Class HS G 35 
 
 BookJZiiaJilUS 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSTT. 
 
/ - H 
 
 (olonel (Tiabert, >c 
 
 
 
 "pie j^ajor. 
 
 BY 
 
 0,, l) HOLDSHIP. 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 PREFACE, .... 
 THE MAJOR, . . . 
 COLONEL CHABERT, 
 
 Page. 
 
 TMP96-006399 
 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In regard to ' ' Colonel Chabert, ' ' I would preface 
 that it is a dramatization of Balzac's tale, "Z<? 
 Colonel Chabert" a short story in his u Scenes de 
 la vie privee." I have endeavored to retain the 
 original wording and arrangement as much as 
 possible, especially in the character of Colonel 
 Chabert, but in many instances have been com- 
 pelled to alter and omit in order to meet the neces- 
 sities of dramatic action. I would also add that 
 some time after this drama had been commenced — 
 the entire work having been planned and partly 
 executed in the latter part of 1890 — I was advised 
 that a similar work was in preparation for the 
 French stage. Whether this latter has ever been 
 completed I am not aware. 
 
 As to "The Major," being intended for a lever 
 du rideau, its position is, of course, proper. I feel 
 this apology is due Balzac for placing my own com- 
 position before his masterly characterization. 
 
 December, 1892. 
 
the: major. 
 
 AN ORIGINAL COMEDY 
 
 ONE ACT. 
 
 V7 lc t2 X } 
 
 G. I. HOLDSHIP. 
 
Copyright 1892. 
 
 BY 
 
 G. I. Holbship. 
 
THE MAJOR 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Major Bowendale. 
 
 Henry Lawson. 
 
 Dick Lawson, his son. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. 
 
 Alice Larrimar, her daughter. 
 
 Scene — Larrimer summer residence at the seaside. House 
 at left center. Lawn and walks to front and back. Rocking- 
 chair and hammock on porch. Cushions on steps. Garden 
 seat to right. 
 
 Time — The present. 
 
THE MAJOR. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar discovered seated in rocking chair on porch 
 sewing. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — James! James! Do come out 
 .here, instead of stewing yourself up in that close 
 room. The breeze out here is delightful. James! 
 Do you hear? Bless me, the dear man is so intent 
 on his book that he has probably forgotten that he 
 has such a thing as a wife. Well, that is what it is 
 to marry a student. There he sits day after day 
 and night after night, wearing his dear old eyes out 
 over his precious Greek roots, or his Egyptian 
 hieroglyphics, and totally forgets that he ever had 
 such troublesome things as a wife and daughter. 
 By the way, where is Alice? I haven't seen her 
 since luncheon, and it must be nearly four now. 
 She said she w r as going for a walk — down to the 
 hotel, probably. Dear me, what a hole! How on 
 earth do men make such holes in their socks? In 
 the heel, too. How uncomfortable it must have 
 been. But then, I don't suppose he knew he was 
 uncomfortable, or if he did he thought it was a 
 Greek root that troubled him. Now, if Robert 
 hasn't forgotten to water that hanging basket. 
 The earth is as dry as punk, I can see from where 
 I sit. I must — oh! You nasty little beast ! (start- 
 ing up, dropping her work, and brushing wildly at 
 the back of her neck.) Ugh! I would rather meet a 
 
10 THE MAJOR. 
 
 wild hyena than one of those long-legged animals. 
 {enter Alice from right.) 
 
 Alice. — Why, mother dear, what is the matter? 
 You have dropped all your work. Wait, let me do 
 it. (she picks up basket.) 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — Thank you, dear. It was 
 one of those daddy-long-legs. You know I never 
 could bear even the thought of one. Oh, you may. 
 laugh. I know it's very foolish of me, but the 
 moment one touches me I feel as if someone were 
 scraping my backbone with a knife. Ugh! {she 
 shudders and rubs the back of her neck.) I feel the 
 beast yet. Did you have a nice walk, dear? It 
 must have been very hot in the sun. Where did 
 you go ? 
 
 Alice. — Oh, I went down to see Jenny, but her 
 husband came last night, so I didn't get much good 
 of her. The way she dotes on that man is wonder- 
 ful, considering she was going to be so independent 
 and do so much when she was at school. So I 
 gave her up to her husband and sent them both out 
 for a walk, and played with the baby. She is get- 
 ting sweeter every day, the baby, I mean, and I 
 tell Jenny I am going to run off with it some day. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — Bless me, child, you would 
 be a pretty one to take charge of a baby. It 
 would be all very well while it is laughing and 
 crowing, but just let it get an attack of the colic, 
 and you would be stuffing it up the chimney or in 
 the icebox. You are the sweetest little daughter 
 
THE MAJOR. 11 
 
 in the world, but you are just like your father, 
 dear man, and you both know more about Greek 
 than you do about babies, and can work a problem 
 in algebra quicker than you could darn a stocking. 
 
 Alice. — It's a slander. I can darn a stocking, 
 too. Here, give me that stocking instantly, and 
 let me prove it to you. {she tries to take the sock 
 from her mother.) 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — No, no. I have nearly fin- 
 ished this one and I don't want to have to rip it out 
 again. Try one of your own stockings in the bas- 
 ket, if you must do it. Dear knows there are 
 enough holes in them. There, take that one. 
 There is the needle. Now, get to work. If you 
 darn that stocking, and wear it afterwards, why, I 
 can say you are a genius. 
 
 Alice {darning.) — Why, of course I can do 
 it. You put the knot here, then run over and 
 catch this side, then back again, over, and back. 
 Why, it's as easy as rolling off a log. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar {inspecting her work.) — Yes, 
 rolling off a log is supposed to be very easy. And 
 so it is — to roll off, but the hard part is to roll off 
 so you don't hurt yourself. And I am afraid, my 
 dear, if you were to put that on you would think 
 you had a log in your shoe, from the size of the 
 knot. In the first place, you don'c make any knot 
 in darning, and in the next place you shouldn't run 
 your threads so far apart. That would do very 
 well for a mosquito bar, but I am afraid it will 
 
 hardly do for a stocking. 
 
12 THE MAJOR. 
 
 Voice in the House (in a very loud tone.) — 
 Now, where is my pipe ? I had it a moment ago, 
 and now it's gone. Harriet, have yon seen it? 
 
 Mrs. Larrimer. — He has lost his pipe now. 
 Poor fellow, how these little things do worry him, 
 when he notices them. He probably has it in his 
 month, and it has gone ont. Yes dear, I am com- 
 ing, (she goes in house.) 
 
 Alice. — Mother is the sweetest woman. Every- 
 thing she does is just right, and she makes every- 
 body feel so comfortable without the least effort on 
 her part. And she doesn't have to know Greek to 
 do it, either. I wish I were more like her. I have 
 gone through college, but I can't darn a stocking 
 the way she does. I shall have to learn, though, 
 if I marry Dick, (she works violently for some 
 moments. ) Poor Dick ! He dees so hate the Major! 
 I can't help teasing him a little when he shows 
 his dislike so plainly, and then the Major is such a 
 conceited man. He never imagines anyone could 
 quiz him. But for the very absurdity of the thing 
 one would think that he is in love with me, — or 
 papa's money. I have thought several times he 
 was going to propose to me, but I am not going to 
 let him do that if I can help it. Well, I don't 
 think that's as well done as it might be. Why it's 
 rough and drawn up like that I can't imagine. 
 (she looks at it gravely.) No, I don't think I should 
 like to wear that. It doesn't look comfortable. In 
 fact, it looks decidedly uncomfortable. I think I'll 
 let mother finish that, (she throws it in basket, 
 
THE MAJOR. 13 
 
 and rises.) I do so love flowers, and Robert has 
 such nice ones. He will hardly let me smell them, 
 though, he is so careful with them. Who is that 
 coming up the walk ? Why, it's the Major. He 
 seems to be in a hurry, too. Dear me, I am not fit 
 to be seen. I must run. (she runs hurriedly in 
 house with sewing basket. Enter Major immed- 
 iately after.) 
 
 Major. — She has gone in. I thought I would 
 have caught her here, but I am too late. She 
 could not have seen me. Yet stay ! Can she sus- 
 pect ? No, I have been too circumspect. Men may 
 find out that my feelings are not warlike ; that I 
 am not ferocious ; that my outward seeming is but 
 assumed. But with women I may play my part 
 without danger of discovery. Nay, I must retain 
 the reputation I have gained with them. The 
 stake is too great. If weakness threatens to over- 
 come me the thought of her, 
 
 Fair vision of delight, 
 
 The loadstone of my life, 
 Thy presence stays the wight 
 
 Who woes thee for his wife. 
 
 Poetry! (lie starts and looks around.) Have I 
 betrayed myself? No, I am alone. Alone ! Then 
 let me feast my hungering soul on that forbidden 
 fruit. Away, away, my thoughts. Seek then thy 
 native heights, far as the eagle soars from the 
 things of this mundane life. Ah, no, they cannot 
 fly, weighed down by sordid cares. Oh, my curses 
 on the uncle, who, before my race began, laid out 
 
14 THE MAJOR. 
 
 my course of life to be that of a military man. A 
 hero, leader, conqueror of the soil, such must I be. 
 Oh, harsh decree, from which my heart, my mind, 
 my soul recoil. Guns were my toys. Pistols, 
 swords and cannon forced upon me ; lulled to sleep 
 by martial music ; wakened by the trumpet's call — 
 Oh ! This, this for me, whose thoughts soar to 
 those heights unknown to the common herd, where 
 genius may mate with genius and exchange divine 
 thoughts of harmony ! But I am restrained by the 
 dire thought of poverty. My uncle's will, — poetic 
 thought, horrible reality, — this deters me. A 
 Major, I am rich ; a poet, I am a beggar. An 
 envious cousin watches me ; detectives dog my foot- 
 steps, seeking to catch me unawares. In secret 
 only may I indulge in flights of fancy, brief moments 
 of delight. Then must I don this hated garb, and 
 be dissimulation's self. Ah, wealth, what a price 
 I pay for thee, but without thee I cannot live. I 
 have one hope, — to marry an heiress, and be re- 
 leased from this bondage. She is my choice, and 
 it is for this that I am here to-day, to place my life, 
 my happiness in her hands, myself at her feet. Yes, 
 I have decided. This day must be my day of fate. 
 I will no longer let my coward heart shrink from 
 its task as it has so often done. My knees shall 
 not tremble when she is near me, and my tongue 
 shall utter the words it has so often refused to speak. 
 
 Voice in HOUSE {in a very loud tone.) — Stupid 
 fool that I was ! Where have my eyes been? I see 
 it plainly now. 
 
THE MAJOR. 15 
 
 Major. — Her father! Can he suspect? Have I 
 betrayed myself before him ? No, he has never 
 seen me. And then he is a scholar. He knows 
 nothing beyond his book. I am safe with him. 
 Ha! Who is that coming up the road? A man 
 and coming here! Now, Major, show thyself. 
 Hm ! An oath, a military oath, to restore my war- 
 like humor. Brrrr! Ten thousand devils! 
 What's this! What's this ! Damme, sir! Ah, 
 that has the true ring. Now I feel that I can face 
 a man. (he stands near steps. Enter Dick whist- 
 ling. He zualks to the steps without observing the 
 Major.) 
 
 Dick \ ^ Qnce f The devil ! That fool ! 
 Major j 1 Zounds ! My rival ! 
 
 (they draw apart and frown at each other.) 
 
 Major. — Sir, sir ! What were you pleased to 
 say? Well, well, sir ! I am waiting. 
 
 Dick (turning cue ay). — Pshaw ! 
 
 Major — Pshaw, sir! pshaw! Damme, sir, what 
 do you mean by pshaw? Ten thousand imps of 
 hades, sir! Do you take me for a cowardly civil- 
 ian like yourself, sir? Do you know, sir, we sol- 
 diers are accustomed to shoot men for less than 
 pshaw? Pshaw, indeed! 
 
 Dick (aside.) — I must keep my temper. I am 
 not going to quarrel with this fellow. 
 
 Major (aside.) — Have I overdone it? I must 
 not go too for, or he may fight. Ha, no! He turns 
 away. He is afraid. Then let me go for him. 
 
16 THE MAJOR. 
 
 (aloud.) Well, sir, no answer? Damme, sir! Is 
 this contempt yon put upon me, or is it the craven 
 fear of a country lout ? (Dick walks to right. Ma- 
 jor follows.) Ho! Not so fast, sir. You cannot 
 escape me thus. If country boys will insult an 
 officer they must take the consequences. 
 
 Dick (aside.) — Why doesn't somebody come? 
 I know my temper will get the better of me in a 
 few moments, and I don't want to quarrel with 
 him, here, at least. And I can't leave him either, 
 or he would boast all over the place that he had 
 frightened me away. 
 
 Major (aside.) — Safe yet. He shows no sign 
 of fight, (aloud.) What, silent yet, sir? Why, 
 damme — but no, he is only a boy, and I must not 
 take his silly speech in earnest, here of all places. 
 Go, boy, the place protects you. 
 
 Dick. — This is too much, (rushes forward and 
 seises the Major by the collar.) You miserable, lit- 
 tle imitation of a man! If you were worth the 
 trouble I would cowhide you until the skin came 
 off. Bah! (releasing him.) Getaway, and don't 
 tempt me. 
 
 Major (aside.) — I have escaped alive. I see 
 that I have gone too far. Shall I apologize ? No, 
 that would be my undoing. I must act injured in- 
 nocence, (aloud, limping.) Young man, you 
 have shaken me, crumpled my collar, shown me 
 personal violence. But it is not the mere pain of 
 the bruises that hurts me, for what are bruises to a 
 veteran like myself? 
 
THE MAJOR. 17 
 
 Dick (aside.) — What does the fool mean ? 
 
 Major. — No, it is not that, for perhaps my sol- 
 dier's temper, my brnsk manner, annoyed yon. It 
 is the thought that in this place, the habitation of 
 an angel, I am not secure from your violence, the 
 violence of your jealousy. What would she say 
 if she were to find out how you have abused me ? 
 
 Dick. — Oh, say, come, now! Don't you think 
 you are turning things around? I was under the 
 impression that you were abusing me. How about 
 the cowardly country boy, the country lout, the 
 other little pet names I heard ? 
 
 Major. — But violence — assault upon my per- 
 son? W T hat would Miss Larrimar say to that? 
 
 Dick (aside.) — She would never forgive me if 
 she found out I had shaken up her pet Major. Con- 
 found the fellow! I must pacify him somehow. 
 (aloud.) See here, Major, I acknowledge that I 
 let my temper get the better of me, and — and I re- 
 gret having shaken you up the way I did. 
 
 Major (aside.) — He weakens. {a load.) To 
 take me by the collar and shake me like a dog. 
 Ha! This is nice, indeed! 
 
 Dick. — Come, come, Major, shake hands with 
 me, and forget it all. 
 
 Major. — Forget! Forget! With my neck al- 
 most disjointed, my clothing all but torn to shreds! 
 Ha! It is not so easy to forget. 
 
18 THE MAJOR. 
 
 Dick. — Well, Major, I can't do any more than 
 say I am sorry, and that I regret the whole matter. 
 If you will not accept my apology, why — 
 
 Major. — Apology! Ha! That puts another 
 face upon the matter. An insult, an injury, de- 
 mands satisfaction. Apologize, and I am dis- 
 armed. Young man, your hand. (they shake 
 hands. ) 
 
 Dick. — Well, Major, now that this little matter 
 is settled, it isn't necessary — ah, we needn't let 
 everybody know — in short, there is no use telling 
 anybody about it, is there ? 
 
 Major {aside.) — I should think not! {aloud.) 
 Since you ask it, my friend, I will consent to con- 
 ceal it. Let the matter sink into oblivion and be 
 forgotten. (they shake hands.) A foe turned 
 friend, I would never offend. 
 
 Dick. — Why, Major, you are quite a poet. 
 
 Major (aside.) — Heavens! I am ruined! 
 (aloud.) What I ! (he laughs spasmodically.) 
 Ha! ha! (aside.) How am I to deceive him '( 
 (aloud.) Ha, ha! That's a good joke! (aside.) 
 My brain is in a whirl. I can't think of any way 
 —ah! I have it! (aloud.) Ha, ha! A joke, in- 
 deed! A rough soldier like myself, a poet! Ha! 
 ha! That's good! Ha, ha! Why that was a quo- 
 tation! Ha, ha! Shakespeare, you know. 
 
 Dick. — No, was it? And I thought it was origi- 
 nal! Ha, ha! (aside) Shakespeare, indeed! Shakes- 
 
THE MAJOR. 19 
 
 peare never said such stuff as that, {enter Mrs. 
 Larrimar and Alice on porch. ) 
 
 Alice. — Why, Major, is that you? Where did 
 you come from? And Dick, too! I didn't know 
 you were acquainted with each other. {they come 
 down steps.) 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — How hot you are, Dick. You 
 must sit down and cool yourself. 
 
 Major. — Ah! Yes indeed, we are well acquaint- 
 ed, I assure you. We — ah — {aside) What's his 
 rame, anyway, {aloud.) Yes, we — ah — we have 
 met before you know. 
 
 Alice. — So I should suppose. Have you known 
 each other long ? 
 
 Major. — Oh, no, not long, you know. But we 
 have been quite intimate since we met. 
 
 Dick. — I must refer you to the Major for an 
 answer to that question. He can tell you better 
 than I can. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — Major, I was asking Dick 
 what it was you and he were laughing about when 
 we came out. {Major crosses to her and Dick to 
 Alice.) It must have been very amusing, for we 
 heard you up stairs and came down to see who it 
 was. {Alice seats herself on garden seat. Dick 
 talks to her from behind.) 
 
 Major. — Amusing ! My dear Madam, it was the 
 veriest essence of humor, the height of absurdity. 
 Ha, ha ! I really cannot help laughing yet at the 
 
20 THE MAJOR. 
 
 thought. Mr. — ah — our young friend here — ah — 
 ( pauses. ) 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — Dick, you mean? 
 
 Major {aside. ) — Confound it ! If she would only 
 say his name. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — Do go on, Major. I am dying 
 to hear the joke. 
 
 Major. — Well, you see, I made a remark, a 
 quotation from — ah — Milton, and our young friend 
 here, ha, ha ! thought it was original. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — But, Major, I don't see any 
 joke in that. I, too, have often thought you were 
 a poet. 
 
 Major {aside. ) — Can she suspect? [aloud.) My 
 dear Madam ! I, a poet ! I, whose thoughts turn 
 to the humdrum things of barrack life; to whose 
 lips oaths are more familiar than poetry ! Ha, ha ! 
 Now, really, my dear Madam ! You must pardon 
 my laughing, but — (they walk apart.) 
 
 Dick (bending over Alice). — Then what have I 
 done that I am never to be alone with you, as we 
 used to be before that infer — ahem! — the Major 
 came? (twirls a flower iu his fingers. Alice takes 
 it from him.) 
 
 Alice. — I hate to see anyone destroy a flower. 
 It seems so cruel. I don't see why you dislike the 
 poor Major so. I am sure you seemed to be such 
 friends when we came out. 
 
THE MAJOR. 21 
 
 Dick. — Oh, I suppose we are good enough 
 friends, as friends go, if you want us to be friends. 
 
 Alice. — And then, he is such an interesting man, 
 and such a brave soldier. I declare I feel quite 
 wrought up sometimes after he has told me some 
 of his recollections of the war. 
 
 Dick. — Oh, I dare say. If one could only be- 
 lieve all he says. 
 
 Alice.— Now, there you go again! I declare, 
 Dick, I shall be afraid to say a word to you for fear 
 you will not believe me. 
 
 Dick. — You know well enough, Alice, that I 
 would believe anything you say, without a question. 
 
 Alice. — That is trust, indeed. 
 
 Dick. — Yes, it is trust. I would gladly trust 
 you with my life. 
 
 Alice. — Why, that is what the Major says. 
 
 Dick. — Oh, confound the Major! 
 
 Alice. — Dick! how can you use such language 
 to me! I am ashamed of you. I will not talk to 
 you any more until I see that you are good. Ma- 
 jor, I forgot to ask you, did you find any of those 
 shells you were telling me about? (Major crosses 
 to her. ) 
 
 .Mrs. Larrimar. — Is your father any better, 
 Dick? I haven't seen him for some time. 
 
 Dick. — Yes, he feels much better, to-day, though 
 his old wound troubles him a good deal. He said 
 
22 THE MAJOR. 
 
 he was coming over here to-day to see Mr. Larri- 
 mar. He has made an addition to his collection, 
 I believe, and wants to get yorr husband's opinion 
 about it. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — Well, well. I have missed 
 him very much since he has been sick. Ah, Dick, 
 you should be very proud of that grand old man. 
 
 Dick. — Proud of him! There is no one like him. 
 Thank you, Mrs. Larrimar, for those kind words. 
 Ah, no one knows my father as I do. He is not a 
 great man, as men call greatness, nor a rich man, 
 as men call riches; but he is an honest man, and 
 that is the greatest of them all. 
 
 {Airs. Larrimar goes up on porch and 
 seats herself in rocking chair. Dick sits on steps. 
 During the following, Dick, who has his back 
 turned toward Alice, tries to watch her and keep 
 up the conversation with Mrs. Larrimar.} 
 
 Alice. — And did she really have the heart to say 
 that to you, Major. 
 
 Major. — She did, upon my honor, she did. I 
 never was so thundersturck in my life. 
 
 Alice. — What did you say? 
 
 Major. — If I remember rightly, I said something- 
 like this: "Madam, I have endeavored to do you a 
 favor, but you have seen fit to scorn my services, 
 to receive my offer with unseemly laughter. 
 Madam, I am deeply wounded, cut to the heart." 
 (he places his hand on his heart and sighs.) 
 
THE MAJOR. 23 
 
 Dick {aside, observing the action.} — Confound it! 
 He is proposing before my eyes. 
 
 Alice. — And what did she say to that? 
 
 Major. — She seemed conscious-stricken then, 
 and wished me to shake hands with her in token 
 of my forgiveness. I took her hand thus {takes 
 Alices hand) and said: " Madam, I forgive you, I 
 do so willingly. But I can never forget. Fare- 
 well, believe me your well-wisher. " Then I kissed 
 her hand, thus, (kisses Alice's hand.) 
 
 Dick (aside, throwing dozen cushion violently 
 
 and rising.) — That's more than I can stand. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — What, you are not going, are 
 you, Dick? We expected you to stay to dinner. 
 
 Dick. — Oh, I — I am so sorry, but you see — 
 
 Alice. — Oh, Dick, those engravings came last 
 evening; I want you to see them. Mother dear, 
 do take Dick in and show them to him. (exit 
 Mrs. Larrimar in house. Dick hesitates a mo- 
 ment, then follows.) 
 
 Major (aside.) — She has sent them away to be 
 alone with me! Divine creature! She is mine, 
 Now r let me be eloquent on the theme of love. 
 {aloud.) Ah, Miss Larrimar, this is a day when 
 one feels — one feels — feels very warm. 
 
 Alice. — One does, indeed. But I am afraid you 
 are standing in the sun. Do sit down here. 
 
 Major. — No, no. Believe me, I am happy here. 
 (aside.) This will not do. I must brace up and 
 
24 THE MAJOR. 
 
 do better. If my knees would only behave them- 
 selves, [aloud.) 'Tis — ah — 'tis from this spot I 
 may gaze upon that damask cheek, those ruddy 
 lips, that face so sweet, {aside.) Poetry! I must 
 be careful. 
 
 Alice. — It is so nice of you to make those pret- 
 ty speeches, Major, but I am afraid you are only 
 flattering me. 
 
 Major. — Flatter you! No, believe me, that is 
 impossible, (aside.) Now is my time, she is in a 
 favorable mood. I will propose, [aloud.) Miss 
 Larrimar, don't you think that when two young 
 people are alone in a garden like this their thoughts 
 naturally turn to the thought that — ah — that — hem 
 — that it would be hot in the sun? (aside. ) Ah, 
 pshaw! I can't do it. 
 
 Alice (aside.) — He is going to propose. I must 
 stop him. (aloud.) Indeed, Major, I haven't given 
 the subject any consideration, so — 
 
 Major. — But what I mean to say is that when 
 we two are alone amidst such beautiful surround- 
 ings, we are uplifted from the sordid cares of life, 
 we feel that we must — ah — that — that we must ad- 
 mire it. 
 
 Alice. — Do you admire this place, Major? But 
 you cannot see half of it from here. The prettiest 
 part is hidden behind those trees. Let us go down 
 there and I will show you. (*he rises and goes out 
 right.) 
 
THE MAJOR. 25 
 
 Major (aside, following her.) — My opportunity 
 is lost. Oh! why can't I speak! I will do it yet! 
 (goes out. ) (short pause. ) 
 
 Voice in House (in very loud tone.) — Now, what 
 has become of that memorandum? Harriet, have 
 you seen it? 
 
 [another pause, then enter Dick hastily from 
 /to use.) 
 
 Dick. — Thank Heavens! I got away at last. 
 To be in there looking at those confounded engrav- 
 ings, to have to say this one is good, that one is 
 exquisite, and to know that all the time she was 
 out here, with him hanging over her, making love 
 to her, and she looking up into his eyes, and — oh ! 
 hang it all! She has looked at me the same way, 
 and I dare say dozens of other men, too. I suppose 
 she means to marry this fellow. He is rich, and 
 she believes he is all he says he is. Well, I sup- 
 pose I am not rich enough for her. Girls like 
 money. She has been making a fool of me all 
 along. Well, she sha'n't have me for her slave any 
 longer. I am done with her. (he starts to go. 
 Enter Henry Dawson.) 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Why, Dick, old fellow, where 
 are you going in such a hurry? What, my boy, in 
 trouble? 
 
 Dick. — Ah, father, I have you yet. You are 
 worth all the girls in the world. 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Ah, so you and Alice have had a 
 quarrel. 
 
THE MAJOR. 
 
 Dick. — Quarrel ! No, but I never want to see 
 her again. 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Tell me about it. What has 
 she done? 
 
 Dick. — Oh, she hasn't done anything in particu- 
 lar. Only she is going to marry that fellow. 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Fellow! What fellow? 
 
 Dick. — The Major. I don't know his name. 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Nonsense. 
 
 Dick. — No, it's true. I saw it all a few moments 
 ago. I saw him bending over her, and kissing her 
 hand, and she — 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Well. And she — 
 
 Dick. — Well, let him do it. 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Dick, Alice Larrimer is a girl in 
 a thousand, true, lovable, everything a man would 
 wish his wife to be. And Dick, she loves you. 
 Don't let your jealousy mar both your lives. Oh, 
 my son, I have seen just such quarrels end so very, 
 very sadly ; when two lovers found out years after, 
 when they were old and it was too late, that their 
 lives had been embittered by a hasty word. A girl 
 likes to tease the man she loves. She does not 
 wish him to think that she is too easily won. She 
 likes to show her power, and uses any foil to play 
 with the man she really loves. Believe me, I have 
 read Alice Iyarrimar rightly. She is not an angel; 
 she is a woman, and she must use her power. But 
 I have seen that she loves you in many things that 
 
THE MAJOR. 27 
 
 would eseape your notice. Have you told her that 
 you love her? 
 
 Dick. — Not in so many words, exactly, but she 
 must know — 
 
 Mr. Lawson. — Aye, she knows. She knew it 
 before you knew it yourself, or she is no woman. 
 Take my advice. Don't leave to-day until she 
 knows you know she knows. There, my boy, puz- 
 zle that out, but don't go without me. [exit in 
 house. ) 
 
 Dick {seating himself on garden seat.) — She 
 knows you know she knows. That sounds like a 
 grammar lesson. I know, thou knowest, he, she 
 or it knows. If anyone but the Pater had said it — 
 but he meant something. He said " Not until she 
 knows you know she knows. " She knows, you 
 know, she knows. Oh, I told him that in the 
 first place. It can't be that. She knows, you 
 know she knows. Bosh! That's the same thing. 
 Stop! I am going at this in the wrong way. What 
 does she know? Why, that I love her. Well, she 
 knows it. Then I know that she knows it. Then 
 she is to know, that I know, that she knows it. 
 Why, he means that I am to tell her! [enter Alice 
 behind him.) What's the use? He has proposed to 
 her by this time, and has no doubt been accepted. 
 Hang it all! I'll do it any way. Anything is 
 better than this suspense. (Alice leans over the 
 back of the scat and watches him. Dick turns and 
 sees her.) 
 
28 THE MAJOR. 
 
 Dick. — Where did you come from? How long 
 have you been there? 
 
 Alice. — Down the road. About two minutes. 
 
 Dick. — Where did you leave your Major? 
 
 Alice. — No place. 
 
 Dick. — Oh, say, come now. He must be some 
 place, you know. 
 
 Alice. — I didn't leave him. He left me. 
 
 Dick. — You expect me to believe that, do you? 
 
 Alice. — He did, though. He went to' get a 
 bunch of flowers, and I got tired waiting for him. 
 
 Dick. — You must have had a pleasant walk. 
 
 Alice. — I did, very. The Major can be so en- 
 tertaining. 
 
 Dick. — Oh, I dare say. What did you talk 
 about? 
 
 Alice. — Oh, lots of things. About his life in 
 the barracks, his experience in action, how he liked 
 being here, and — oh, many other things. 
 
 Dick. — Do you mean to tell me that he wasn't 
 making love to you? 
 
 Alice. — Well, he did say some very pretty things 
 about me. Shall I tell you some of them? I 
 know you will think them nice, too. 
 
 Dick. — Umph! Let's hear them. 
 
 Alice. — Well, he said that this place was a lit- 
 tle paradise, and that I was its queen. 
 
THE MAJOR. 29 
 
 Dick. — Ha, ha! And he is the little serpent. 
 
 Alice. — No, he didn't say that. And, Dick, 
 yon mustn't laugh like that. It's rude. 
 
 Dick. — I take the laugh back. Go on, what 
 else did he say'.'' I want to hear something nice. 
 
 Alice. — He said my eyes are as bright as stars. 
 I am sure that is nice. 
 
 Dick. — I have told you that dozens of times. 
 Did you think it nice when I said it? 
 
 Alice. — Very nice. But you never told me they 
 were mirrors of intelligence and love. He did. 
 
 Dick.— Well, even if I didn't, that's— 
 
 Alice. — And that my hand was a thing of 
 beauty, and my foot a dream. 
 
 Dick. — Confound his impertinence! What right 
 has he to know you have a foot? 
 
 Alice. — Of course he knows I have a foot. He 
 could see me walking, couldn't he? And then 
 when he helped me over the stile — 
 
 Dick. — What! Do you mean to tell me he had 
 the audacity to lift you down from that stile? 
 
 Alice. — Certainly. Do you think that he would 
 have stood there and leave me perched up there 
 helpless? 
 
 Dick. — Oh, all right. Only I'd like to see him 
 do it, that's all. See here, Alice, are you going 
 to marry him? 
 
30 THE MAJOR. 
 
 Alice. — What a question! 
 
 Dick. — Oh, I dare say he is rich and all that, 
 and that it is none of my business. But I want to 
 hear you say so. Are you going to marry him? 
 
 Alice. — He hasn't asked me yet. 
 
 Dick. — But he is going to. Are you going to 
 accept him? 
 
 Alice. — Do you think I had better? 
 
 Dick. — No, I have a much better plan than that. 
 Marry me. Oh, Alice, I know I haven't much to 
 offer you. I am poor compared with what he has, 
 or your father's wealth, and I am not worthy of 
 you. But I love you, Alice. I have loved you all 
 my life, ever since we were boy and girl together. 
 I think — I know if you could love me just a little, 
 I could make you happy. {he takes her hand.) 
 Can't you love me, Alice? {enter Major ivith a 
 bunch offlozvers.) 
 
 Major. — Ah, Miss Laminar, here you are. 
 {Dick zvalks azcay, szvearing to himself.) 
 
 Major {aside.) — Aha! Can it be possible? I 
 have my suspicions that I arrived just in the nick 
 of time to prevent a catastrophy. {aloud.) Ah, 
 Miss Larrimar, it was a stiff climb I had for these 
 little beauties, and when I did get them my coat 
 caught on a branch of a tree. So it took me longer 
 than I thought it would. But I can now lay the 
 fruits of my labor at your feet. 
 
THE MAJOR. 31 
 
 Dick (aside, sneeringly.) — Her dreams, you 
 mean. 
 
 Major {aside.) — Why doesn't he go? I can't 
 talk to her while he is there, (aloud, tenderly, as 
 Alice lays flowers carelessly on the seat.) Does not 
 my unworthy offering find favor at your hands? 
 
 Dick (aside. ) — Things of beauty, man ! You for- 
 get. 
 
 Alice {aside.) — Poor man, he did work so hard 
 to get them, and took such trouble to please me. 
 I must appreciate them, (aloud.) They are beau- 
 tiful, Major, and it was so kind of you to get them 
 for me. Now if I only had something to put them 
 in — Oh! There is a little vase on the table in the 
 library that is just the thing. If I only had that. 
 
 Major (aside. ) — The way to get rid of him ! And 
 she has planned it! (aloud.) As Mr. — ah— Dick 
 knows the house so much better than I do, perhaps 
 he would — eh? 
 
 Dick (aside.) — Get something to put his flowers 
 in? I 1 11 just see myself ! 
 
 Alice. — Oh, Dick, will you? That would be so 
 kind of you. (Dick matters something and runs 
 into the house.) 
 
 Major (aside.) — Now is my time, {aloud.) Ah, 
 Miss Larrimar, if you would only bestow one of 
 those sweet caresses you lavish so freely on those 
 senseless flowers on the unhappy giver, you would 
 raise him to the highest heaven, (he kneels. ) 
 
32 THE MAJOR. 
 
 {Dick enters quickly, with vase.) 
 
 Dick. — Is this it? 
 
 Major {aside, pretending to pick up something.) 
 Confound him. He must have wings. 
 
 Alice. — Oh! have you dropped something, Ma- 
 jor? 
 
 Major. — Ah, just my ring. I have found it. 
 
 Alice. — It would have been such a pity — Oh, 
 thank you, Dick. {taking vase and arranging 
 flowers.) It was so kind of you to get it for me. 
 
 Dick. — There was nothing kind about it. {aside 
 to Alice.) Alice, have pity on me. Send — 
 
 Alice. — Oh! how stupid of me! There is no 
 water in it, and now they will all have to come 
 out again. 
 
 Dick. — Perhaps as the Major has just seen the 
 old well, he will run down and fill it. 
 
 Alice. — Why, Dick, that is half a mile away! 
 You wouldn't have the Major go all the way down 
 there when he can fill it at the duck-pond just 
 around the stable. 
 
 Dick {taking vase from Alice and forcing it into 
 the Major'' s hand.) — Yes, that's so. Just follow 
 that path and you will find it. 
 
 Major. — Miss Laminar' s wishes must be obeyed. 
 [he runs out right.) 
 
 Alice. — But, Dick, the stable is over there! 
 {pointing left.) 
 
THE MAJOR. 33 
 
 Dick.— Yes, I know. That's all right. That 
 walk will take him there — in the course of half an 
 hour. Oh, Alice! How can I thank you for send- 
 ing him away, if only for a moment? 
 
 Alice. — I didn't know you cared so much for — 
 for flowers. It would be a pity to let them die, 
 wouldn't it? 
 
 Dick. — Oh, hang the flowers, so long as I can 
 have you to myself. Oh, Alice, if you would only 
 give me the right to send that fool about his busi- 
 ness, instead of loafing around here. Alice, won't 
 you give me an answer to my question? (he takes 
 her Jicind. Back to right. ) 
 
 i\ucE. — Do be careful, Dick. The Major may 
 by back any moment, and he will see you. 
 
 Dick. — He is good for some time yet, and any- 
 how I don't care if he sees or not. He can see 
 that, if he wants to, and that, and that, (kisses 
 her hand each time.) I love you, I love you, 
 and — 
 
 Major {running in splashed with water.) — Here 
 is the water, Miss Larrimar. {Dick makes a motion 
 as if choking some one. ) 
 
 Alice. — Oh, Major! You are all wet! How did 
 it happen? I am so sorry you have had all this 
 trouble for me. 
 
 Major. — It is nothing, I assure you. In hasten- 
 ing to do your bidding, though I saw no stable, 
 
34 THE MAJOR. 
 
 no duck-pond, I found a pump. I am not used 
 to pumps, hence this wetting. 
 
 Dick (aside.) — Hang the pump! I forgot it. 
 
 Major (aside.) — Ha, ha! I have outwitted him! 
 He purposely misled me. My blessings on that 
 pump ! 
 
 Alice. — There! Isn't that beautiful? Now, if 
 some one would only carry it into the house for me 
 — (Dick and the Major both rush to get it. Dick 
 gets the flowers and the Major gets the vase.) 
 
 Alice. — Oh! See what you have done! All 
 my work for nothing ! (enter Mrs. Larrimar and 
 Henry Dawson on porch. Alice meets then/ at the 
 foot of steps and kisses the latter. ) 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — How are you to-day, my dear? 
 It's a pleasure to see your sweet face again. 
 
 Alice. — Then you are very self-denying not to 
 take that pleasure for so long a time. If you had 
 not come here to-day I would have taken my face 
 down to see you. 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — And you would have brightened 
 up our lonely house wonderfully, my dear, as you 
 always do. Ah, your house owns the presence of 
 two sweet women. Ours has none at all. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimar. — Henry, let me make you ac- 
 quainted with Major Saul Bowendale. Major Bow- 
 endale, Mr. Dawson, or I should say Colonel Daw- 
 son. I always forget that you are a Colonel, 
 
THE MAJOR. 35 
 
 Henry. You never use the title, (the Major offers 
 to shake ha nets.) 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Yes, Kate, I never use it. I 
 fought for my countty, not my title. The war be- 
 ing over, I forget my title, {to the Major.) Sir, 
 by what right you hold that honorable title, I do 
 not presume to say. But your offer of the hand- 
 shake of acquaintanceship I decline. 
 
 Mrs. Larrimer — f Henry ! ! 
 
 i 
 Alice {at once.) — { Mr. Dawson ! ! 
 
 Dick.— iFather!! 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Yes, my friends, I must decline. 
 
 Major {flourishing vase.) — Sir, if this is an in- 
 sult— 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — Without intending any insult, 
 I must decline taking your hand. 
 
 Major. — Then, sir, my honor demands that I 
 should have satisfaction. Will you — 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — I will give your honor my rea- 
 sons for declining to take your hand, and satisfac- 
 tion at the same time. I shake hands with no cow- 
 ard. Stay, one moment. Alice, my dear, come 
 here, {he takes her hand.) I have not often im- 
 posed my experiences in the war upon you, but I 
 am going to tell you one now. Listen then, while 
 I tell you why I cannot take this man's hand. On 
 the night before the battle in which I left this arm, 
 I was called to the bedside of a dying man. He 
 had been wounded the day before in a skirmish 
 
36 THE MAJOR. 
 
 with the enemy, and his wound proved mortal. 
 Why he called on me I cannot say {Alice kisses his 
 hand), bnt I have closed many eyes in death, {he 
 pauses and sighs. ) He was dying when I arrived. 
 There was no hope, bnt he wished to send his fare- 
 well message to his wife and child. He told me 
 his story as his life was ebbing away. He was not 
 a regular soldier, nor was he a volunteer. He was 
 a substitute. He had sold his life to buy five hun- 
 dred dollars' worth of miserable existence for his 
 wife and child. He took the chances, bnt the odds 
 were against him, and he was dying. He was, as 
 I have said, wounded in a skirmish, but it was 
 through the cowardice of one of his comrades at 
 arms. This comrade, to save himself, pushed him 
 to an exposed position. He died at sunrise, this 
 William Barton, but not before he told me the 
 name of the man who killed him. Shall I say the 
 name? 
 
 Major. — No, I am he. 
 
 Mr. Dawson. — I do not wish to prejudice others 
 against you. Men think differently about these 
 things, but I cannot change my nature. 
 
 {Dick and Alice zvalk to right. ) 
 
 Major. — Sir, I honor your feelings, but you can- 
 not understand mine. I entered upon my military 
 career involuntarily and upon compulsion. My 
 guardian was determined that I should be a soldier, 
 and I am a coward. He resolved that I should be 
 confined to the narrow limits of barrack life, and I 
 
THE MAJOR. 
 
 am a poet. He made a will, leaving me his money 
 on condition that I should be a soldier and not a 
 poet. I was watched, hunted by an envious cousin, 
 who claimed my fortune, so I was compelled to en- 
 list, but I could not change my nature. Miss Lar- 
 rimar, do not let yourself be influenced by the 
 opinions of others. I feel that I am a genius. If 
 I dared but let my soul breathe its natural atmos- 
 phere I know that 1 could grasp the laurel crown. 
 Will you help me gain it and wear it with me? 
 
 Dick. — Miss Larriinar deputizes me to be her 
 substitute in this one case, and then receive mv 
 discharge. She declines your offer of a laurel 
 crown, and is content to wear one of country flow- 
 ers that I shall weave for her, for she has promised 
 to be mv wife. 
 
 Major {clasping vase to his heart. )- 
 
 Cease heart, hark to thy knell ; 
 It rings for thee — hope farewell. 
 
 Finis. 
 
Colonel Chabert, 
 
 A DRAMA 
 
 BY 
 
 G. I. HOLDSHIP. 
 
 -^ypX 1 
 
 Dramatized from tlie French of 
 
 BALZAC. 
 
Copyright 1892, 
 
 BY 
 G. I. HOLDSHIP. 
 
Colonel Chabert. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. 
 DERVILLE, solicitor. 
 Boucard, head clerk, 
 Godeschal, clerk. 
 Delbecq, secretary. 
 
 Clerks and paupers. 
 
 Countess Ferraud. 
 Julie, her maid. 
 
 SCENE — Paris and environs. 
 
 Time — Acts I. to IV. inclusive, 1815. Epilogue, 1830 
 
Colonel Chabert 
 
 Act First. 
 
 Study in Derville's house. Time, 1 o'clock in the morning. 
 
 Boucard and Godeschal. They work in silence for some 
 time after the rise of the curtain, Boucard arranging docu- 
 ments at the table, Godeschal filing papers in the cabinet from 
 a basket. 
 
 Boucard. — Why did you put this memorandum 
 in the case of Bodin here? It should not be separ- 
 ated from the brief. Besides, the case does not 
 come up until next week. 
 
 Godeschal {crossing over.) — It was that block- 
 head Hure. I gave it to him to file this morning 
 after the master had finished. These provincials 
 never listen when one talks to them. 
 
 Boucard. — Put it in its proper place and repri- 
 mand Hure in the morning. Never let an error 
 pass unnoticed. {silence for some moments, each 
 at his work. Boucard trims lamp and glances at 
 clock.) 
 
 Boucard. — Ten minutes to one! Have you 
 nearly finished? The master will be here in a few 
 moments. 
 
 Godeschal. — Almost. Where is he to-night? 
 
44 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. 
 
 Boucard. — Here is the list of engagements. 
 {reading.) "Dine with the Count de Mauris; 
 opera, box of Count Ferraud ; the Duchess de Lan- 
 geais' ball. Will return at one." 
 
 Godeschal. — Count Ferraud ! Our client? 
 
 Boucard. — No, his wife. Decision of Cour d' 
 appel of Nancy, department Ardennes, case of Et- 
 tienne. File in E. Handsome woman, the Count- 
 ess. Have you ever seen her? 
 
 Godeschal. — No. Is she young? 
 
 Boucard. — Um. Age uncertain, but young 
 looking. Very fascinating though. Count Ferraud 
 is her second husband. She was the widow of an 
 officer of the Empire. {the clock strikes one. 
 Godeschal leaves cabinet yawning. ) 
 
 Godeschal. — There ! That's done ! I feel 
 sleepy. 
 
 Boucard. — Was the petition Restaud finished 
 to-day? 
 
 Godeschal. — Yes, and sent off this afternoon. 
 (Boucard makes a mark on document.) 
 
 Boucard. — Sleepy! You young men are always 
 sleepy. I have three hours' work yet before me. 
 {enter Derville briskly in evening dress.) 
 
 DERVILLE. — Have you finished, Godeschal? 
 
 Godeschal. — Just this moment, sir. 
 
 Derville. — Then I would advise you to go to 
 bed at once. You young men need your full quan- 
 
ACT I. COLONEL CHABERT. 45 
 
 tity of sleep. Take my cloak and hat. (Godeschal 
 goes out. Derville sits at tabic. ) Now, Boucard, 
 to work. 
 
 Boucard. — Case of Countess Ferraud. {plac- 
 ing documents on table. ) Pleadings in primary 
 court; your instructions; decision of primary court; 
 process in cour d' appel; decision of cour d' appel. 
 
 Derville. — We take this case before the court 
 of cassation. Give me the memorandum of our 
 appeal. 
 
 {enter Colonel CJiabert at back, noiselessly 
 and unobserved. He stands motionless for some 
 moments, waiting for Derville to finish.) 
 
 Boucard (reaching for another document and 
 observing Chabert.) — Great heavens! (to Derville) 
 I beg your pardon, sir. The gentleman startled 
 me. 
 
 (Derville looks up quickly, moving the lamp shade 
 so as to throw the light on Colonel Chaberf s face. ) 
 
 Derville. — To whom have I the honor of 
 speaking? 
 
 [Colonel CJiabert steps forward, raising his hat. 
 in so doing he moves aside his zcig, disclosing a 
 large scar.) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — To Colonel Chabert, mon- 
 sieur. 
 
 Derville. —Colonel Chabert ! Cha — Which 
 one? 
 
46 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. . 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — The one that was killed at 
 Eylau. 
 
 Derville. — What is it you wish with me? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — A few moments private 
 conversation, monsieur. 
 
 [Derville mot ions Boucard to go. The latter taps 
 his forehead warning ly. Derville shrugs his 
 shoulders. Boucard goes out.) 
 
 Derville. — Now, sir, I am ready to hear what 
 you have to say. Be as brief and concise as possi- 
 ble. During the day I do not begrudge my time, 
 but at this hour of the night every moment is 
 precious. Therefore, state your case without di- 
 gression or delay. I will ask for any explanations 
 I may find necessary. Pray be seated, (he sits 
 down and carelessly turns over the leaves of a brief) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Monsieur, you have prob- 
 ably heard my name and know that I commanded 
 a regiment at Eylau, where I was the chief cause 
 of the success of Murat's famous charge. The 
 particulars of the battle are given in "Victories 
 and Conquests," and where also my death is stated 
 as an historic fact. We cut the three Russian lines 
 in two; then they closed behind us and we had to 
 cut our way back again. In returning toward the 
 Emperor, having dispersed the Russians, a troop of 
 the enemy's cavalry met us. I flung myself upon 
 them. Two Russian officers, actual giants, at- 
 tacked me at one time. One of them struck me 
 with his sabre on the head, cutting through every- 
 
Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 47 
 
 thing, even to the silk cap I wore, and pierced my 
 skull. I fell from my horse. Murat came up to 
 support us, and he and his whole party, fifteen 
 hundred men, rode over me. They reported my 
 death to the Emperor, who sent, — for he loved me 
 a little, the Master — sent to see if there was any 
 hope of saving the man to whom he owed the vigor 
 of our attack. He dispatched tw r o surgeons to find 
 me and carry me to the ambulance, saying hurriedly, 
 perhaps, for he had work to do — u Go and see if 
 my poor Chabert is living." These cursed saw- 
 bones had just seen me trampled under the hoofs 
 of two regiments; no doubt they never took the 
 trouble to feel my pulse, but reported me dead. 
 The certificate of my death was doubtless drawn 
 up in due form, according to military law. 
 
 Derville (who, during tJie recital, had become 
 more attentive, and had pushed away his papers.) 
 — Do you know, sir, that I am the solicitor of the 
 Countess Ferraud, widow of Colonel Chabert? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Of my wife? Yes, mon- 
 sieur. It is for that reason that, after many fruit- 
 less efforts to obtain a hearing from other lawyers, 
 I determined to come to you. Let me first state my 
 facts and relate to you how they probably hap- 
 pened. Certain circumstances, known to God Al- 
 mighty alone, oblige me to relate much in the form 
 of hypotheses. For instance, the wounds I re- 
 ceived probably produced something like lockjaw, 
 or threw me into a state similar to a disease called, 
 I believe, catalepsy. Otherwise, how can I sup- 
 
48 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I 
 
 pose it happened that I was stripped of my cloth- 
 ing and thrown into the common trench, according 
 to the customs of war, by the men whose business 
 it is to bury the dead? Here let me state a cir- 
 cumstance I did not know until much later 
 than the event I am forced to call my 
 death. In 1812 I met, in Stutgart, an old 
 cavalry sergeant of my regiment. That dear 
 man, the only human being willing to recog- 
 nize me, explained to me the extraordinary circum- 
 stances of my preservation. He said that my horse 
 received a bullet the same moment that I myself 
 was wounded. Both horse and rider were therefore 
 knocked over like a stand of muskets. In falling, 
 either to the right or left, I had doubtless been pro- 
 tected by the body of my horse, which saved me 
 from being crushed to death by the cavalry, or hit 
 by bullets, (he pauses for a few moments.} When 
 I came to myself, monsieur, I was in a place and in 
 an atmosphere of which I could give yon no idea 
 if I talked all night. The little air I had to breathe 
 was mephetic. I wished to move, but found no 
 space. Opening my eyes, I saw nothing. The 
 want of air was the worst sign, and that disclosed 
 to me my true position. I saw T that where I 
 was the air was stagnant, and that I should die. 
 This thought overcame the sense of extreme pain 
 that had brought me to myself. My ears hummed 
 violently. I heard, or thought I heard, I do not 
 wish to affirm anything positively, groans from the 
 heaps of dead amongst which I lay. Ah! such 
 groans! Though the recollection of those moments 
 
Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 49 
 
 is dark, though my memory is often confused, in 
 spite of the effect of greater sufferings later which 
 have bewildered my ideas, there are nights when I 
 think I still near those smothered moans. But 
 there was something more horrible to me than those 
 cries: Silence — a silence I have never felt since — 
 the silence of the grave. It was awful. At last, 
 raising my hands and feeling among the dead, I 
 found a void between my head and the human car- 
 rion above me. I could measure with my arm the 
 space that had been left me by some chance. It ap- 
 peared, thanks to the carelessness or haste of those 
 who had thrown us in pell-mell, as if two bodies 
 had fallen against each other above me, so as to 
 form an angle, like that of the two cards two chil- 
 dren put together to build houses. Feeling rapidly 
 about, for I could waste no time, I came across a 
 detached arm, the arm of a Hercules, and to that 
 good bone I owe my preservation. Without that 
 unhoped-for aid, I should have perished. But 
 then, with an energy you can well conceive, I be- 
 gan to burrow upwards through the bodies that 
 separated me from the layer of earth that had 
 doubtless been thrown over us; I say c 'us ,, as if 
 there had been others living! I worked vigorously, 
 since I am here. But I do not know yet how I was 
 able to pierce that covering of flesh that interposed 
 a barrier between life and me. You may say that 
 I had three arms. That lever, which I used skill- 
 fully, brought me a little air confined among the 
 bodies it aided me to displace, and I economized 
 my breathing. At last I saw daylight, but through 
 
50 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. 
 
 the snow, monsieur! Then for the first time I no- 
 ticed that I was wounded. Luckily my blood, or 
 perhaps that of my comrades or the bleeding flesh 
 of my horse — how can I tell ? — had coagulated and 
 formed a natural plaster. Notwithstanding this 
 scab, I fainted when my head came in contact with 
 the snow. Then, the little heat left in my body 
 having melted the snow around me, I found my 
 head, when I regained consciousness, in the centre 
 of a small opening through which I shouted as 
 long as I was able. But the sun was just rising 
 and I had little chance of being heard. Had the 
 people already gone to the fields? I raised myself 
 by a spring from the dead whose thighs were solid 
 — it was not the time to say, " Honor to dead he- 
 ros. " In short, monsieur, after going through the 
 anguish, if that word can describe my feelings, of 
 seeing those accursed Germans — oh, heavens! what 
 an eternity it seemed! — of seeing them run away 
 when they heard a voice and could see no one. 
 I was at last taken out by a woman daring- 
 enough or curious enough to creep up to my head, 
 which seemed to sprout from the ground like a 
 mushroom. This woman fetched her husband, and 
 together they carried me to their poor hovel. It 
 seems that I had a return of catalepsy — let me use 
 that term to describe a state of which I have no 
 idea, but judging from what my host told me must 
 have been an effect of that disease. I remained 
 there six months, hovering between life and death, 
 speechless at times, delirious at others. Finally 
 they took me to the hospital at Heilsburg. (he 
 
Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 51 
 
 pauses for a moment, passing his hand over his 
 forehead.) One day, six months later, having re- 
 covered my memory, I told my nurses who I was, 
 that I was Colonel Chabert; the}' laughed at me. 
 But I do not blame them, for who could recognize 
 a colonel of the Empire in the naked being taken 
 from a trench? Happily for me, the surgeon had 
 made it a point of medical vanity to cure me, and 
 he was naturally interested in me. When I spoke 
 to him of my former life in a rational manner, that 
 good man — his name was Sprachmann, monsieur, 
 — had the evidence of my benefactress recorded in 
 the legal forms of the country, together with his 
 own, as to the nature and position of my wounds, 
 and an exact description of my person. 
 
 DervillE (interrupting quickly. ) — Papers ! Wise 
 man! Their value is immeasurable to you. You 
 have them here? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Alas, Monsieur, I do not 
 possess a single one. Ever since the day I was 
 hurried from the town by the events of the war, I 
 have wandered like a vagabond, begging my bread, 
 taken for an idiot when I told my story, unable to 
 earn a sou to help me get those papers which alone 
 can prove the truth of what I say and reinstate me in 
 my position. Often my sufferings kept me in some 
 small village for weeks and weeks, where all showed 
 kindness to the sick Frenchman, but they laughed 
 in the face of that same Frenchman when he pre- 
 tended to be Colonel Chabert. For a long time 
 these doubts, this laughter, threw me into a fury, 
 
COLONEL CHABERT. Act I. 
 
 and that prejudiced people against me. Once I 
 was shut up as a lunatic at Stutgart. You can see 
 from what I have told you that there was truly 
 cause to lock hie tip. After being detained there 
 two years; after hearing a thousand times my keep- 
 ers explain "This is a poor man who thinks him- 
 self Colonel Chabert" to visitors, who replied "Ah, 
 poor man," I gave up, and even became convinced 
 myself of the impossibility of my tale. I became 
 sad and resigned, and tranquil, and ceased to claim 
 Colonel Chabert as my name, so that I might be 
 released and see France once again. Ah, Monsieur, 
 to see France! That was my dream. I — [he 
 pauses abruptly. ) One fine day, a spring- day, they 
 gave me ten thalers and released me, on the ground 
 that I spoke rationally on all subjects and called 
 myself Colonel Chabert no longer. Ah, my God! 
 How I did hate that name ! Even now, at inter- 
 vals, it disgusts me. I would like — would like — 
 not to be myself. The sense of my wrongs kills 
 me. If my illness had only taken from me all 
 memory of my past self, I might be vet happy. I 
 could then have re-entered the ranks under another 
 name, and, who knows, I might have ended as field 
 marshal in Austria or Russia. 
 
 DERVILLE. — You have upset all my ideas. I 
 fancy that I dream in listening to you. Let us 
 pause for a few moments, I beg of you. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — You are the only person 
 who has ever listened to me patiently. I have told 
 no lawyer as much as I have told you, since they 
 
Act I. COLONEL CHABERT. 53 
 
 would not hear me, nor would they lend me ten 
 napoleons so that I could send to Germany for the 
 papers necessary for my suit. 
 
 DervillE.— Suit ! What suit ? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — The Countess Ferraud is 
 still ni}' wife, is she not? Her income of eighty 
 thousand francs is mine. I gave it to her, yet she 
 refuses me one penny of it. I want my property. 
 That is my suit. When I, a beggar, propose to 
 lawyers to sue a Count and Countess, I, rising un- 
 reasonable from the dead, denying even the proofs 
 of my death, they laugh at me, refuse to listen to 
 me. Once I was buried beneath the dead, now I 
 am buried beneath the living, beneath records, be- 
 neath facts, beneath society itself, which seeks to 
 thrust me back into my trench. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Then let me be the bone to dig you 
 out this time. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Let you be! Let you! 
 Ah, that is the first polite word I heard since — 
 (he weeps.) 
 
 DERVILLE (faking a roll of money from his 
 pocket. )— Listen to me. Here are three hundred francs 
 I won at cards to-night. Surely I can afford to give 
 half that amount to save a fellow creature. I shall 
 investigate and take steps to obtain your papers, 
 and until their arrival I will — will advance you five 
 francs a day. If you are Colonel Chabert you will 
 forgive the smallness of the amount. I am a young 
 man who has his fortune vet to make. Continue. 
 
54 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I- 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Where was I? 
 
 Derville. — At Stutgart. Thev had set you 
 
 '& 
 
 free. 
 
 Colonel Chabert {after a short pause.} — You 
 know my wife ? {Derville nods. ) How — what is 
 she like now ? 
 
 DERVILLE. — Always charming. {Colonel Chab- 
 ert s head Jails on his arm. Pause.) 
 
 Colonel Chabert {resuming with more cheer- 
 fulness.) — Monsieur, if I had been a handsome man 
 I should not have been where I am. Women be- 
 lieve a good looking man when they interlard their 
 sentences with flattery. How could I make a 
 woman listen to me, with a face like mine, clothed 
 like this, mutilated, an arm wanting? I am more 
 like an Esquimau than a Frenchman, I, Colonel 
 Chabert, Count of the Empire, the handsomest man 
 of his time! Or if I had had relatives of my own 
 this would not have happened. But I was a found- 
 , ling, a soldier whose only patrimony was his courage, 
 the world his family, France his country, God his 
 only protector — no, I am wrong. I had a father, the 
 Emperor. Ah ! If he were only still amongst us ! 
 (pause.) I wrote a long and detailed letter to my 
 wife, but received no reply. Then I set out for 
 Paris. Ah, Monsieur, there would be no end to 
 my tale if I were to relate all the sufferings and 
 misfortunes of that journey. Suffice it to say that 
 at last I reached Paris, penniless, hungry, my 
 clothes literally in shreds. That same night I was 
 
ACT I. COLONEL CHABERT. 
 
 forced to bivouac in the woods of Clave. The 
 chilliness of the night gave me some sort of an ill- 
 ness, I do not know what it was, that seized me 
 as I was crossing the faubourg St. Martin. When 
 I came to my senses I was in a bed in the Hotel 
 Dieu. There I remained for a month, almost 
 happy. Then I was discharged, penniless, but 
 cured, and on the pavements of Paris ! With what 
 jov and speed I made my way to the rue du Mont 
 Blanc, where, as I supposed, my wife was living in 
 my house. Bah! the rue du Mont Blanc had be- 
 come the rue de la Chaussee-d' Antin, my house 
 sold, torn down, houses built by speculators in my 
 gardens. Not knowing that my wife had married 
 Count Ferraud, I could obtain no information about 
 her. Finally I went to my old lawyer, but I found 
 that he was dead and his office had passed into the 
 hands of a younger man. The latter informed me, 
 to my great astonishment, of the settlement of my 
 estate, the marriage of my wife, and the birth of 
 her two children. Then, Monsieur, knowing 
 where my wife lived, I made my way to the house. 
 Ah, I was not admitted when I gave an assumed 
 name, but the day I gave my own I was thrown 
 out. I have stood there night after night to see 
 her returning from some ball or the theatre, to see 
 the woman who is mine, yet who denies me. From 
 that day I have lived for vengeance. She knows I 
 am living. She has received four letters from me, 
 one since my return to Paris. She loves me no 
 longer, and I — I do not know if I love her or hate 
 
56 COLONEL CHABERT. Act I 
 
 her. Sometimes I think I love her yet, and some- 
 times I curse her. 
 
 Derville. — This is a serious matter. Even if 
 we admit the authenticity of the papers at Heils- 
 burg, I am not sure that we can succeed, certainly 
 not at once. The case is so exceptional. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Oh, if I fail, I can die — 
 but not alone. 
 
 DERVILLE {pushing paper before Colonel Chab- 
 ert.) — Write me here an exact description of the 
 papers, and give the precise name of the town, 
 country and the person in whose hands they were 
 left. {Colonel Chabert writes. When he lias fin- 
 ished.} Now, you will, I hope, follow my counsel. 
 Your case shall be mine, and you will soon see, I 
 hope, the interest I take in your situation, which is 
 almost without precedent in legal annals. I shall 
 make every effort possible, and if we are forced to 
 compromise — 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Compromise ! Compro- 
 mise ! Am I living or am I dead ? 
 
 End of Act I. 
 
Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 
 
 Act Second. 
 
 Boudoir of Countess Ferraud. 
 
 {enter Julie with letter in her hand.) 
 
 Julie. — Great heavens! what shall I do ? Ma- 
 dame will never forgive — in my pocket for four 
 days — no excuse to offer! (she throws it on the ta- 
 ble, wringing her hands.} Fiend! Monster! (shak- 
 ing her fist at it.) To get me in such a fix! I 
 shall be discharged, sent off without a character 
 {weeping.) I wonder who it is from? (takes up 
 tetter and examines address.) What ! Another ! 
 Like the others that put Madame in such a rage ! 
 This makes the fourth. So much the worse for 
 you, my dear, her rage will fall on you. My, 
 wouldn't I just like to know what's in it ! How 
 Madame did rage when the first one came! 
 
 Countess (outside.) — Remove those flowers, Al- 
 phonse. 
 
 Julie. — Heavens ! Madame ! (she siezes letter 
 and silver tray, and meets Conn less at the door.) 
 [enter Countess.) 
 
 Countess. — Well ? 
 
 Julie. — Madame, pardon — I — a letter — 
 
 Countess. — So I see. What then? You are 
 not usually so embarassed when handing me a let- 
 ter. 
 
 Julie. — It is that I have to crave pardon of Ma- 
 dame la Comtesse for my negligence in forgetting 
 to deliver this before. 
 
58 COLONEL CHABERT. Act II. 
 
 COUNTESS {taking letter and starting.) — Girl, 
 how long have you had this? Ah! {running to- 
 wards tig Jit and examining seat.) Have you 
 opened this? 
 
 Julie. — Madame! No, Madame. 
 
 CounTESS (seizing her by the arm. ) — Look at 
 me girl. Are you sure ? 
 
 Julie. — Yes, Madame. By my faith I have not. 
 
 Countess {releasing her.) — It is well for you. 
 Go. 
 
 Julie. — I hope Madame will pardon — 
 
 Countess. — Go. Go. 
 
 (Julie goes out. ) 
 
 Countess. — Another! Am I never to escape 
 this nightmare? He dogs my footsteps night and 
 day. If I go to a ball, to the opera, he is there to 
 watch me drive away, his eyes burning into mine, 
 but from love or hate I do not know, cannot tell. 
 Love! What cause have we to love each other? I 
 hate him and I fear him. Yet what can he prove? 
 Legally he is dead. I made sure of that before I 
 married again. He can do nothing, (she paces u*> 
 and down.) Pshaw! Why deceive myself! He 
 can ruin me, ruin me, not by law, but through 
 Count Ferraud. Yes, it is true. I have lately 
 been forced to realize it. Though he loves me, yet 
 I am not of use to him. I brought him money, 
 but not influence, and it is influence that he 
 needs. If he had married in the family of a peer 
 
Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 59 
 
 of France, he would have had family influence, the 
 onlv power with the King. His ancient name, 
 combined with — No, I cannot contend against 
 Chabert, proofless though he is. Yet I will not 
 resign the position I have gained. Chabert must 
 remain dead, legally if not — if not— Could it be done? 
 A body in the river, the morgue — why not? I have 
 done worse before. No, I dare not risk it. I can 
 have no confidants. I must work alone. But how, 
 how ? Can I influence him to efface himself, not 
 to claim his proper position ? Yes, if he loves 
 me. Loves me! He has more cause to hate me 
 than I him. Yet it is Chabert. Another, im- 
 possible, Chabert — I must find out, I must see if 
 — Ah, his letter. (she hastily tears it open and 
 reads.) Ah, the same old story, [pause.) Yes, I 
 saw you. (pause.) If you had only done it! On 
 the edge and no one there to push you over, (pause.) 
 Pity! I! I have none, (pause.) Pshaw! this tells 
 me nothing. It is the same as the others. Money, 
 money, pity, pity. It is always the same. I must 
 see him. I can then tell what chances are against 
 me. But he cannot come here. The servants are 
 curious; that girl suspects something. Where then? 
 
 (enter Julie, and later Derville.) 
 
 Julie. — Monsieur Derville desires to speak with 
 Madame. 
 
 Countess. — Admit him. I will see him here. 
 (Julie goes out.) Could I make use of him ? No, 
 he is too keen. He would discover too much. 
 
60 COLOOEL CHARKRT. Act II. 
 
 Well, he will distract my mind, even if it is only 
 about that tiresome suit. 
 
 Julie. — Monsieur Derville. 
 
 Countess. — Ah, good morning, lawyer. Leave 
 us, Julie. {Julie goes out. ) Have you come to 
 talk to me about my suit ? 
 
 Derville. — No, Madame. I have come to talk 
 on a more serious subject. 
 
 Countess — Oh, I am so sorry the Count is ab- 
 sent. 
 
 DERVILLE. — And I am glad, Madame, for he 
 would be out of place here just now. Besides, 
 Delbecq had told me that you prefer to attend to 
 business yourself without annoying the Count. 
 
 Countess.— Very well. Shall I call Delbecq? 
 
 Derville. — His presence could be of no advan- 
 tage to you, clever as he is. Listen to me more 
 seriously, Madame, for the subject is a serious one 
 to you. {he pauses for a moment, watching her at- 
 tentively.) Colonel Chabert is alive. 
 
 Countess (starting-, then laughing.) — Do you 
 expect me to listen to you seriously when you talk 
 such nonsense as that? {Derville does not take his 
 eyes from her face. She ceases laughing suddenly. ) 
 
 Derville. — Madame, I think that von do not 
 realize the danger of your position. I need hardly 
 tell you that Colonel Chabert has in his possession 
 documents of undeniable authenticity, and that 
 
Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 61 
 
 positive proof can be brought as to his existence. 
 Furthermore, you know that I am not a man to 
 undertake a hopeless case. I have undertaken his. 
 
 Countess. — It is a vile imposture ! An attempt 
 to extort money from me! Bring suit, if you dare! 
 I shall oppose your every step. I — 
 
 Derville. — If you oppose our first step, namely, 
 to prove the falsity of the death record, you will 
 lose the suit before the primary court, and that 
 once decided in our favor, you will have no ground 
 to stand upon. Am I not right? 
 
 Countess. — I cannot judge until I see the pa- 
 pers. What is your object in seeing me to-day? 
 What do you want ? 
 
 Derville. — I want to talk to you calmly and 
 quietly, but neither of the Colonel nor of you. I 
 shall not even speak of the uses a clever lawyer, in 
 possession of the facts of the case, might put his 
 knowledge, nor the role he could play with the let- 
 ters you received from your husband before you 
 married Count Ferraud. 
 
 Countess. — I have received no letters from any 
 Colonel Chabert, and if anyone claims to be the 
 Colonel, he is a swindler, some galley-slave, per- 
 haps, like Cogniard. The mere thought makes me 
 shudder. How could the Colonel come to life ? 
 Bonaparte himself sent me his condolences by an 
 aid-de-camp, and I now draw a pension of three 
 thousand francs granted the widow by the Cham- 
 
62 COLONEl CHABERT. Act II. 
 
 bres. I have every right to reject all Chaberts past 
 and to come. 
 
 Derville. — Happily, we are alone, Madame. 
 We may lie without fear, (he shrugs his shoulders 
 and says abruptly) The proof that Colonel Chab- 
 ert' s first letter reached yon, is that as it contained 
 a draft on you and — 
 
 Countess. — A draft ! It contained no draft ! 
 
 Derville [turning towards her and smiling.) — 
 You received one letter then, Madame? See, now, 
 you are caught in the first trap a lawyer lays for 
 you, yet you think you can fight against justice. 
 (she covers her face with her hands for a moment. 
 Then coolly. ) 
 
 Countess. — As you are the lawyer of the impos- 
 tor Chabert, be so kind as to — 
 
 Derville. — Madame, at this moment I am your 
 lawyer as well as the Colonel's. Do you believe I 
 wish to lose a client as valuable as yourself? But 
 you do not listen. 
 
 Countess. — Continue, sir. 
 
 Derville. — Let us speak plainly. I will show 
 you why I am your lawyer even if I have under- 
 taken the other side also. Let me review the facts. 
 You received your fortune from Colonel Chabert, 
 and now you repulse him in his need. You are 
 rich, immensely rich, yet your husband begs. Ah, 
 Madame, Madame, a lawyer could be very eloquent 
 on that subject, a subject that is itself eloquent. 
 
ACT II. COLONEL CHABERT. 63 
 
 He could bring tears to the eyes of the judge him- 
 self. He could do more than that; he could turn 
 public opinion against you. 
 
 Countess. — Ah, you rely, I see, upon touching 
 the hearts of the judges. But even if I were to ad- 
 mit the existence of your Colonel Chabert, the tri- 
 bunaux will sustain my second marriage because of 
 my children, and I myself freed by paying the 
 Colonel two hundred and twenty-five thousand 
 francs. 
 
 Derville. — Madame, you can never tell how 
 the tribunaux will decide a question of mere senti- 
 ment. Look you, if on the one hand we have a 
 mother and her children, on the other we have a 
 man overwhelmed bv misfortune, a^ed before his 
 time, and penniless through you. Decided in your 
 favor, you would yet have a husband, a home. 
 But he, where would he find a home ? Then there 
 is a point on which the law is explicit. Your mar- 
 riage with Colonel Chabert has not been annulled ; 
 you are still his wife. Furthermore, if, in painting 
 these scenes, the slightest odium attaches itself to 
 you, another adversary may be raised up against 
 you, one you have not forseen. That, Madame, is 
 the danger from which I would save you. 
 
 Countess. — A new adversary ! Who? 
 
 Derville. — Count Ferraud, Madame. 
 
 Countess. — Count Ferraud has a deep affection 
 for me, and he would — 
 
 Derville. — To a lawyer accustomed to read be- 
 
(>4 COLONEL CHABERT. Act II. 
 
 tween the lines, this is mere nonsense. Do not 
 misunderstand me. Count Ferraud has, at this 
 moment, not the slightest desire, nor even the 
 thought, to break your marriage, and I am sure he 
 adores you. But, were he told that his marriage 
 could be annulled, that his wife was to be brought 
 as a criminal before the bar of public opinion — 
 
 Countess. — He would defend me, sir. 
 
 DERViLLE. — No, Madame, he would not. 
 
 Countess. — Your reason. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Simply because his marriage with 
 you annulled, he could marry the only child of some 
 peer of France, whose title would descend to him. 
 
 {the Countess sinks into the chair.) 
 
 DERVILLE {aside.) — I have her. {aloud.) You 
 would not be so badly off, madame, if that were 
 the case. A man covered with glorious achieve- 
 ments, a general, a Count, a grand officer of the 
 Legion d' honneur. That would not be such a bad 
 exchange, if — he would have you. 
 
 Countess. — Oh, enough, enough. Spare me. 
 You have conquered. I can have no other lawyer 
 but you. {she covers her face with her hands. ) 
 What must I do? 
 
 DERVILLE. — Compromise. 
 
 {the Countess ibises and 7i'aiks hastily up 
 and down. Then pausing.) 
 
 Countess. — Does he love me vet? 
 
Act II. COLONEL CHABERT. 65 
 
 Der viLLE. — Unfortunately, yes. 
 
 {the Countess resumes her walk, thought- 
 fully. ) 
 
 Countess — Oh, I cannot decide at once. I can- 
 not give you a definite answer to-day. I must 
 think. You have given me much to ponder on. 
 
 DervillE. — I trust I have shown you the weak- 
 ness of your position, and — 
 
 Countess. — Yes, my friend, I was misled by cir- 
 cumstances that you will appreciate, and von have 
 opened my eyes. I no longer think as I did, and 
 I see that my course must be totally different from 
 what I intended. I thank you, my friend, and 
 must consult you further as to how best to arrange 
 this for the best of all Can I not see your other 
 client ? Not here, though. 
 
 DervillE. — Colonel Chabert? Why, as to that 
 — unless at my office — you know he is not lodged 
 like a prince. 
 
 Countess. — The very place. To-morrow at, 
 say, ten ? 
 
 DERVILLE. — Very well. I will arrange with 
 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 Countess. — Ah, Monsieur Derville, I am but a 
 weak woman after all. How weak, your argu- 
 ments have shown me. I am quite unnerved. 
 
 DERVILLE, — Then, Madame, with your permis- 
 sion I shall take my leave, {aside, as he goes out.) 
 
66 COLONEL CHABERT. Act II. 
 
 What scheme has she now ? Too humble, my 
 lady, to deceive me. 
 
 {exit Derville.) 
 
 Countess {laughing softly.) — Oh, wise young- 
 man! You have, indeed, changed my plans. In- 
 stead of showing me the weakness of my position, 
 you have given me the keynote of my strength. 
 {pause.) Poor Chabert! He is much changed. 
 He was a handsome man. {pause. ) He loves me 
 yet! Yes, he loved me well in those old days, 
 and I — {she shrugs her shoulders.) He was an 
 able man, too. From an unknown foundling to 
 a Count. I did well to retain him, penniless and 
 nameless though he was. Now I am a Countess, 
 wealthy, courted. Then — (she shudders.) No 
 more of that! Let that past remain buried, {she 
 rises, resuming her walk.) If Chabert will ac- 
 cede to my wishes and remain dead, all will be 
 well. He must consent, {pause. Then she goes 
 to mirror and examines her reflection. Then 
 smiling triumphantly.) By the love he still has 
 for me I will conquer him. 
 
 End of Act Second. 
 
Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 
 
 Act Third. 
 
 Derville's office. Time, 9 A. M. 
 
 Private office in front, general office at left-back, door at 
 right-back, leading to another room. When the curtain 
 rises the clerks are in the general office at work, Godeschal 
 dictating, and Boucard in private office writing at table. 
 
 Godeschal. — "But in his exalted and beneficent 
 wisdom" — comma — "his majesty, Louis the eigh- 
 teenth 1 ' — put that all in letters — "the moment he 
 resumed the reins of power" — comma — "under- 
 stood" — Oh, what did the fat joker understand? — 
 "understood the high mission to which he had been 
 called by divine Providence" — exclamation point 
 and a dash; they are pious enough at the Palais 
 Royal to let that pass— "And his first thought" — 
 comma — "as is proved by the date of the ordinance 
 hereinafter named" — comma — "was to repair the 
 evils caused by the frightful and bloody disasters of 
 our revolutionary times" — comma — "by restoring 
 to his faithful and numerous adherents" — numer- 
 ous is a fine piece of flattery, and should please the 
 tribunal — u all their unsold property" — comma — 
 "whether it be now included in the public domain" 
 — comma — "in the ordinary or extraordinary crown 
 domains" — comma — "or in the gifts to public in- 
 stitutions" — dot your i's and cross your t's. 
 
 1st Clerk.— T's. 
 
 Godeschal. — Eh ! What is that? What have 
 you written ? 
 
68 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 
 
 2d Clerk. — He has written, "Or in the gifts to 
 public institutions dot your eyes and cross your 
 teas," spelling them e-y-e-s and t-e-a-s. (all laugh.) 
 
 Godeschal. — How is this, Hun'? Do you think 
 that eyes and teas are law terms? 
 
 Boucard. — Come, come! Not so much noise 
 there. You have made me lose my count. Besides 
 the master will be here in a few moments. 
 
 Godeschal. — Erase that carefully, Hure. Here, 
 let me see it. Heavens! What have yon done? 
 (reading.) "But in his exalted and benevolent 
 wisdom comma his majesty Louis the eighteenth 
 put that all in letters" — Good Lord! — "the moment 
 he recovered the rains" — r-a-i-n-s — "of power 
 comma understood what did the fat joker under- 
 stand" — Heavens and earth! This is enough to 
 get the master disbarred. This is horrible. Here, 
 take a fresh sheet of paper, and re-write this. If 
 the master should see this, goodby to yon. There, 
 I will wait until you catch up. (enter Dcrville 
 tli rough general office. ) 
 
 DERViLLE. — Good morning, gentlemen. 
 
 Clerks. — Good morning, sir. 
 
 (Dervdle enters private office and seats 
 himself at desk, opening and reading letters. En- 
 ter Colonel Chabert in general office.) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Monsieur Derville, is he in? 
 
 Godeschal. — He has just arrived. I will see 
 if— 
 
Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 69 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — I come by appointment. 
 
 Godeschal. — In that case enter, sir. 
 
 {Colonel Chabert enters private office. ) 
 
 Derville. — Ah, good morning, Count. You 
 are prompt. Leave us, Boucard. {Boucard goes 
 out, closing the doors.) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — A poor man cannot afford 
 to be late, monsieur. 
 
 Derville. — Well, well, we shall have time to 
 talk over our affairs before the Countess arrives. 
 But, Colonel, how well you look to-day. You are 
 another man. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Monsieur, you have given 
 me hope. 
 
 Derville. — Then, truly, it is a soverain cure. 
 But be seated and let us talk. I received your pa- 
 pers from Heilsburg some days ago, and found 
 them as you had stated. I also received an addi- 
 tional letter from the surgeon of the hospital in 
 which he states that the woman who saved you 
 still lives. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — And I have no money. 
 
 Derville. — Colonel, I will not conceal from 
 you that, notwithstanding the fact that your papers 
 are at hand, your case is excessively complicated. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — It is very simple, it seems 
 to me. You all thought me dead. Well, here I 
 am. Then give me back my wife and my fortune; 
 
70 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 
 
 give me the rank of General, to which I have a 
 right, for I had passed Colonel the night before the 
 battle of Eylau. 
 
 Derville. — Ah, things are not done that way 
 in law. Listen. Yon are Count Chabert, I admit, 
 but to prove it legally to those whose interest it is 
 to deny your existence — that is another matter. 
 All yonr papers will be disputed, and each chal- 
 lenge will open up a dozen or more preliminary 
 questions. Each step will be fought to the Su- 
 preme Court, and will involve expensive suits that 
 will drag along however much I push them. Your 
 adversaries will demand an inquiry, which we shall 
 not be able to deny, and which will necessitate, 
 perhaps, sending a commission to Prussia. But 
 even supposing the most favorable circumstances, 
 that you are recognized as Colonel Chabert, do we 
 know how the question arising from the innocent 
 bigamy of the Countess will be decided? In this 
 the point of law is outside the code, and can be 
 judged only by the law of conscience, as the juries 
 often do in cases of social perversities brought up 
 in criminal trials. Now, you had no children, 
 while Count Ferraud had two. There lies the 
 point. The judges can annul a marriage like 
 yours in favor of Count Ferraud, in order to further 
 the wellfare of the children, always supposing, of 
 course, that the parents married in good faith. The 
 case has many elements of duration. You may 
 grow old before it does, struggling with the sharp- 
 est anxieties. 
 
Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 71 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — But my property? 
 
 Derville. — You think that you have a large 
 fortune ? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Have I not an income of 
 eighty thousand francs? 
 
 Derville. — My dear Colonel, anticipating that 
 question, I have investigated the matter. Here, 
 then, is the state of the property. You made, 
 in 1709, before your marriage, a will leaving a 
 quarter of your whole property to the hospitals. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — True. 
 
 Derville. — Well, when you were dead, was not 
 an inventory necessary in order to settle the estate 
 and give this quarter to the hospitals ? Yes, the 
 estate was settled, and your wife did not scruple to 
 cheat the poor. This inventory, in which she took 
 care not to mention the money on hand, the jewelry 
 and but little of the silver, and in which the furni- 
 ture was appraised at two-thirds the full value, 
 either to please her or to lessen the tax, the apprais- 
 ers being liable to the amount of their valuations, 
 this inventory gave your property as amounting to 
 six hundred thousand francs. Your widow had a 
 dower right to half. Everything was sold and 
 bought in by her, she making by the transaction, 
 and the hospitals got their seventy-five thousand 
 francs. The state inheriting the remainder, the 
 Emperor by a decree, you not having mentioned 
 your wife in your will, returned to the widow that 
 
72 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 
 
 portion. Now, to what have you any right ? To 
 three hundred thousand francs, less costs. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Do you call that justice? 
 
 DERVILLE. — It is the law. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Fine law, that. 
 
 DERVILLE. — But it is so, my poor Colonel. You 
 see now what you thought so simple and easy is not 
 so at all. And Madame Ferraud may also try to 
 retain what the Emperor gave her. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — But she is not a widow 
 and the decree is null. 
 
 DERVILLE. — I admit that, but everything can be' 
 argued. Listen. In these circumstances I think 
 that a compromise is the best thing for all parties. 
 You would gain a larger fortune that way than by 
 asserting your rights. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — It would be selling my 
 wife. 
 
 DERVILLE. — With an income of twenty-four 
 thousand francs you could choose another who 
 would suit you better and make you happier. Be- 
 lieve me, this is safest. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Do you think I could win 
 my case? 
 
 DervillE. — Perhaps. To all appearances, yes. 
 But, my dear Colonel Chabert, there is one point 
 you do not remember. I am not rich and my prac- 
 tice is not entirely paid for. If the courts would be 
 
Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 73 
 
 willing to grant yon a provisional maintenance, 
 that is an advance on your property, they would do 
 so only after having recognized your claims as 
 Colonel Chabert, Grand Officer of the Legion d' 
 Honneur. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — True. I am Grand Officer 
 of the Legion d' Honneur. I had forgotten that. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Well, to continue. To get them to 
 do that yon will have to bring suits, pay lawvers, 
 employ sheriffs and — live. The cost of these pre- 
 liminary steps will amount, at a rough estimate, to 
 twelve or fifteen thousand francs. I have not that 
 amount to lend yon, for I am already burdened by 
 the enormous interest I have to pay. Where, then, 
 will you get it ? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — I will go to the column of 
 the Vendome and cry out, I am Colonel Chabert, 
 who broke the Russian square at Eylan. The 
 statue itself would recognize me. 
 
 DERVILLE. — And they would imprison yon as 
 mad. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Perhaps I would stand a 
 better chance at the war office. 
 
 DERVILLE. — A government office ! The last 
 place possible. The government would prefer get- 
 ting rid of the Empire people. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Ah, there is no place here 
 in this world for me. 
 
74 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Courage, my friend. Courage. We 
 shall bring this case to a happy ending yet. But 
 you must give me your entire confidence, and place 
 yourself blindly in my hands. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Well, do as you wish with 
 me. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Then I am your general, you my 
 regiment ready to inarch to death. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Good. But must I live 
 without a name, without station? That would be 
 horrible. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Certainly not. We will bring an 
 amicable suit to annul the record of your death, 
 and also your marriage, so that you may resume 
 your place in society. You might even be restored 
 to your place in the arm}', or by Count F errand's 
 influence raised to the rank of General, and you 
 would doubtless get a pension. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Well, then, so be it. I 
 trust myself entirely to you. 
 
 Derville. — Then sign this power of attorney. 
 {placing document before Chabert, who signs.) 
 Now, Colonel, pray attend carefully to this. Do 
 not have any communication with your wife. If 
 she seeks you, avoid her, and under no circum- 
 stances sign any document or paper at her solicita- 
 tion or at the solicitation of any person, except in 
 my presence. This is important. Courage, my 
 friend. I see good fortune yet in store for yon. 
 Do you need money ? 
 
Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 75 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — My needs are supplied 
 through vour generosity. I should like to reward — 
 but no matter. I must wait until I get my rights. 
 
 Derville. — Ah, a carriage. Countess Ferraud 
 comes. Now, Colonel, I must speak with her alone 
 before you meet. Will you have the kindness to 
 enter there? {Chabert goes out.) 
 
 Derville. — So far, good. But the Countess is 
 another matter. I must discover what scheme she 
 has. 
 
 Godeschal {entering from general office.) — A 
 lady to see you, sir. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Admit her. {enter Countess Fer- 
 raud veiled.) Leave us, Godeschal. {Godeschal 
 goes out. ) 
 
 {Countess Ferraud removes veil. Derville 
 places chair for her.) 
 
 Derville. — Madame, before your interview 
 with Colonel Chabert, it would be best to submit 
 to you, I think, the articles of agreement, so that I 
 may obtain your opinion of them before consider- 
 ing them with him. While I am indebted to 
 Colonel Chabert for many points that will appear, 
 he has not yet seen the agreement nor heard its 
 terms. It is at present merely a rough draft, con- 
 sequently I will, with your permission, read it to 
 you. 
 
 Countess. — Proceed, sir. I am listening. 
 
COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 
 
 DERVILLE {reading.) — "Articles of agreement 
 made this blank day of blank between the under- 
 signed, Paul Hyacinthe, alias Chabert, Count, 
 Major-General and Grand Officer of the Legion d' 
 Honneur, of the rue du Petit Banquier, Paris, of 
 the first part, and Rose Chapotel, wife of Count 
 Chabert, the above-named, daughter of — 
 
 Countess. — Enough, enough. Let us omit the 
 preamble and consider the conditions. 
 
 DERVILLE. — Madame, this preamble is absolutely 
 necessary, and furthermore it explains succinctly 
 the position of the subscribers. However, since 
 you wish it, I will omit reading it. Here then are 
 the conditions. First, that you recognize in the 
 presence of three witnesses, who are to be two no- 
 taries and the cowkeeper with whom your husband 
 has lived and to whom I have confided the facts of 
 the case under promise of secrecy, that you recog- 
 nize, as I say, that the individual named herein, 
 but whose identity is elsewhere proved in an affi- 
 davit prepared by Alexander Crotat, your notary, to 
 be Count Chabert, your first husband. Second, 
 that Count Chabert will agree to make no use of 
 his rights as your husband, except as may be here- 
 inafter noted in another clause, which is as to the 
 non-fulfillment of the terms of this agreement. 
 Third, that Count Chabert will agree to sue with 
 you for an amicable decree to annul the record of 
 his death, and to dissolve his marriage with you. 
 
 Countess. — But that does not suit me at all. I 
 do not want to go to law. You know why. 
 
Act III. COLONEL CHABERT. 77 
 
 {enter Chabert at back, unperceived. ) 
 
 DervillE. — Fourth, that you will secure to 
 Count Chabert, under the name of Paul Hyacinthe, 
 a contingent annuity of twenty-four thousand 
 francs, to be in public funds, the same to revert to 
 you upon his death, and — 
 
 Countess. — But that is far too dear! 
 
 DervillE. — Did you think that you could com- 
 promise for less? 
 
 Countess. — That is too much. 
 
 DERVILLE. — What, then, do you want, Madame? 
 
 Countess. — I want — I — I do not want to go to 
 law. I want — 
 
 DervillE. — Him to remain dead. 
 
 Countess. — Well, sir, if he must have twenty- 
 four thousand francs income, I will risk a suit. It 
 is extortion and I will not submit. I will demand 
 justice. I will — 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Yes, justice. (coming 
 forward, pointing to his empty sleeve.) 
 
 Countess {aside.) — It is he! 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Too dear! too dear! And 
 I gave you almost a million. So! you would trade 
 upon my misfortunes, haggle about a pittance that 
 I consented to beg of you like a pauper, so that 
 you would not have to blush before the world of 
 fashion you have reached. Too dear! And I, 
 what do I pay for this love I have borne for you 
 
78 COLONEL CHABERT. Act III. 
 
 even when you closed your doors to me while I was 
 starving in the streets of Paris ? To be nameless, 
 homeless, friendless, unknown! I did not consider 
 these too dear! All I asked of you was enough to 
 keep me from hunger and to pay my debts. It is 
 too dear. Well, then, I will take all. I gave you 
 your fortune, I will take it back again, and you 
 too. You are my wife. 
 
 Countess. — But Monsieur is not Colonel Cha- 
 bert? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Ah! Do you wish proofs? 
 In those old days I was not so particular. I was a 
 foundling, but you, what were you ? Before I met 
 you I know not what you were, but I took you 
 from the pavements of the Palais Royal Ah! you 
 remember? Shall I continue? Shall I tell who 
 you were with and what became of him ? Ah ! 
 Yes. I know that secret too. Am I not Chabert ? 
 
 End of Act Third. 
 
Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 79 
 
 Act Fourth. 
 
 Country residence of Count Ferraud at Groslay. Library in 
 same, with windows opening upon veranda, and showing lawn 
 and park. Afternoon. 
 
 {enter Chabert and Delbecq. ) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — For the hundredth time I 
 ask you, Monsieur, where do you take me? What 
 do you wish with me ? You take me in your car- 
 riage, drive me away from the city, and offer me 
 no explanations! We arrive here, and still no an- 
 swer to my questions. I now demand a reply. 
 Speak, Monsieur. 
 
 Delbecq. — Pray have patience, my dear sir. I 
 intend you no harm, rather to do you good. I am 
 acting merely upon the instructions I have received 
 from another, who will give you all explanations, 
 will answer all the questions you have put to me. 
 With your permission I will now announce your 
 arrival. (Delbeeq goes out.) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — With my permission ! 
 Faith, the world must be tired of giving me curses 
 and is going to kill me with politeness. But who 
 is this other that causes me to be carried here? An 
 intrigue? Bah! Chabert of the Restoration is 
 not like Chabert of the Empire. An old friend 
 who has recognized me? Ah, I would not have 
 recognized myself, and then friends of prosperity 
 are not always friends of adversity. Who then ? 
 Well, no matter. I shall soon find out. (he in- 
 
80 COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 
 
 spects room.) Faith, they live well here and have 
 good taste. Good, that pleases me. The effect is 
 good, (he looks out of window.) By Mars! what 
 a place for a battle! That would please the Em- 
 porer. Ah, Saint Helena! Saint Helena! (he con- 
 tinues his examination of the room, and stops be- 
 fore the portrait of two children.) Ah, if I had 
 had children! They would have recognized me, 
 changed as I am. They would not have refused 
 me a crust of bread. They would not have treated 
 me so infamously, {he seats himself and rests his 
 head in his hands, in deep thought.) 
 
 {enter Countess and Delbecq at side.) 
 
 Countess (aside.) — It is he. Good. Did he 
 come willingly? 
 
 Delbecq (aside.) — Perfectly. 
 
 Countess (aside.) — And you told him nothing? 
 
 Delbecq (aside.) — Nothing. 
 
 Countess (aside. ) — Good. Now leave us. Have 
 the papers you have prepared at hand. I will call 
 you in a few moments. 
 
 (Delbecq goes out.) 
 
 (Countess approaches Chabert and places 
 her hand on his arm.) 
 
 Countess. — Paul. 
 
 (silence for some moments, he gazing at 
 her wondering ly. ) 
 
Act IV. [COLONEL CHABERT. 81 
 
 Countess. — Paul, I knew you the moment I saw 
 
 you. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Rosine! 
 
 Countess. — Yes, Paul, I knew you. Though it 
 has been years since I last saw you, though every 
 feature of your face has changed, the moment I saw 
 you and heard your voice, I knew you. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Yet you denied me, Rosine! 
 
 Countess. — Yes, I denied you. Ah, Paul, in 
 the many years since we parted, have you changed, 
 too, as well as your appearance ? The old Chabert 
 would not have said that, would not have reproach- 
 ed me with that denial. Yes, I did deny you. 
 Can you wonder at it? Could you not see what it 
 must have cost me to appear as I did before a 
 stranger? How could I do anything else but act a 
 part, with that lawyer's eyes upon me, waiting to 
 see me humbled, trying to read my thoughts in my 
 agitation? Think, think what a false position must 
 mine have been, and what would have been my 
 shame to be compelled to acknowledge it. If I am 
 to blush for myself, abase myself, let it be before 
 you alone. See, now I deny nothing, conceal noth- 
 ing. I lay open my heart to you. You are Count 
 Chabert. You are my husband. 
 
 Colonel Chabert — Oh, Rosine, Rosine! Those 
 words give me life. I forget my misfortunes, my 
 sufferings. 
 
 Countess. — Yes, you have suffered much. But 
 I, have I not suffered too? What am I? A widow, 
 
82 COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 
 
 yet my husband lives; married, yet he whom I 
 married is not my husband. Though innocent, I 
 am a criminal. Paul, be just to me. You think 
 that I have been hard, cruel to you. Can you 
 blame me for my indifference to the tale of misfor- 
 tunes of a Chabert in whose existence I had no 
 reason, no cause to believe? Oh, I know what you 
 would say. Yes, I received your letters, but what 
 did they prove to me? They reached me three 
 months after the battle of Eylau, three long months 
 after you had been killed and buried. If it had 
 been really Chabert why had he not written to his 
 wife before? Then the condition of the letters 
 themselves; they were opened, soiled, hardly legi- 
 ble, in nothing like you. How could I believe you 
 to be other than an impostor? Why should I think 
 that Napoleon had been deceived? He had seen 
 you fall in battle; had seen a thousand horsemen 
 ride over your body; had sent his surgeons to see 
 your corpse. Then he sent an aid-de-campe to tell 
 me the tidings, the story of your death, condoling 
 with me for my loss of a dear husband, and his loss 
 of a brave soldier. They showed me the certificate 
 of your burial; the journals were filled with regrets 
 for your untimely end. What right had I to sup- 
 pose that all were wrong? I could not think them 
 so, could not think otherwise than that you were 
 an impostor, one who had heard the story of my 
 loss — for who had not heard it? — and had conceived 
 the frightful idea of trading on my grief. I did 
 believe this, and thinking so it was necessary for 
 me to take precautions to meet your attacks. I 
 
Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 83 
 
 could not ask aid from Count Ferraud. I could not 
 tell him how cruelly I was beset, yet I had to pro- 
 tect myself and him. Was I not right in doing 
 this. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Yes, you were right and I 
 was mad not to foresee this. Rosine, I have wrong- 
 ed you. I have thought too harshly of you. 
 
 Countess. — Ah, my friend, on what little things 
 do our lives often depend ! Is it not horrible to 
 look back and realize that what seemed to us then 
 so small, so unimportant, so easily avoided, was in 
 reality a momentous event, deciding irrevocably 
 our whole after life? If you had told me your 
 whole story in your first letter, giving it but the 
 appearance of reality so that I might have doubted 
 in the least degree the weight of the evidence 
 against you, how different would have been our 
 lives ! Or if I had had courage to tell others of that 
 letter, clumsy imposture as I thought it was, it 
 would have been investigated. Either would have 
 been so easy, you to have been more frank, I to 
 overcome my pride. But we did neither. You 
 stated merely that you were alive and asked for 
 money, and I concealed the letter. But no more 
 of this. Regrets will avail us nothing. The evil 
 has been done. Can we repair it ? What is best 
 for us to do? This is what we must consider and 
 consult about. It is for this I brought you here, to 
 my country place near Groslay. Here we can be 
 alone, without fear of interruption, forw T e must de- 
 cide this question for ourselves, must we not ? We 
 
COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 
 
 do not wish to become the talk of Paris. To a 
 man that would matter but little, but to a woman, 
 to me, it is everything. The talk, the scandal, 
 that would be horrible; but the odium, the ridi- 
 cule that would be ours, that would be worse. We 
 must preserve our dignity, (she touches the blue 
 ribbon on his coat.) That must not be dishonored. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — You are right. Anything 
 but that. 
 
 Countess. — Yet how are we to decide? What 
 can we take to guide us? Can we be guided by 
 the same things ? Shall we take the law, that 
 calm, impassive logic, reasoning from a cause to 
 an effect, that Juggernaut grinding feelings, affec- 
 tions, moral duties beneath its resistless power ? 
 You have a right to this, but I, can I mistake my 
 duty ? The law says I am your wife, that I had 
 no right to marry again. But you died to me. 
 Was I not then free to form other ties? And are 
 these new ties to be broken, cut asunder because of 
 a mistake that no man could have forseen ? Oh, 
 Paul, you are my judge, the one and only arbiter 
 of my fate. In your hands lie the power. Be gen- 
 erous to me. Ah, you feel for me. Something 
 tells me I may hope in your mercy, trust in the 
 nobleness of your nature. You will not blast the 
 lives of those who love me. 
 
 Colonel Chabert {after a few moments^ si- 
 lence. ) — Rosine. 
 
 Countess. — Yes, Paul? 
 
Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 85 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — The dead should never re- 
 turn to earth. 
 
 Countess. — Oh, no, no, Paul. Do not say that. 
 Believe me, I am not selfish and ungrateful. If I 
 were alone, there would be no question, no hesita- 
 tion. But I am not alone. And, Paul, I will hide 
 nothing from you. Count Ferraud loves me and 
 I — I love him. Ah, did I not believe myself free 
 to love him ? When you died I was alone, I had 
 no friends, no relative, nothing to live for. I was 
 not a mother. 
 
 Colonel Chabert (looking at portrait. ) — Are 
 these your children ? 
 
 Countess. — Yes. 
 
 Colonel Chabert (regarding it sadly for 
 awhile^ then looks around the room as if in search 
 for something.) — And where is his — the other? 
 
 Countess. — My husband — I mean — I — how shall 
 I speak of Count Ferraud ? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Call him your husband, 
 my poor child. 
 
 Countess. — I have no portrait of him here. 
 
 (Chabert turns again to the portrait. His 
 lips move as if speaking to himself!) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — It is only just, I must re- 
 turn to my grave. My dear, I have decided. Rest 
 tranquil in your present home. I am the one to 
 make the sacrifice. 
 
COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 
 
 Countess. — Oh, Paul, what can I say to you? 
 How can I let you do this? You have suffered so 
 much, borne so much, and I have been the inno- 
 cent cause of many of your trials. You should 
 hate me, trample on me. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — I love you. 
 
 Countess. — How can I let you do it? 
 
 Colonel Chabert (pointing to portrait.) — For 
 their sake. They are innocent of all wrong. And, 
 my child, I do not blame you now. Once I thought 
 you hated me for coining to life again; that you 
 knew I was alive and that you knowingly and in- 
 tentionally denied my existence. But that is past. 
 You are innocent of all wrong, your children are 
 innocent, your husband is innocent. And God 
 knows I, too, am innocent. Oh, life, life! What 
 a poor muddle you are! If that Russian had only 
 been a little stronger, all would have been well. 
 But we must not sacrifice four lives for one. I will 
 renounce my name, my station, — you. Well, what 
 matters it! A few years more or less and the com- 
 edy will be over. I am indeed an old man. 
 
 Countess. — But to do this authentically — 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Authentically! Will not 
 my word suffice ? But, no, no, my child. I do 
 not mean that. Since it is to be done, let it be 
 done well. Draw up your papers and let me sign 
 them. All I ask is enough to live on and to re- 
 ward those who have been kind to me. 
 
Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 87 
 
 Countess. — I will send my secretary to you and 
 you can talk it over together. He has, I believe, 
 drawn up a paper — 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Ah! It is already drawn 
 up! You were confident. 
 
 Countess. — Did I not know you were Chabert? 
 (she kisses him and goes out. ) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Alas! Poor ghost! Poor, 
 useless ghost! It is time for you to return to your 
 grave. Yet it must be so. I have often thought 
 that my only hope, and now everything warns me 
 that I am not wanted. Not to be wanted! To 
 find no resting place but in the grave! I have 
 grown old, old, old, and I have not realized it. 
 Life has swept beyond me while I was held in my 
 tomb, and left me stranded, flotsam of days gone 
 by. France has no need of me, no place for me. 
 Well, let it be so. 
 
 (enter Delbecq.) 
 
 DELBECQ (placing papers on table. ) — I trust that 
 you are not still angry with me ? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Ah, my captor. No ill- 
 will, my friend. So, you are secretary to Countess 
 Ferraud ? 
 
 Delbecq. — Yes, Colonel, I have that honor. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Ah, you know me. You 
 are in her confidence. Well, it is perhaps better. 
 You have some papers for me to sign, Monsieur ? 
 (Delbecq goes to table and unties papers. ) 
 
88 COLOOEL CHABERT. Act IV. 
 
 Colonel Chabert {aside.) — Why do I distrust 
 this man ? He can do me no harm. I am past 
 that. 
 
 Delbecq. — Here, Colonel, is a document you 
 will have to sign in order to make your renunciation 
 legal. I have marked the place for your signature, 
 Write your name in full, if you please. [Chabert 
 prepares to sign. ) 
 
 Delbecq [aside.) — He suspects nothing, (aloud.) 
 Ah, Colonel, you have signed many a paper in 
 your life, no doubt. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Yes, but not lately. The 
 last I signed was in the office of Monsieur Derville 
 — (he stops suddenly as if remeifibering something. 
 He looks searchingly at Delbecq, then at the paper. 
 He throzvs down the pen. ) I will read the paper 
 first. (he reads.} 
 
 Delbecq (aside.) — He is no fool after all. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — But this is infamous ! 
 
 Delbecq (in a lozv tone.} — Well, I would not ad- 
 vise you to sign too quickly. 
 
 Colonel Chabert (tearing paper.} — I shall not 
 sign at all. 
 
 DELBECQ (after assuring himself that no one is 
 listening.) — You are right. Sign nothing. You 
 can make an income of at least thirty thousand 
 francs out of this. If you make it an object to 
 me — 
 
Act IV. COLONEL CHABERT. 89 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — So ! You are false to the 
 Countess, as well as unworthy of the name of hon- 
 est man ! Away ! Out of my path ! I will have no 
 dealings with such as you. (he goes out on ver- 
 anda. ) 
 
 DELBECQ [picking up the torn paper. ) — He is not 
 such a fool as he looks. I did not think he would 
 sign without looking, though the Countess did. If 
 she had taken my advice, and put the matter a lit- 
 tle milder, filled it with legal phrases, he could not 
 have understood it. My judgeship looks a little 
 distant at present. She will be terribly angry. I 
 hope he will not tell her that I advised him not to 
 sign. If he does, I may give up all hope of Count 
 Ferraud's aid in my preferment. I was a fool to 
 do it. (enter Countess.) 
 
 Countess. — Well, did he sign? 
 
 DELBECQ (showing Iter the torn paper.) — No, 
 Madame, he did this. I do not know how it hap- 
 pened, but the moment when he had all but signed, 
 he took it into his head to read it. Then, of course, 
 it was all over. I advised Madame to word it dif- 
 ferently, (enter Chabert, in deep thought, not 
 observing them. ) 
 
 Countess. — What made the old fool do that? 
 ( Chabert starts. ) 
 
 DELBECQ. — He is as stubborn as an old mule. 
 
 Countess. — He must be put in the mad-house. 
 
90 COLONEL CHABERT. Act IV. 
 
 (Chabert comes forzvard and runs against 
 Delbecq, whom he kicks and throws out of the 
 window. ) 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Mules kick, (he returns 
 slowly from the window, regarding the Countess 
 fixedly.) Oh, Rosine ! (he sinks in chair and rests 
 his head on table. After a few moments silence the 
 Countess kneels beside him and places her hand on 
 his arm.) 
 
 Countess. — Paul! 
 
 Colonel Chabert (springing up.) — Do not 
 touch me! Your touch is contamination, [he paces 
 up and down. Then pauses before her. ) I do not 
 curse you. I do not hate you. I despise you. You 
 have sunk too low even for vengeance, for we do 
 not take vengeance on a cur. (he sfrurns her with 
 his foot.) Get up! So! Let me look at you. Yes, 
 I know you now, know the very depth of your lit- 
 tle, contemptible nature, your greedy, selfish heart. 
 I can now thank the chance that separated us, the 
 sufferings and horrors that I have passed through 
 prove to be blessings. Rather the grave than life 
 with such as you. Live tranquil. I shall claim 
 nothing from you, since to do that I might be 
 forced to take you too. I shall not even claim the 
 name I have perhaps rendered illustrious. I do not 
 wish that to be besmirched with your infamy. If 
 you have any humanity, any spark of womanly 
 feeling, and I suppose you must have some since 
 you are a mother, you will see that Monsieur Der- 
 
Epilogue. COLONEL CHABERT. 91 
 
 ville is paid, and that the woman who saved me is 
 rewarded. I require this of you. See that it is 
 done. You shall never see me again, never hear of 
 me, unless you fail in my last command. You will 
 do this? 
 
 Countess. — Yes, yes. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — It is well. Then you have 
 my word. You are safe. Authentically! {he lauglis 
 bitterly.} What is more binding than a soldier's 
 word ? 
 
 End of Act Fourth. 
 
 Epilogue. 
 
 Road outside of Paris. Fifteen years are supposed to pass 
 between Act IV. and Epilogue. 
 
 {Enter Derville and Godeschal.) 
 
 Derville. — Yes, Godeschal, I have decided. I 
 shall leave Paris forever, buy a place in the coun- 
 try somewhere, and live there tranquilly until I die. 
 I am no longer young and am not able to work as I 
 have done. Paris has become repugnant to me. I 
 know it too well, and it fills me with horror. It is 
 so fair to look upon, yet this beautiful semblance is 
 but the covering of brutal vice. I can see nothing 
 but the ghostly skeleton beneath the fair exterior. 
 Do you know, my friend, there are three classes of 
 men who cannot respect humanity, the priests, the 
 
92 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 
 
 doctors and the lawyers? They all receive confes- 
 sions, and carry on their shoulders the burden of 
 the sins of others. Of the three, the lawyer bears 
 the most. To the priest confession is contrition. 
 Evil comes to him in remorse, repentant, seeking 
 reformation. These are qualities that console, 
 reconcile, purify the confessor. To the doctor it is 
 a disease. He analyzes through the medium of 
 science, and science changes the evil to a result, 
 establishing a logical chain from the cause to effect, 
 and the confessor becomes a logician, a scientist. 
 Both priest and doctor can cure. But with us, we 
 have the same evils without the consolations of re- 
 pentance and of science, and we do not cure. We 
 do not hear, " I am sorry " or "I am better." It 
 is always "Help me to escape," "Help me 
 hide." No reparation, no atonement, only to 
 avoid the consequences. Ah, my friend, what have 
 I not seen, what vice and crime has not passed 
 through my office! I have seen fathers dying in 
 poverty while their children roll in wealth. I have 
 seen wills burned. I have seen mothers despoiling 
 their children, husbands robbing their wives, wives 
 killing their husbands. I have seen crimes and 
 evils against which justice is powerless. All the 
 catalogue of crimes and horrors that romance could 
 conceive would not complete the list of those daily 
 and nightly committed in our midst. Ah, my 
 friend, you are just beginning to learn these agree- 
 able things, but I have had enough of them. 
 
 Godeschal. — Yes, my dear old master, I know 
 you are right. Paris, underneath, is the sink-hole 
 
Epilogue. COLONEL CHABERT. 93 
 
 of crime and contamination. Even I have seen 
 some of the crimes yon mention. 
 
 DERViLLE. — Yon have been with me for a long 
 time, Godeschal, and I take a fatherly interest in 
 yon. Do not let yourself grow callous and indif- 
 ferent in your contact with these horrors. Take a 
 leaf from my receipt-book. Go often to the coun- 
 try. Man made the city, but God made the coun- 
 try, and it is in the country that we come nearest to 
 Him. Come here, if you can do no better. It is 
 where I have spent many a happy hour, though not 
 lately. Ah, I knew it well. See, over there is the 
 new poor-house. They were digging the founda- 
 tions when I was here last. 
 
 Godeschal. — Yes, and here come some of the 
 unfortunate inmates. 
 
 {enter Chabert and several other paupers. 
 Chabett seats himself on a rock by the roadside. ) 
 
 DERViLLE. — Yes, it is so. Poor, unfortunate 
 creatures! Why is it, Godeschal, that we all look 
 upon this as the crowning misfortune of a life of 
 misery? These men have probably never known 
 such comforts in all their lives, yet notice their 
 mournful expression, as if they felt this to be the 
 acme of their degradation. See, they all have it, all 
 except that old fellow with the pipe, and he is al- 
 most past feeling anything. He — Merciful Heav- 
 ens! Can it be? 
 
 Godeschal. — Who ? What ? 
 
94 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 
 
 DervillE. — It is not possible! But yet, it must 
 be. That face, that scar, the missing arm — it is 
 even so. What an ending! 
 
 Godeschal. — My dear friend, what has startled 
 you ? 
 
 Derville. — I was startled by the discovery of 
 the termination of a hideous drama that has been 
 on my mind for fifteen years, and that has always 
 been a mystery to me. I called your attention to 
 that old man with the pipe. Observe him well. 
 In him I find the solution. He is the victim of a 
 deadlier and baser ingratitude than I ever imag- 
 ined. Poor, poor man. Oh, Godeschal, the sight 
 of him makes my heart bleed. 
 
 Godeschal. — Who is he, then ? 
 
 Derville. — You know the Countess Ferraud? 
 
 Godeschal. — Yes, I have seen her. 
 
 Derville. — That old pauper is her legitimate 
 husband, Colonel Chabert, and a Count of the Em- 
 pire. 
 
 Godeschal. — Ah, he who was reported killed at 
 Eylau ? Why, then, is he here ? 
 
 Derville. — If he is here, it is because he re- 
 minded a woman that he took her, like a cab, from 
 the streets. Ah, I saw the gleam of deadly hate 
 in her eyes when he exposed her. This, then, is 
 her revenge. Well, it is worthy of her. 
 
 Godeschal. — May one know the history? You 
 have excited my sympathy for the old man. 
 
Epilogue- COLONEL CHABERT. 95 
 
 Derville. — It is a long- story, but I can give 
 you the principal points. Colonel Chabert was left 
 for dead and was buried on the battlefield of Eylau. 
 Escaping his tomb by a miracle, he is stricken by 
 disease. Finally, after unheard of sufferings, he 
 reaches Paris, only to be repulsed and denied by 
 his wife, who had re-married, but who had received 
 a letter from her husband before her second mar- 
 riage. She, therefore, knew that Chabert was 
 alive, but trusted that poverty and suffering would 
 kill him or drive him out of his senses. After 
 vainly trying to find some lawyer to take up his 
 case, that was to be restored to his fortune and 
 position, he came to me. Just why I did not be- 
 lieve him to be mad, as did all the others he had 
 applied to, I cannot tell. Something about the 
 man convinced me that he was what he claimed to 
 be. Then I received from Germany papers proving 
 beyond question his identity. Well, the day after 
 the interview in my office between Colonel Chabert 
 and his wife, in which he reminds her of her origin, 
 he disappears, completely and without leaving a 
 trace. A few days after this I received a letter 
 from the Countess in which she states that the 
 Colonel has admitted that he is an impostor and 
 has dropped all claim against her. I searched for 
 him for some time, knowing him to be Colonel 
 Chabert and suspecting foul play, but until this 
 moment have never received any tidings concerning 
 him. He is Colonel Chabert, yet he is here, a pau- 
 per. Let us go closer and see if he remembers me. 
 
96 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 
 
 {during the foregoing speech all the paupers 
 but Chabert have gone out.) 
 
 Derville. — Good morning, comrade. 
 
 Colonel Chabert (saluting.) — Good morning, 
 good morning. 
 
 DERVILLE (aside to Godeschal.) — Ah, no, he has 
 no recollection of my voice. 
 
 Godeschal. — Call him by name. 
 
 Derville. — Colonel Chabert! 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Not Chabert, not Chabert, 
 Monsieur. My name is Hyacinthe, number 164, 
 seventh division. I — I — Monsieur Derville ! 
 
 Derville. — Do you remember me? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Yes, Monsieur. 
 
 Derville. — How is it that if you are an honest 
 man you have been content to remain my debtor? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — What ! Has not Madame 
 Ferraud paid you? 
 
 DERVILLE. — Paid me! She wrote me that you 
 acknowledged yourself to be an impostor. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — My God ! Can this be 
 true? She promised — Have you a piece of paper? 
 And a crayon? Thank you, thank you. (he 
 writes.') Send that to her, Monsieur, send that to 
 her. She will pay you. Believe me, I have not 
 forgotten your generosity to me. That is the one 
 bright remembrance of my life. But a pauper can 
 
Epilogue. COLONEL CHABERT. 97 
 
 do little more than remember, and sometimes not 
 even that, sometimes not even that. 
 
 Derville. — But, Colonel, why are you here? 
 If you consented to renounce everything, did you 
 not at least stipulate an income? 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — No, no, do not speak of 
 that. I have forgotten all that, forgotten all that. 
 At least I try to do so. It comes back to me some- 
 times, though, in all the horrid vividness of that 
 last scene, when she stood unmasked in all the rot- 
 tenness of her heart. No, no! Let me not think 
 of that! The thought is madness. 
 
 Godeschal. — You have overexerted yourself. 
 There, lean back and rest. 
 
 DERVILLE. — But your life here must be horrible. 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Here? In the poor-house? 
 I do not live there. My poor body rests there, but 
 not I, not I. I live in the past. The present is 
 nothing to me. Napoleon is dead. What have I 
 to live for? Nothing, nothing, nothing. My pipe 
 is my only friend. We sit and think together. 
 Great friends, great friends. 
 
 Derville. — But, Colonel Chabert — 
 
 Colonel Chabert. — Not Chabert, not Chabert. 
 Hyacinthe, the old soldier, Monsieur. He is not 
 married. He is happy. 
 
 Godeschal. — Poor man. The momentary flash 
 of intelligence has gone out. He is in his second 
 childhood. 
 
98 COLONEL CHABERT. Epilogue. 
 
 Derville. — Oh, Godeschal, Godeschal ! Let us 
 go. This scene unnerves me. I can stand no 
 more. What a fate! [exit Derville and Code- 
 sclial. ) 
 
 (Chabert does not notice their departure, 
 but continues staring vacantly, amusing himself 
 by letting sand run through his fingers. Gradu- 
 ally his actions become more and more zveak, and 
 he leans against the tree, apparently dying. ) 
 
 Colonel Chabert {in a very weak voice. ) — 
 Great friends, great friends. We are — {the words 
 cease to be audible, but his lips continue moving. 
 Suddenly he sits erect.) The day is ours! For- 
 ward! ! Viva Napoleon! ! Viva Napol — [he sinks 
 back dead.) 
 
 Finis. 
 
 i