“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
