Colonel Chabert | Page 8

paused for a moment in amazement on seeing in the

dim light the strange client who awaited him. Colonel Chabert was as
absolutely immovable as one of the wax figures in Curtius' collection to
which Godeschal had proposed to treat his fellow-clerks. This
quiescence would not have been a subject for astonishment if it had not
completed the supernatural aspect of the man's whole person. The old
soldier was dry and lean. His forehead, intentionally hidden under a
smoothly combed wig, gave him a look of mystery. His eyes seemed
shrouded in a transparent film; you would have compared them to
dingy mother-of-pearl with a blue iridescence changing in the gleam of
the wax lights. His face, pale, livid, and as thin as a knife, if I may use
such a vulgar expression, was as the face of the dead. Round his neck
was a tight black silk stock.
Below the dark line of this rag the body was so completely hidden in
shadow that a man of imagination might have supposed the old head
was due to some chance play of light and shade, or have taken it for a
portrait by Rembrandt, without a frame. The brim of the hat which
covered the old man's brow cast a black line of shadow on the upper
part of the face. This grotesque effect, though natural, threw into relief
by contrast the white furrows, the cold wrinkles, the colorless tone of
the corpse-like countenance. And the absence of all movement in the
figure, of all fire in the eye, were in harmony with a certain look of
melancholy madness, and the deteriorating symptoms characteristic of
senility, giving the face an indescribably ill- starred look which no
human words could render.
But an observer, especially a lawyer, could also have read in this
stricken man the signs of deep sorrow, the traces of grief which had
worn into this face, as drops of water from the sky falling on fine
marble at last destroy its beauty. A physician, an author, or a judge
might have discerned a whole drama at the sight of its sublime horror,
while the least charm was its resemblance to the grotesques which
artists amuse themselves by sketching on a corner of the lithographic
stone while chatting with a friend.
On seeing the attorney, the stranger started, with the convulsive thrill
that comes over a poet when a sudden noise rouses him from a fruitful
reverie in silence and at night. The old man hastily removed his hat and
rose to bow to the young man; the leather lining of his hat was
doubtless very greasy; his wig stuck to it without his noticing it, and

left his head bare, showing his skull horribly disfigured by a scar
beginning at the nape of the neck and ending over the right eye, a
prominent seam all across his head. The sudden removal of the dirty
wig which the poor man wore to hide this gash gave the two lawyers no
inclination to laugh, so horrible to behold was this riven skull. The first
idea suggested by the sight of this old wound was, "His intelligence
must have escaped through that cut."
"If this is not Colonel Chabert, he is some thorough-going trooper!"
thought Boucard.
"Monsieur," said Derville, "to whom have I the honor of speaking?"
"To Colonel Chabert."
"Which?"
"He who was killed at Eylau," replied the old man.
On hearing this strange speech, the lawyer and his clerk glanced at each
other, as much as to say, "He is mad."
"Monsieur," the Colonel went on, "I wish to confide to you the secret
of my position."
A thing worthy of note is the natural intrepidity of lawyers. Whether
from the habit of receiving a great many persons, or from the deep
sense of the protection conferred on them by the law, or from
confidence in their missions, they enter everywhere, fearing nothing,
like priests and physicians. Derville signed to Boucard, who vanished.
"During the day, sir," said the attorney, "I am not so miserly of my time,
but at night every minute is precious. So be brief and concise. Go to the
facts without digression. I will ask for any explanations I may consider
necessary. Speak."
Having bid his strange client to be seated, the young man sat down at
the table; but while he gave his attention to the deceased Colonel, he
turned over the bundles of papers.
"You know, perhaps," said the dead man, "that I commanded a cavalry
regiment at Eylau. I was of important service to the success of Murat's
famous charge which decided the victory. Unhappily for me, my death
is a historical fact, recorded in /Victoires et Conquetes/, where it is
related in full detail. We cut through the three Russian lines, which