Colonel Chabert - Honoré de Balzac (free books to read txt) 📗
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woman. Now, what frightens women most? A woman is afraid of nothing
but …”
And he set to work to study the Countess’ position, falling into one
of those brown studies to which great politicians give themselves up
when concocting their own plans and trying to guess the secrets of a
hostile Cabinet. Are not attorneys, in a way, statesmen in charge of
private affairs?
But a brief survey of the situation in which the Comte Ferraud and his
wife now found themselves is necessary for a comprehension of the
lawyer’s cleverness.
Monsieur le Comte Ferraud was the only son of a former Councillor in
the old Parlement of Paris, who had emigrated during the Reign of
Terror, and so, though he saved his head, lost his fortune. He came
back under the Consulate, and remained persistently faithful to the
cause of Louis XVIII., in whose circle his father had moved before the
Revolution. He thus was one of the party in the Faubourg Saint-Germain
which nobly stood out against Napoleon’s blandishments. The reputation
for capacity gained by the young Count—then simply called Monsieur
Ferraud—made him the object of the Emperor’s advances, for he was
often as well pleased at his conquests among the aristocracy as at
gaining a battle. The Count was promised the restitution of his title,
of such of his estates as had not been sold, and he was shown in
perspective a place in the ministry or as senator.
The Emperor fell.
At the time of Comte Chabert’s death, M. Ferraud was a young man of
six-and-twenty, without a fortune, of pleasing appearance, who had had
his successes, and whom the Faubourg Saint-Germain had adopted as
doing it credit; but Madame la Comtesse Chabert had managed to turn
her share of her husband’s fortune to such good account that, after
eighteen months of widowhood, she had about forty thousand francs a
year. Her marriage to the young Count was not regarded as news in the
circles of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Napoleon, approving of this
union, which carried out his idea of fusion, restored to Madame
Chabert the money falling to the Exchequer under her husband’s will;
but Napoleon’s hopes were again disappointed. Madame Ferraud was not
only in love with her lover; she had also been fascinated by the
notion of getting into the haughty society which, in spite of its
humiliation, was still predominant at the Imperial Court. By this
marriage all her vanities were as much gratified as her passions. She
was to become a real fine lady. When the Faubourg Saint-Germain
understood that the young Count’s marriage did not mean desertion, its
drawing-rooms were thrown open to his wife.
Then came the Restoration. The Count’s political advancement was not
rapid. He understood the exigencies of the situation in which Louis
XVIII. found himself; he was one of the inner circle who waited till
the “Gulf of Revolution should be closed”—for this phrase of the
King’s, at which the Liberals laughed so heartily, had a political
sense. The order quoted in the long lawyer’s preamble at the beginning
of this story had, however, put him in possession of two tracts of
forest, and of an estate which had considerably increased in value
during its sequestration. At the present moment, though Comte Ferraud
was a Councillor of State, and a Director-General, he regarded his
position as merely the first step of his political career.
Wholly occupied as he was by the anxieties of consuming ambition, he
had attached to himself, as secretary, a ruined attorney named
Delbecq, a more than clever man, versed in all the resources of the
law, to whom he left the conduct of his private affairs. This shrewd
practitioner had so well understood his position with the Count as to
be honest in his own interest. He hoped to get some place by his
master’s influence, and he made the Count’s fortune his first care.
His conduct so effectually gave the lie to his former life, that he
was regarded as a slandered man. The Countess, with the tact and
shrewdness of which most women have a share more or less, understood
the man’s motives, watched him quietly, and managed him so well, that
she had made good use of him for the augmentation of her private
fortune. She had contrived to make Delbecq believe that she ruled her
husband, and had promised to get him appointed President of an
inferior court in some important provincial town, if he devoted
himself entirely to her interests.
The promise of a place, not dependent on changes of ministry, which
would allow of his marrying advantageously, and rising subsequently to
a high political position, by being chosen Depute, made Delbecq the
Countess’ abject slave. He had never allowed her to miss one of those
favorable chances which the fluctuations of the Bourse and the
increased value of property afforded to clever financiers in Paris
during the first three years after the Restoration. He had trebled his
protectress’ capital, and all the more easily because the Countess had
no scruples as to the means which might make her an enormous fortune
as quickly as possible. The emoluments derived by the Count from the
places he held she spent on the housekeeping, so as to reinvest her
dividends; and Delbecq lent himself to these calculations of avarice
without trying to account for her motives. People of that sort never
trouble themselves about any secrets of which the discovery is not
necessary to their own interests. And, indeed, he naturally found the
reason in the thirst for money, which taints almost every Parisian
woman; and as a fine fortune was needed to support the pretensions of
Comte Ferraud, the secretary sometimes fancied that he saw in the
Countess’ greed a consequence of her devotion to a husband with whom
she still was in love. The Countess buried the secrets of her conduct
at the bottom of her heart. There lay the secrets of life and death to
her, there lay the turning-point of this history.
At the beginning of the year 1818 the Restoration was settled on an
apparently immovable foundation; its doctrines of government, as
understood by lofty minds, seemed calculated to bring to France an era
of renewed prosperity, and Parisian society changed its aspect. Madame
la Comtesse Ferraud found that by chance she had achieved for love a
marriage that had brought her fortune and gratified ambition. Still
young and handsome, Madame Ferraud played the part of a woman of
fashion, and lived in the atmosphere of the Court. Rich herself, with
a rich husband who was cried up as one of the ablest men of the
royalist party, and, as a friend of the King, certain to be made
Minister, she belonged to the aristocracy, and shared its
magnificence. In the midst of this triumph she was attacked by a moral
canker. There are feelings which women guess in spite of the care men
take to bury them. On the first return of the King, Comte Ferraud had
begun to regret his marriage. Colonel Chabert’s widow had not been the
means of allying him to anybody; he was alone and unsupported in
steering his way in a course full of shoals and beset by enemies.
Also, perhaps, when he came to judge his wife coolly, he may have
discerned in her certain vices of education which made her unfit to
second him in his schemes.
A speech he made, a propos of Talleyrand’s marriage, enlightened the
Countess, to whom it proved that if he had still been a free man she
would never have been Madame Ferraud. What woman could forgive this
repentance? Does it not include the germs of every insult, every
crime, every form of repudiation? But what a wound must it have left
in the Countess’ heart, supposing that she lived in the dread of her
first husband’s return? She had known that he still lived, and she had
ignored him. Then during the time when she had heard no more of him,
she had chosen to believe that he had fallen at Waterloo with the
Imperial Eagle, at the same time as Boutin. She resolved,
nevertheless, to bind the Count to her by the strongest of all ties,
by a chain of gold, and vowed to be so rich that her fortune might
make her second marriage dissoluble, if by chance Colonel Chabert
should ever reappear. And he had reappeared; and she could not explain
to herself why the struggle she had dreaded had not already begun.
Suffering, sickness, had perhaps delivered her from that man. Perhaps
he was half mad, and Charenton might yet do her justice. She had not
chosen to take either Delbecq or the police into her confidence, for
fear of putting herself in their power, or of hastening the
catastrophe. There are in Paris many women who, like the Countess
Ferraud, live with an unknown moral monster, or on the brink of an
abyss; a callus forms over the spot that tortures them, and they can
still laugh and enjoy themselves.
“There is something very strange in Comte Ferraud’s position,” said
Derville to himself, on emerging from his long reverie, as his cab
stopped at the door of the Hotel Ferraud in the Rue de Varennes. “How
is it that he, so rich as he is, and such a favorite with the King, is
not yet a peer of France? It may, to be sure, be true that the King,
as Mme. de Grandlieu was telling me, desires to keep up the value of
the pairie by not bestowing it right and left. And, after all, the
son of a Councillor of the Parlement is not a Crillon nor a Rohan. A
Comte Ferraud can only get into the Upper Chamber surreptitiously. But
if his marriage were annulled, could he not get the dignity of some
old peer who has only daughters transferred to himself, to the King’s
great satisfaction? At any rate this will be a good bogey to put
forward and frighten the Countess,” thought he as he went up the
steps.
Derville had without knowing it laid his finger on the hidden wound,
put his hand on the canker that consumed Madame Ferraud.
She received him in a pretty winter dining-room, where she was at
breakfast, while playing with a monkey tethered by a chain to a little
pole with climbing bars of iron. The Countess was in an elegant
wrapper; the curls of her hair, carelessly pinned up, escaped from a
cap, giving her an arch look. She was fresh and smiling. Silver,
gilding, and mother-of-pearl shone on the table, and all about the
room were rare plants growing in magnificent china jars. As he saw
Colonel Chabert’s wife, rich with his spoil, in the lap of luxury and
the height of fashion, while he, poor wretch, was living with a poor
dairyman among the beasts, the lawyer said to himself:
“The moral of all this is that a pretty woman will never acknowledge
as her husband, nor even as a lover, a man in an old box-coat, a tow
wig, and boots with holes in them.”
A mischievous and bitter smile expressed the feelings, half
philosophical and half satirical, which such a man was certain to
experience—a man well situated to know the truth of things in spite
of the lies behind which most families in Paris hide their mode of
life.
“Good-morning, Monsieur Derville,” said she, giving the monkey some
coffee to drink.
“Madame,” said he, a little sharply, for the light tone in which she
spoke jarred on him. “I have come to speak with you on a very serious
matter.”
“I am so grieved, M. le Comte is away—”
“I, madame, am delighted. It would be grievous if he could
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