“To see the Countess come home from a ball or the play in the early morning, I have sat whole nights through, crouching close to the wall of her gateway. My eyes pierced the depths of the carriage, which flashed past me with the swiftness of lightning, and I caught a glimpse of the woman who is my wife and no longer mine. Oh, from that day I have lived for vengeance!” cried the old man in a hollow voice, and suddenly standing up in front of Derville. “She knows that I am alive; since my return she has had two letters written with my own hand. She loves me no more!—I—I know not whether I love or hate her. I long for her and curse her by turns. To me she owes all her fortune, all her happiness; well, she has not sent me the very smallest pittance. Sometimes I do not know what will become of me!”
With these words the veteran dropped on to his chair again and remained motionless. Derville sat in silence, studying his client.
“It is a serious business,” he said at length, mechanically. “Even granting the genuineness of the documents to be procured from Heilsberg, it is not proved to me that we can at once win our case. It must go before three tribunals in succession. I must think such a matter over with a clear head; it is quite exceptional.”
“Oh,” said the Colonel, coldly, with a haughty jerk of his head, “if I fail, I can die—but not alone.”
The feeble old man had vanished. The eyes were those of a man of energy, lighted up with the spark of desire and revenge.
“We must perhaps compromise,” said the lawyer.
“Compromise!” echoed Colonel Chabert. “Am I dead, or am I alive?”
“I hope, monsieur,” the attorney went on, “that you will follow my advice. Your cause is mine. You will soon perceive the interest I take in your situation, almost unexampled in judicial records. For the moment I will give you a letter to my notary, who will pay to your order fifty francs every ten days. It would be unbecoming for you to come here to receive alms. If you are Colonel Chabert, you ought to be at no man’s mercy. I shall record these advances as a loan; you have estates to recover; you are rich.”
This delicate compassion brought tears to the old man’s eyes. Derville rose hastily, for it was perhaps not correct for a lawyer to show emotion; he went into the adjoining room, and came back with an unsealed letter, which he gave to the Colonel. When the poor man held it in his hand, he felt through the paper two gold pieces.
“Will you be good enough to describe the documents, and tell me the name of the town, and in what kingdom?” said the lawyer.
The Colonel dictated the information, and verified the spelling of the names of places; then he took his hat in one hand, looked at Derville, and held out the other—a horny hand, saying with much simplicity:
“On my honor, sir, after the Emperor, you are the man to whom I shall owe most. You are a splendid fellow!”
The attorney clapped his hand into the Colonel’s, saw him to the stairs, and held a light for him.
“Boucard,” said Derville to his head clerk, “I have just listened to a tale that may cost me five and twenty louis. If I am robbed, I shall not regret the money, for I shall have seen the most consummate actor of the day.”
When the Colonel was in the street and close to a lamp, he took the two twenty-franc pieces out of the letter and looked at them for a moment under the light. It was the first gold he had seen for nine years.
“I may smoke cigars!” he said to himself.
About three months after this interview, at night, in Derville’s room, the notary commissioned to advance the half-pay on Derville’s account to his eccentric client, came to consult the attorney on a serious matter, and began by begging him to refund the six hundred francs that the old soldier had received.
“Are you amusing yourself with pensioning the old army?” said the notary, laughing—a young man named Crottat, who had just bought up the office in which he had been head clerk, his chief having fled in consequence of a disastrous bankruptcy.
“I have to thank you, my dear sir, for reminding me of that affair,” replied Derville. “My philanthropy will not carry me beyond twenty-five louis; I have, I fear, already been the dupe of my patriotism.”
As Derville finished the sentence, he saw on his desk the papers his head clerk had laid out for him. His eye was struck by the appearance of the stamps—long, square, and triangular, in red and blue ink, which distinguished a letter that had come through the Prussian, Austrian, Bavarian, and French post-offices.
“Ah ha!” said he with a laugh, “here is the last act of the comedy; now we shall see if I have been taken in!”
He took up the letter and opened it; but he could not read it; it was written in German.
“Boucard, go yourself and have this letter translated, and bring it back immediately,” said Derville, half
