Ready for anything to attain her ends, she did not yet know what she was to do with this man; but at any rate she meant to annihilate him socially. On the evening of the third day she felt that in spite of her efforts she could not conceal her uneasiness as to the results of her manoeuvres. To give herself a minute’s reprieve she went up to her room, sat down before her writing-table, and laid aside the mask of composure which she wore in Chabert’s presence, like an actress who, returning to her dressing-room after a fatiguing fifth act, drops half dead, leaving with the audience an image of herself which she no longer resembles. She proceeded to finish a letter she had begun to Delbecq, whom she desired to go in her name and demand of Derville the deeds relating to Colonel Chabert, to copy them, and to come to her at once to Groslay. She had hardly finished when she heard the Colonel’s step in the passage; uneasy at her absence, he had come to look for her.
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “I wish I were dead! My position is intolerable …”
“Why, what is the matter?” asked the good man.
“Nothing, nothing!” she replied.
She rose, left the Colonel, and went down to speak privately to her maid, whom she sent off to Paris, impressing on her that she was herself to deliver to Delbecq the letter just written, and to bring it back to the writer as soon as he had read it. Then the Countess went out to sit on a bench sufficiently in sight for the Colonel to join her as soon as he might choose. The Colonel, who was looking for her, hastened up and sat down by her.
“Rosine,” said he, “what is the matter with you?”
She did not answer.
It was one of those glorious, calm evenings in the month of June, whose secret harmonies infuse such sweetness into the sunset. The air was clear, the stillness perfect, so that far away in the park they could hear the voices of some children, which added a kind of melody to the sublimity of the scene.
“You do not answer me?” the Colonel said to his wife.
“My husband—” said the Countess, who broke off, started a little, and with a blush stopped to ask him, “What am I to say when I speak of M. Ferraud?”
“Call him your husband, my poor child,” replied the Colonel, in a kind voice. “Is he not the father of your children?”
“Well, then,” she said, “if he should ask what I came here for, if he finds out that I came here, alone, with a stranger, what am I to say to him? Listen, monsieur,” she went on, assuming a dignified attitude, “decide my fate, I am resigned to anything—”
“My dear,” said the Colonel, taking possession of his wife’s hands, “I have made up my mind to sacrifice myself entirely for your happiness—”
“That is impossible!” she exclaimed, with a sudden spasmodic movement. “Remember that you would have to renounce your identity, and in an authenticated form.”
“What?” said the Colonel. “Is not my word enough for you?”
The word “authenticated” fell on the old man’s heart, and roused involuntary distrust. He looked at his wife in a way that made her color, she cast down her eyes, and he feared that he might find himself compelled to despise her. The Countess was afraid lest she had scared the shy modesty, the stern honesty, of a man whose generous temper and primitive virtues were known to her. Though these feelings had brought the clouds to her brow, they immediately recovered their harmony. This was the way of it. A child’s cry was heard in the distance.
“Jules, leave your sister in peace,” the Countess called out.
“What, are your children here?” said Chabert.
“Yes, but I told them not to trouble you.”
The old soldier understood the delicacy, the womanly tact of so gracious a precaution, and took the Countess’ hand to kiss it.
“But let them come,” said he.
The little girl ran up to complain of her brother.
“Mamma!”
“Mamma!”
“It was Jules—”
“It was her—”
Their little hands were held out to their mother, and the two childish voices mingled; it was an unexpected and charming picture.
“Poor little things!” cried the Countess, no longer restraining her tears, “I shall have to leave them. To whom will the law assign them? A mother’s heart cannot be divided; I want them, I want them.”
“Are you making mamma cry?” said Jules, looking fiercely at the Colonel.
“Silence, Jules!” said the mother in a decided tone.
The two children stood speechless, examining their mother and the stranger with a curiosity which it is impossible to express in words.
“Oh yes!” she cried. “If I am separated from the Count, only leave me my children, and I will submit to anything …”
This was the decisive speech which gained all that she had hoped from it.
“Yes,” exclaimed the Colonel, as if he were ending a sentence already begun in his mind, “I must return underground again. I had told myself so already.”
“Can I accept such a sacrifice?” replied his wife. “If some men have died to save a mistress’ honor, they gave their life but once. But in this case you would be giving your life every day. No, no. It is impossible. If it were only your
