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WHICH?
OR,
BETWEEN TWO WOMEN.
BY ERNEST DAUDET.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
BY LAURA E. KENDALL.
* * * * *
"WHICH? OR, BETWEEN TWO WOMEN," is the latest and most powerful
novel from the pen of the celebrated French novelist, Ernest
Daudet. It is fully worthy of its famous author's great reputation,
for a more absorbing and thrilling romance has seldom been
published. The interest begins at once with the flight of the gypsy
mother with her child and her death in the Château de Chamondrin,
where the friendless little one is received and cared for. The plot
is simple and without mystery, but never, perhaps, were so many
stirring incidents crowded within the covers of a novel. The scene
is laid in Paris and the country, and some of the most striking
events of the times are vividly reproduced. The reader is given a
very realistic glimpse of Paris, and part of the action takes place
in that historic prison, the Conciergerie, where nobles and others
accused of crimes against the French Republic were confined.
History and fiction are adroitly mingled in the excellent novel,
which may be termed a double love story in that two women are
passionately attached to one man. On the thrilling adventures and
heart experiences of this trio the romance turns, and the reader's
attention is kept constantly riveted to the exciting narrative. The
other characters are all naturally drawn, and the book as a whole
is one of the best and most absorbing novels that can be found. It
will delight everybody.
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
W. L. ALLISON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
1893.
COPYRIGHT:
BY T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
1887.
* * * * *
WHICH?
"WHICH? OR, BETWEEN TWO WOMEN," _is the title of a new, very thrilling
and intensely interesting novel, by Ernest Daudet, one of the best known
and most widely read of the living French novelists. A highly romantic,
attractive and touching love story, in which a gypsy girl of great
beauty and heroism, named Dolores, and Antoinette de Mirandol, an
heiress, are rivals for the possession of Philip de Chamondrin, the
hero, forms the main theme, and it is most skilfully and effectively
handled. About this double romance of the heart are clustered a series
of exceedingly stirring episodes, many of which are historic. The
adventures of Philip, Dolores and Antoinette in Paris are graphically
described and hold the reader spell-bound. The book is highly dramatic
from beginning to end, and especially so that portion where the
Conciergerie prison and its noble inmates are depicted. Very stirring
scenes also are the attack on the Château de Chamondrin, Coursegol's
struggle with Vauquelas and Bridoul's rescue of the condemned prisoners
on the Place de la Révolution. But the entire novel is exceedingly
spirited, exciting and absorbing, and every character is finely drawn.
"Which? or, Between Two Women," should be read by all who relish an
excellent novel._
CONTENTS.
Chapter. Page.
I. THE BOHEMIANS 21
II. THE CHATEAU DE CHAMONDRIN 36
III. THE CHILDHOOD OF DOLORES 53
IV. PERTAINING TO LOVE MATTERS 73
V. IN WHICH HISTORY IS MINGLED WITH ROMANCE 105
VI. PARIS IN 1792 131
VII. CITIZEN JEAN VAUQUELAS 163
VIII. AN EPISODE OF THE EMIGRATION 179
IX. THE MOVING CURTAIN 193
X. COURSEGOL'S EXPLOITS 209
XI. THE CONCIERGERIE 220
XII. ANTOINETTE DE MIRANDOL 238
XIII. LOVE'S CONFLICTS 249
XIV. THE THUNDERBOLT 263
XV. THE LAST FAREWELL 284
XVI. IN THE CHÉVREUSE VALLEY 304
WHICH?
BY ERNEST DAUDET.
CHAPTER I.
THE BOHEMIANS.
Early one morning in the month of March, 1770, a woman bearing in her
arms a new-born infant, was hastening along the left bank of the Garden,
a small river that rises in the Cevennes, traverses the department of
the Gard, and empties into the Rhone, not far from Beaucaire. It would
be difficult to find more varied and picturesque scenery than that which
borders this stream whose praises have been chanted by Florian, and
which certainly should not be unknown to fame since it was here the
Romans constructed the Pont du Gard, that gigantic aqueduct which
conveyed the waters of Eure to Nîmes.
The woman of whom we speak was at that moment very near the famous Pont
du Gard--which is only a short distance from the spot on which the
little village of Lafous now stands, and directly opposite Remoulins, a
town of considerable size situated on the right bank of the river--and
at a point where the highway from Nîmes to Avignon intersects the road
leading up from the villages that dot the river banks. The woman paused
on reaching the place where these roads meet, not to take breath, but to
decide which course she should pursue. But she did not hesitate long.
After casting an anxious glance behind her, she hastened on again,
directing her steps toward the Pont du Gard, which was distant not more
than half a mile.
The air was very cold; the wind had been blowing furiously all night,
and at day-break it was still raging, ruffling the water, bending the
trees, snatching up great clouds of dust, and moaning and shrieking
through the clumps of willows that bordered the stream, while immense
masses of gray and white clouds scudding rapidly across the sky,
imparted to it the appearance of a tempest-tossed ocean. Some of these
clouds were so low that they seemed almost to touch the earth as they
rushed wildly on, pursued by the fury of the gale, and assuming strange
and fantastic forms in their erratic course. Undeterred by the violence
of the tempest, the stranger advanced steadily, apparently with but one
aim in view: to reach her journey's end with all possible expedition in
order to protect her sleeping infant from the inclemency of the weather.
She was a young woman, not yet twenty years of age. Her luxuriant golden
hair hung in wild disorder from the brilliant-hued kerchief that was
bound about her head; and her garments were as remarkable for their
peculiarity of form as for their diversity of color. She wore a short,
full dress of blue de laine bordered with yellow, and confined at the
waist by a red silk girdle. Over this, she wore a gray cape of coarse
woollen stuff. Her legs were bare, and her feet were protected only by
rude sandals, held in place by leathern thongs. Many rents, more or less
neatly repaired by the aid of thread or if material of another color,
revealed the fact that these faded garments had been in long and
constant use. Even the sandals were so dilapidated that the feet of
their wearer were upon the ground. Her whole attire, in short, was
wretched and poverty-stricken in the extreme.
But no face could be more charming. Her pure and delicate features shone
out from their framework of golden hair with marvellous beauty, in spite
of the sorrow and fatigue which had left their impress upon her face.
Her eyes, shaded by long dark lashes and dewy with tears, were
remarkably beautiful and expressive. The sunburn that disfigured her
charming face, her exquisitely formed hands and her tiny feet, which
were scarcely larger than those of a child, extended no further. Upon
those portions of her body that were protected by her clothing, her skin
was white and delicate, and scarcely colored by the young blood that
coursed through her veins. Such was this woman, and it would have been
difficult to divine her origin if the tambourine that hung at her
girdle, and the hieroglyphics embroidered upon her sleeves had not
revealed it beyond all question.
Tiepoletta, for that was her name, belonged to one of those wandering
tribes that leave Spain or Hungary each spring to spend some months in
Southern France, advancing as far as Beaucaire, Avignon and
Arles--sleeping as fate wills, under the arches of bridges, in
tumbledown barns, or in the open air; living sometimes by theft, but
oftener by their own exertions; the men dealing in mules and in rags;
the women telling fortunes, captivating young peasants, extorting money
from them, and selling glassware of their own manufacture--the children
imploring charity. These people, scattered throughout Europe--these
people, whose manner of life is so mysterious and whose origin is more
mysterious still--seem to be closely allied both to the Moors and to the
Hindoos, not only in appearance but in their phlegm, fanaticism and
rapacity. Such of our readers as have travelled in Southern Europe must
have frequently encountered these Bohemians, who come from no one knows
where only to disappear again like the swallows at the approach of
winter.
Their language is a mixture of the Spanish and the Sclavonic. Some
jabber a little French. The men are generally athletic, very dark
complexioned and have strong, energetic features, wavy hair and sonorous
voices. The women, when young, are remarkably beautiful; but like all
who lead an exposed and migratory life, they become hideous before they
are thirty. They live in families or tribes, each family consisting of
fifteen or twenty members, and obeying the orders of the oldest woman,
who is dignified by the title of queen, and from whose decisions there
is no appeal, though she, in turn, owes allegiance to one great queen.
These Bohemians are tolerated in the countries through which they pass;
but people seldom enter into any closer relations with them than are
necessary to effect the purchase of a horse or mule, or to obtain a
prediction concerning the future. They know the feeling of repulsion
they inspire, so they seldom approach thickly settled districts, and
only the women and children venture into the villages to solicit alms.
It was to this race that Tiepoletta belonged; and though the color of
her hair, the delicacy of her features and the fairness of her skin did
not accord with her supposed origin, her memory hinted at nothing that
did not harmonize with what had been told her concerning her parentage.
It is not the aim of this story to investigate the truth or the falsity
of this assertion. That Tiepoletta had Bohemian blood in her veins; that
she had, as a child, been stolen from her friends; that she was the
fruit of some mysterious love affair; all these hypotheses were equally
plausible, but there was nothing to prove that the first was not the
true one, nor had her imagination ever engaged in a search for any
other; but the people of her tribe seemed to suspect that she was of
different blood, for they evidently regarded her with aversion.
Preserved from the pernicious counsels and examples of those around her
by some secret instinct, she had remained pure. With the aid of a book
picked up on the roadside, she had learned to read and to speak a few
French words. This was more than enough to convince her companions that
she was haughty and proud. When she was a child, they beat her
unmercifully because she refused to beg. As she grew older, she had a
most cruel enemy in her beauty, which was the cause of much of her
misery. Subjected to temptations to which she saw young girls around her
yield without a thought, she escaped only by a miracle, but it brought
down upon her, anger, hatred and cruel vengeance. She increased these by
refusing to choose a husband from among the young men with whom she had
been reared.
They resolved to compel her to marry one of her companions. She fled,
but they succeeded in recapturing her without much difficulty. They then
shut her up, telling her that she should remain a prisoner until she
promised obedience. It was the most trying time of her whole life. Beset
on every side, beaten, buffetted, tyrannized over, fed on food that was
only fit for a dog, she would certainly have died in the struggle had
not destiny sent her a protector in the person of Borachio, a young man
about twenty-five years of age, whose heart was touched by her
misfortunes.
He was so bold, so strong and so terrible in his anger that the whole
tribe stood in awe of him. He took compassion on their victim and
compelled her tormentors to cease their persecution. Tiepoletta was not
ungrateful, and she afterward married her preserver to the great disgust
of the young girls of the tribe, with whom Borachio was a great
favorite.
According to custom, the queen solemnized the marriage without delay;
and at nineteen Tiepoletta had a master whose coarse tenderness was
sweet, indeed, in comparison with the harsh treatment to which she had
been subjected heretofore. But this happiness was destined to be of
short duration. Borachio was found dead upon the roadside one morning,
his breast pierced by eight dagger thrusts. Envious of his beauty, his
authority and his lovely young wife, one of his comrades had
assassinated him and made Tiepoletta a widow some time before she was to
become a mother. Six months went by, during which they seemed to respect
her grief. Then, in a cave near the Pont du Gard, she gave birth to a
daughter. The very next evening, while she was lying, half asleep, on
some straw on the floor of the cave, with her child beside her, she
overheard a conversation that was going on outside. They were talking of
her. She listened eagerly. Picture her fear and horror when she heard
them scheming to deprive her of her infant and then drive her from their
midst, thus ridding the tribe of a useless member and retaining
Borachio's child. It was Corcovita, the mother of the poor heart-broken
creature, who was the strongest advocate of this shameful outrage.
"We shall leave here to-morrow to go to Avignon," said she. "We must
obtain possession of the child and then find an opportunity to abandon
Tiepoletta on the road."
This plan gave general satisfaction, and Corcovita was charged with its
execution. Tiepoletta had heard enough. Wild with terror she endeavored
to devise some means of escape from this new peril, and during the long
watches of the night she finally resolved to flee with her child. The
next morning at day-break the little band was on its way. A seat in the
carriage was offered to Tiepoletta. She accepted it, knowing she must
save all her strength if she would carry her plan into successful
execution.
After a long march, they paused at nightfall to encamp near Avignon.
Tiepoletta, a prey to the most intense anxiety, had detected the
interchange of divers signs that convinced her they were only waiting
for her to fall asleep to steal her child from her. She watched. At
eight o'clock the men had gone to stroll around the suburbs of the city;
the old women were dozing; the young people were laughing and teasing
one another, and the children were sound asleep. Tiepoletta profited by
a moment when no one was observing her to steal from the camp on
tip-toe. She proceeded perhaps a hundred paces in this way, then, seized
with sudden fright, she began to run, holding her child pressed close to
her heart; fancying she heard her mother's voice behind her, she rushed
wildly on, never pausing until she sank exhausted on the lonely road.
She had pursued her flight for more than an hour without even asking
herself where she was going, and with no thought save that of escaping
from her persecutors. She was now beyond their reach. Still she could
not dismiss her fears. Dreading pursuit, she soon resumed her journey,
turning her steps in the direction of the Pont du Gard, in the hope
that her former companions would not think of looking for her there, and
that she might find in the cave they had just deserted a little straw
upon which she could rest her weary limbs, and some fragments of food
that would keep her alive until she had decided upon her future course.
She walked all night. When she found herself near the Pont du Gard day
was breaking.
The wind was still blowing; but the clouds had scattered before its
violence like a flock of frightened sheep, and a pale light was
beginning to shine upon the drenched fields. Gloomy and majestic in its
century-old impassibility, the Pont du Gard--a colossus upheld by two
mountains, and accustomed to defy alike the tempest and the ravages of
time--seemed to laugh at the gale which beat against its massive pillars
and rushed into its gigantic arches with a sound like thunder. These
strong yet graceful arches seem so many frames through which the
astonished eyes of the traveller seize the landscape bit by bit: the
quiet valley, watered by the Gardon, the luxuriant green of the willows,
the clear waves dancing along over their sandy bed, the blue sky
reflected there, the mountains that border the horizon.
Nothing can be more wildly beautiful than this secluded spot, which is
as silent and lonely as if it had never been trodden by the foot of man.
Judging from the prodigality with which nature has lavished her riches
here, it would seem that she wishes the sole credit of this superb
panorama. The massive aqueduct alone attests the existence of man.
Looming up in its mighty grandeur--the imperishable monument of a
departed civilization, and the only one of its kind--the beholder feels
that it is no unworthy rival of the works of Deity.
But the majestic scene made no impression upon Tiepoletta. That poor
creature, fainting with hunger and fatigue, did not even notice the
grandeur around her. With half-closed eyes, arms cramped by the weight
of the precious burden upon which she now maintained her hold only by a
superhuman effort, and lips parched by the wind, she plodded on with a
measured, automatic step. She was hungry; she was thirsty; she was
shivering with the cold. Her feet were swollen; but her sufferings were
forgotten when she neared her journey's end. She passed under the Pont
du Gard. The path on the other side of the aqueduct winds along between
the base of the cliffs and the bed of the stream. Under one of these
cliffs nature has hewn out a grotto of such liberal dimensions that the
people of the neighborhood assemble there on fête days to dance and make
merry.
It was there the Bohemians had encamped a few days before; it was there
Tiepoletta had given birth to the tiny creature whom she had just
rescued from the heartless wretches who had conspired to despoil a
mother of her child. This comfortless cavern where she had suffered so
much seemed to her now a Paradise, in which she would be content to
dwell forever.
She rushed into the cave. The sunlight illumined only a small portion of
the grotto; the rest of it was veiled in shadow. Tiepoletta glanced
around her and uttered a cry of joy. In one dim corner she discerned a
little straw, enough, however, to serve as a bed. She laid her sleeping
infant upon it, covered the child with her mantle; then gathering up a
few bits of bread and some half-picked bones which had been left upon
the floor of the cave, she proceeded to appease her hunger. When this
was satisfied, she ran to the river, quenched her thirst, bathed her
sore and bleeding feet, and then returned to the cave after walking
about awhile in the sunlight to warm herself. Flinging herself down upon
the straw, she covered herself with her tattered garments as best she
could, and drawing her child to her gave it the breast. The little one
roused from its slumber uttered a moan and applied its pale lips to the
bosom upon which it was dependent for sustenance; but it soon exhausted
the supply of milk, whose abundance had been greatly diminished by the
fatigues of the preceding night, and again fell asleep.
Then, in the midst of this profound silence and solitude, Tiepoletta,
providentially rescued from her persecutors, experienced an intense joy
that made her entirely forget the hardships she had just undergone.
There were undoubtedly new misfortunes in store for her. She must,
without delay, find some way to earn her own living and that of her
child; but their wants were few. Birds and Bohemians are accustomed to
scanty fare. She could work: she was accustomed to labor: she was inured
to fatigue. Besides, who would be so hard-hearted as to refuse her bread
when she said: "I am willing to earn it." This artless creature, whose
ambition was so modest, consoled her troubled mind with these hopes, and
trembled only when she thought of those from whom she had just fled. No
one had ever told Tiepoletta that there was a God. She did not know how
to pray; nevertheless, in the refuge she had found, her soul lifted
itself up in fervent adoration to the unknown God whose power had
protected her, though she was ignorant of His existence and of His name.
It was in the midst of this feverish exaltation of spirit that sleep
overcame her before she had even thought to ask herself what she should
do on awaking.
For several hours she slumbered on undisturbed, but suddenly she woke.
She fancied she heard in her sleep a frightful noise like the rumbling
of heavy thunder, a noise which mingled with the shrieks of the wind and
finally drowned them entirely. At first she thought she must be the
victim of some terrible dream. But the sound grew louder and louder.
This was no dream; it was reality. She sprang to her feet, seeking some
loophole of escape from the unknown peril that threatened her. Above the
tumult she could distinguish human cries. She thought these must come
from her pursuers. But no; these distant voices were calling for succor.
She caught up her child and ran from the cave. A grand but terrible
sight met her gaze and riveted her to the spot in motionless horror.
The Gardon had overflowed its banks. With the rapidity that
characterizes its sudden inundations and transforms this peaceful stream
into the most impetuous of torrents, the water had risen over the banks
that border it and flooded the fields, sweeping away everything that
stood in its path. This water now laved the feet of the young Bohemian;
and as far as the eye could reach she could see nothing but a mass of
boiling, turbulent waves, bearing on their crests floating fragments of
houses and furniture, as well as trees, animals and occasionally human
bodies. The cries she had heard came from some women who had been
overtaken by the torrent while engaged in washing their linen at the
river, and who had taken refuge upon a rock on the side of the now
inundated road.
The river continued to rise. This immense volume of water was vainly
seeking an outlet through the narrow defile formed by the hills and
which ordinarily sufficed for the bed of the Gardon; but, finding the
passage inadequate now, it dashed itself violently against the rocks and
against the supports of the aqueduct which haughtily defied the furious
flood; then, converted into a mass of seething foam, it returned over
the same road it had just traversed until it met the new waves that were
being constantly formed by the current. It was the shock of this meeting
that caused the noise which had roused Tiepoletta from her slumber. A
stormy sea could not have appeared more angry, or formed more formidable
billows. One might have called it a fragmentary episode of the universal
deluge.
Five minutes more than sufficed to give Tiepoletta an idea of the extent
of the inundation. She stood with wild eyes and unbound hair, the
picture of terror and dismay. Suddenly an enormous wave broke not far
from her with the roar of a wild beast, and the water dashed up to her
very feet. She pressed her child closer to her breast and recoiled.
Another wave dashed up, blinding her with its spray. Would the water
invade the cave? Her blood froze in her veins. Frenzy seized her. This
new misfortune, added to those she had suffered during the past three
days, was more than she could bear. From that moment she acted under the
influence of actual madness caused by her terror. She must flee. But by
what road? To reach either of the neighboring villages was impossible.
The foaming waters covered the entire plain.
Suddenly Tiepoletta recollected that on the summit of the hill above her
there was a château which the Bohemians had visited sometimes in pursuit
of alms. She could reach it by means of a broad footpath that
intersected the road only a few yards from the grotto. It was there she
resolved to go for shelter. But to reach this path she must walk through
the raging flood. She did not hesitate. Each moment of delay aggravated
her peril, and might place some insurmountable barrier between her and
her only chance of salvation. She lifted her skirts, fastened her child
upon her back and bravely waded into the torrent.
What agony she endured during that short journey. The water was higher
than her waist; the ground was slippery; the current, rapid and
capricious. It required an indomitable will to sustain her--to keep her
from yielding twenty times to the might of this unchained monster.
Frequently she was obliged to pause in order to regain her breath. The
struggle lasted only ten minutes, but those ten minutes seemed so many
ages. At last she reached the path leading to the château. She was
saved!
She let fall her tattered skirts about her slender limbs, and, without
wasting time in looking back upon the perilous road she had just
traversed, she hastened up the hill. A few moments later she reached the
door of the château in a plight most pitiable to behold. It was time. A
moment more and her limbs trembling with excitement and exhaustion,
would have refused to sustain her. She fell on her knees and deposited
her burden upon some tufts of heather; then with a mighty effort she
seized and pulled a chain suspended at the side of the door. The sound
of a bell was instantly heard. As if her strength had only waited until
this moment to desert her, she fell to the ground unconscious at the
very instant the door opened.