six months at a time in
some little town, where every care was taken of the invalid Frenchman,
but where he was laughed at to his face as soon as he said he was
Colonel Chabert. For a long time that laughter, those doubts, used to
put me into rages which did me harm, and which even led to my being
locked up at Stuttgart as a madman. And indeed, as you may judge from
my story, there was ample reason for shutting a man up.
“At the end of two years’ detention, which I was compelled to submit
to, after hearing my keepers say a thousand times, ‘Here is a poor man
who thinks he is Colonel Chabert’ to people who would reply, ‘Poor
fellow!’ I became convinced of the impossibility of my own adventure.
I grew melancholy, resigned, and quiet, and gave up calling myself
Colonel Chabert, in order to get out of my prison, and see France once
more. Oh, monsieur! To see Paris again was a delirium which I–-”
Without finishing his sentence, Colonel Chabert fell into a deep
study, which Derville respected.
“One fine day,” his visitor resumed, “one spring day, they gave me the
key of the fields, as we say, and ten thalers, admitting that I talked
quite sensibly on all subjects, and no longer called myself Colonel
Chabert. On my honor, at that time, and even to this day, sometimes I
hate my name. I wish I were not myself. The sense of my rights kills
me. If my illness had but deprived me of all memory of my past life, I
could be happy. I should have entered the service again under any
name, no matter what, and should, perhaps, have been made Field-Marshal in Austria or Russia. Who knows?”
“Monsieur,” said the attorney, “you have upset all my ideas. I feel as
if I heard you in a dream. Pause for a moment, I beg of you.”
“You are the only person,” said the Colonel, with a melancholy look,
“who ever listened to me so patiently. No lawyer has been willing to
lend me ten napoleons to enable me to procure from Germany the
necessary documents to begin my lawsuit—”
“What lawsuit?” said the attorney, who had forgotten his client’s
painful position in listening to the narrative of his past sufferings.
“Why, monsieur, is not the Comtesse Ferraud my wife? She has thirty
thousand francs a year, which belong to me, and she will not give me a
son. When I tell lawyers these things—men of sense; when I propose—
I, a beggar—to bring action against a Count and Countess; when I—a
dead man—bring up as against a certificate of death a certificate of
marriage and registers of births, they show me out, either with the
air of cold politeness, which you all know how to assume to rid
yourself of a hapless wretch, or brutally, like men who think they
have to deal with a swindler or a madman—it depends on their nature.
I have been buried under the dead; but now I am buried under the
living, under papers, under facts, under the whole of society, which
wants to shove me underground again!”
“Pray resume your narrative,” said Derville.
” ‘Pray resume it!’ ” cried the hapless old man, taking the young
lawyer’s hand. “That is the first polite word I have heard since–-”
The Colonel wept. Gratitude choked his voice. The appealing and
unutterable eloquence that lies in the eyes, in a gesture, even in
silence, entirely convinced Derville, and touched him deeply.
“Listen, monsieur,” said he; “I have this evening won three hundred
francs at cards. I may very well lay out half that sum in making a man
happy. I will begin the inquiries and researches necessary to obtain
the documents of which you speak, and until they arrive I will give
you five francs a day. If you are Colonel Chabert, you will pardon the
smallness of the loan as it is coming from a young man who has his
fortune to make. Proceed.”
The Colonel, as he called himself, sat for a moment motionless and
bewildered; the depth of his woes had no doubt destroyed his powers of
belief. Though he was eager in pursuit of his military distinction, of
his fortune, of himself, perhaps it was in obedience to the
inexplicable feeling, the latent germ in every man’s heart, to which
we owe the experiments of alchemists, the passion for glory, the
discoveries of astronomy and of physics, everything which prompts man
to expand his being by multiplying himself through deeds or ideas. In
his mind the Ego was now but a secondary object, just as the vanity
of success or the pleasures of winning become dearer to the gambler
than the object he has at stake. The young lawyer’s words were as a
miracle to this man, for ten years repudiated by his wife, by justice,
by the whole social creation. To find in a lawyer’s office the ten
gold pieces which had so long been refused him by so many people, and
in so many ways! The colonel was like the lady who, having been ill of
a fever for fifteen years, fancied she had some fresh complaint when
she was cured. There are joys in which we have ceased to believe; they
fall on us, it is like a thunderbolt; they burn us. The poor man’s
gratitude was too great to find utterance. To superficial observers he
seemed cold, but Derville saw complete honesty under this amazement. A
swindler would have found his voice.
“Where was I?” said the Colonel, with the simplicity of a child or of
a soldier, for there is often something of the child in a true
soldier, and almost always something of the soldier in a child,
especially in France.
“At Stuttgart. You were out of prison,” said Derville.
“You know my wife?” asked the Colonel.
“Yes,” said Derville, with a bow.
“What is she like?”
“Still quite charming.”
The old man held up his hand, and seemed to be swallowing down some
secret anguish with the grave and solemn resignation that is
characteristic of men who have stood the ordeal of blood and fire on
the battlefield.
“Monsieur,” said he, with a sort of cheerfulness—for he breathed
again, the poor Colonel; he had again risen from the grave; he had
just melted a covering of snow less easily thawed than that which had
once before frozen his head; and he drew a deep breath, as if he had
just escaped from a dungeon—“Monsieur, if I had been a handsome young
fellow, none of my misfortunes would have befallen me. Women believe
in men when they flavor their speeches with the word Love. They hurry
then, they come, they go, they are everywhere at once; they intrigue,
they assert facts, they play the very devil for a man who takes their
fancy. But how could I interest a woman? I had a face like a Requiem.
I was dressed like a sans-culotte. I was more like an Esquimaux than
a Frenchman—I, who had formerly been considered one of the smartest
of fops in 1799!—I, Chabert, Count of the Empire.
“Well, on the very day when I was turned out into the streets like a
dog, I met the quartermaster of whom I just now spoke. This old
soldier’s name was Boutin. The poor devil and I made the queerest pair
of broken-down hacks I ever set eyes on. I met him out walking; but
though I recognized him, he could not possibly guess who I was. We
went into a tavern together. In there, when I told him my name,
Boutin’s mouth opened from ear to ear in a roar of laughter, like the
bursting of a mortar. That mirth, monsieur, was one of the keenest
pangs I have known. It told me without disguise how great were the
changes in me! I was, then, unrecognizable even to the humblest and
most grateful of my former friends!
“I had once saved Boutin’s life, but it was only the repayment of a
debt I owed him. I need not tell you how he did me this service; it
was at Ravenna, in Italy. The house where Boutin prevented my being
stabbed was not extremely respectable. At that time I was not a
colonel, but, like Boutin himself, a common trooper. Happily there
were certain details of this adventure which could be known only to us
two, and when I recalled them to his mind his incredulity diminished.
I then told him the story of my singular experiences. Although my eyes
and my voice, he told me, were strangely altered, although I had
neither hair, teeth, nor eyebrows, and was as colorless as an Albino,
he at last recognized his Colonel in the beggar, after a thousand
questions, which I answered triumphantly.
“He related his adventures; they were not less extraordinary than my
own; he had lately come back from the frontiers of China, which he had
tried to cross after escaping from Siberia. He told me of the
catastrophe of the Russian campaign, and of Napoleon’s first
abdication. That news was one of the things which caused me most
anguish!
“We were two curious derelicts, having been rolled over the globe as
pebbles are rolled by the ocean when storms bear them from shore to
shore. Between us we had seen Egypt, Syria, Spain, Russia, Holland,
Germany, Italy and Dalmatia, England, China, Tartary, Siberia; the
only thing wanting was that neither of us had been to America or the
Indies. Finally, Boutin, who still was more locomotive than I,
undertook to go to Paris as quickly as might be to inform my wife of
the predicament in which I was. I wrote a long letter full of details
to Madame Chabert. That, monsieur, was the fourth! If I had had any
relations, perhaps nothing of all this might have happened; but, to be
frank with you, I am but a workhouse child, a soldier, whose sole
fortune was his courage, whose sole family is mankind at large, whose
country is France, whose only protector is the Almighty.—Nay, I am
wrong! I had a father—the
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