“Yes, but you surrender yourself to me like a man marching to his death.”
“Must I not be left to live without a position, without a name? Is that endurable?”
“That is not my view of it,” said the lawyer. “We will try a friendly suit, to annul both your death certificate and your marriage, so as to put you in possession of your rights. You may even, by Comte Ferraud’s intervention, have your name replaced on the army list as general, and no doubt you will get a pension.”
“Well, proceed then,” said Chabert. “I put myself entirely in your hands.”
“I will send you a power of attorney to sign,” said Derville. “Good-bye. Keep up your courage. If you want money, rely on me.”
Chabert warmly wrung the lawyer’s hand, and remained standing with his back against the wall, not having the energy to follow him excepting with his eyes. Like all men who know but little of legal matters, he was frightened by this unforeseen struggle.
During their interview, several times, the figure of a man posted in the street had come forward from behind one of the gate-pillars, watching for Derville to depart, and he now accosted the lawyer. He was an old man, wearing a blue waistcoat and a white-pleated kilt, like a brewer’s; on his head was an otter-skin cap. His face was tanned, hollow-cheeked, and wrinkled, but ruddy on the cheek-bones by hard work and exposure to the open air.
“Asking your pardon, sir,” said he, taking Derville by the arm, “if I take the liberty of speaking to you. But I fancied, from the look of you, that you were a friend of our General’s.”
“And what then?” replied Derville. “What concern have you with him?—But who are you?” said the cautious lawyer.
“I am Louis Vergniaud,” he replied at once. “I have a few words to say to you.”