THE MOVING CURTAIN.
Several months had passed since Dolores and Coursegol had taken up their
abode in the house of Citizen Vauquelas. Coursegol, engrossed in the
business matters which he had undertaken in concert with Vauquelas, went
out every day, frequenting the Clubs, the Convention and the Palais
Égalité. Dolores, on the contrary, seldom left the refuge that chance
had provided for her. If she sometimes ventured into the heart of the
city, it was only to visit Cornelia Bridoul or to accompany her to a
stealthily said mass, solemnized in an obscure chamber by some
courageous priest who dared for conscience's sake to bid defiance to the
Committee of Public Safety, and who would have paid the penalty of
disobedience with his blood, had he been discovered.
The life of Dolores was extremely lonely and sad. Deprived of companions
of her own age, and oppressed with anxiety concerning the fate of those
who were so dear to her, she grew pale and wan like a plant deprived of
sunlight; the old joyous, sonorous ring was gone from her voice and from
her laugh. She had suffered so much during the past three years that she
no longer cherished any hope of happiness in the future; and, instead
of the bright dreams that are wont to gladden the slumber of young
girls, sad memories of the past haunted her restless nights. Those whom
she had loved and lost appeared before her as in a vision--the Marquise
de Chamondrin, who had lavished upon her all a mother's care and
tenderness; the Marquis, whose affection had filled her early years with
joy; Philip and Antoinette, the brother and sister of her
adoption--these appeared and vanished without awaking in her sorrowing
heart any emotion save that of the profound anguish of separation. Look
which way she would for comfort, she could find none; and she was
condemned to bear her heavy burden alone. Those days of universal
distrust were not propitious for the birth and development of new
friendships; nor were Vauquelas and Coursegol such companions as Dolores
needed to cheer and encourage her. During the few short hours that
Coursegol spent at home, he was always absorbed in his calculations; and
as for Vauquelas, though he treated her with rather cold respect, it was
difficult to ascertain his real feelings toward her, for his furrowed
face betrayed none of his impressions; and Dolores instinctively felt
that she could not look to him for the consolation of which she stood so
greatly in need. Her mornings were spent over the account-books, which
had been entrusted to her charge; at noon, she partook of a solitary
repast, and it was only at dinner that she saw Coursegol and her host.
One stormy evening in October, she was sitting in her chamber, a room
upon the first-floor, opening into the garden by a glass door over
which hung a heavy curtain. It was about nine o'clock. Vauquelas and
Coursegol had gone out; the servants had retired, and Dolores was quite
alone. Seated in a low chair before the fire, she was busying herself
with her embroidery; but it was easy to see that her thoughts were not
upon her work. She was brooding over the past and wondering in what
quarter of the globe she might hope to find her lost friends.
"What are they doing?" she wondered. "Are they thinking of me? Are they
happy?"
And as these questions suggested many others, she sank into a profound
reverie.
Suddenly the wind gave a loud shriek without, and the branches of the
trees in the garden creaked and groaned as the tempest buffeted them and
tossed them to and fro. Dolores shivered, partly from fear, partly from
nervousness. As she did so, another gust, more furious than the first,
filled the air with its weird voices. It sounded like the roar of the
angry sea. A cloud of dust entered through the glass door which was
partially concealed by the heavy curtain. The light flickered, and the
smoke poured out into the room from the fire-place. At the same time
Dolores heard, or fancied she heard, a sound like that made by the
closing of a door.
"They have forgotten to shut that door," thought Dolores; and she rose
to repair the omission, but suddenly paused, astonished and almost
frightened. She saw the curtain move, not as if in obedience to the
wind, but as if an invisible hand had shaken it.
"Heavens! there is some one behind the curtain!"
That a robber should have effected an entrance into the house at that
hour of the night was not at all impossible; and this was the first
thought that entered her mind. She recollected, too, that Vauquelas and
Coursegol had just gone out, that the servants were in bed and that she
was to all intents and purposes alone in the house. The feminine mind is
quick to take fright; and night and solitude increased the terror which
is so easily aroused by a fevered imagination. Her usual courage
deserted her; she turned pale and her lips quivered.
"How foolish!" she said to herself, the next instant. "Who would think
of entering here at such an hour? It must have been the wind. I will
close the door."
And struggling against the fear that had taken possession of her, she
stepped quickly forward, but paused again. She could plainly discern a
human form in the shadow behind the curtain.
"Oh! this is terrible!" she murmured, pressing her hand upon her heart.
Then she said, in a trembling voice:
"Who is there?"
There was no response. Summoning all her courage, she made two steps
forward, seized the curtain and lifted it. Leaning against the glass
door, which was now firmly closed, stood a man. Dolores was so terrified
that she dare not raise her eyes to his face.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The words had scarcely left her lips when the man sprang forward,
crying:
"Dolores! Dolores!"
"Philip!"
Then, with a wild cry of rapturous delight, she flung herself in the
arms of her lover from whom she had been parted three long weary years.
They clung to each other a moment without uttering a word, completely
overcome with emotion. It was Philip, but Philip grown older and
thinner. His face was unshaven and his clothing disordered, and he was
frightfully pale. When she saw the ravages time and suffering had made
upon the face of the man she loved, Dolores burst into tears.
"Oh Dolores!" sighed Philip, "have I really found you again after all
these years!"
She smiled and wept as he devoured her with his eyes, then stepped by
him and after satisfying herself that the door was securely closed and
locked, she lowered the curtain and led Philip to an arm chair near the
fire.
"Do you find me changed?" she asked.
"You are even more beautiful now than in the past!"
She blushed and turned away her face, then suddenly inquired: "How
happens it you are here, Philip?"
"I came to Paris with a party of noblemen to rescue the queen from the
hands of her executioners. We failed; she died upon the guillotine. My
companions were arrested; I alone succeeded in making my escape--"
"Then you are pursued--you are a fugitive. Perhaps they are even now
upon your track!"
"For a week I have been concealed in the house of a kind-hearted man
who had taken compassion on my misery. I hoped to remain there until I
could find an opportunity to make my escape from Paris. Day before
yesterday, he told me that he was suspected of sheltering some enemy of
the nation, and that his house was liable to be searched at any moment
by Robespierre's emissaries, and that I must flee at once if I did not
desire to ruin him. I obeyed and since that time I have been wandering
about the streets of Paris, hiding in obscure nooks, living like a dog,
and not daring to ask aid of any one for fear I should be denounced.
This evening, half-dead with hunger and cold, I was wondering if it
would not be better to deliver myself up when, only a few steps from
here, I met a man who was formerly in the employ of the Duke de
Penthieore, and to whom I had once rendered an important service.
Believing that he had not forgotten it, I approached him and told him
who I was. The wretch cursed me, and tried to arrest me. The instinct of
self-preservation lent me fresh strength. I struggled with him and
knocked him down, and while he was calling for help, I ran across the
unoccupied ground near the house. A low wall suddenly rose before me. I
leaped over it, and found myself in this garden. I saw the light from
your window; the door stood open. I entered and God has willed that the
hours of agony through which I have just passed should lead me to you.
Ah! now I can die. Now that I have seen you again, Dolores, I can die
content!"
"Why do you talk of dying?" exclaimed Dolores. "Since you are here, you
are saved! You shall remain!"
She paused suddenly, recollecting that the house was not hers; Philip
noticed her hesitation.
"Am I in your house?" he asked.
"No; you are in the house of Citizen Vauquelas, Coursegol's business
partner."
"Vauquelas! How unfortunate!"
"Why?"
"Because, unless there are two individuals by that name, the master of
this house is the friend of Robespierre, and one of the men who aided in
the discovery of the plot formed by my companions and myself for the
rescue of the queen."
Dolores uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands.
"What shall we do?" she murmured.
"Is not Coursegol here?"
"He will not return until late at night."
"He would have found some way to conceal me until to-morrow."
"I will conceal you in his room," said Dolores. "No one enters it but
himself. I will await his return and tell him you are there."
Philip approved this plan.
"But you said just now that you were hungry;" exclaimed Dolores. "Ah!
how unfortunate it is that the servants are in bed."
She hastily left the room, and Philip, worn out with excitement, hunger
and fatigue, remained in the arm chair in which Dolores had placed him.
She soon returned, laden with bread, wine, and a piece of cold meat,
which she had been fortunate enough to find in the kitchen. She placed
these upon a small table, which she brought to Philip's side. Without a
word, the latter began to eat and drink with the eagerness of a
half-famished man. Dolores stood there watching him, her heart throbbing
wildly with joy while tears of happiness gushed from her burning eyes.
Soon Philip was himself again. The warmth and the nourishing food
restored his strength. A slight color mounted to his cheeks, and a
hopeful smile played upon his lips. Not until then, did Dolores venture
to utter the name that had been uppermost in her thoughts for some
moments.
"You have told me nothing of Antoinette."
This name reminded Philip of the sacred bond of which Dolores was
ignorant, and which had never seemed to him so galling as now.
"Antoinette!" he replied. "She is living near London in the care of some
friends to whom I have confided her."
"Is she your wife?" inquired Dolores, not daring to meet Philip's eyes.
"No."
"But your father's wishes--"
"In pity, say no more!" interrupted Philip, "If I had not found you
again, if I had had certain proofs that you were no longer alive, I
might, perhaps, have married Antoinette, but now--"
"Now?"
"She will never be my wife!"
"Does she no longer love you?"
Philip's head drooped. There was a long silence; suddenly he glanced up.
"Why should I conceal it from you longer, Dolores? I love you; I love
you as I loved you in years gone by when I first dared to open my heart
to you; and since that time, in spite of the barriers between us, I have
never ceased to love you. Nor can our love be a sin in the sight of
Heaven since it is God's providence, in spite of your will, that brings
us together again to-day. And I swear that nothing shall separate us
now!"
Dolores had no strength to reply to such language, or to destroy the
hopes which seemed even stronger now than in the past, and far more
precious since three years of absence had not sufficed to extinguish
them in the faithful and impassioned heart of her lover. Philip
continued:
"Ah! if I could but tell you how miserable I have been since we have
been separated. My Dolores, did you not know when you left the château
in which we had grown up together to offer as a sacrifice to God the
love you shared, did you not know that you took away a part of myself
with you?"
"Stop!" she entreated, sinking into a chair and burying her face in her
hands.
But he would not listen.
"Since that day," he continued, "my life has been wretched. In vain I
have striven to drive from the heart which you refused to accept the
memory of your grace and your beauty; in vain have I striven to listen
with a complaisant ear to Antoinette, whom you commanded me to accept as
my wife. Do you not see that this sacrifice is beyond my strength. I
cannot do it--I love her as a sister, but you----"
Dolores interrupted him. Suddenly quieted, and recalled to a
recollection of duty by some mysterious inspiration, she rose, and in a
gentle and firm voice said:
"Philip, I must hear no more. I belong to God, and you, yourself, are no
longer free. Antoinette----"
"Would you compel me to hate her?"
The cry frightened Dolores and awakened in her heart a tender pity for
the unfortunate man whom she adored, even while she wrung his soul with
anguish.
"Ah well! do not marry her," she replied, "if the union that your father
desired is a greater sacrifice than you have strength to make; but do
not hope that I shall ever be weak enough to yield to your entreaties.
Whether you love her or whether you detest her, Antoinette will forever
stand between us."
On hearing these words, Philip sprang wildly to his feet, then sank back
in his chair and, concealing his face in his hands, broke into
passionate sob.
The girl's powers of endurance were almost exhausted; but she still
retained energy enough to attempt to put an end to this trying scene.
"The hour when the master of the house usually returns is fast
approaching," she resumed. "He must not find you here. I will take you
to Coursegol's room; you will be safe there."
But Philip would not heed her. He wept like a child, and, in a voice
broken with sobs, he cried:
"Ah, the sacrifice you demand is too much to ask of any human creature!
God does not require it of us. If after creating us for each other it is
His will that we should live forever apart and be eternally miserable,
why has He united us to-night? Is not our meeting providential? Dolores,
your decision cannot be irrevocable."
It required all her courage and determination to repress the loving
words that rose to her lips from her overflowing heart.
"Come, Philip," she pleaded, striving to give a maternal tone to her
voice.
"But promise me----"
"Ah well! to-morrow,----" she said, quietly, doing her best to calm him.
She succeeded. Philip rose, ready to follow her. She had already taken a
candle from the table when footsteps were heard in the adjoining room.
"Good Heavens! it is Vauquelas! We are lost!"
"He will not enter here, perhaps," whispered Philip.
With a gesture, Dolores imposed silence: then she waited and listened,
hoping that Vauquelas would pass on to his own room without pausing. Her
hopes were not realized. Vauquelas rapped twice at the door.
"May I come in, Citoyenne Dolores?"
"No, I am in bed."
"Get up quickly then, and open the door. A man was seen to leap over the
wall that separates the garden from the street. He must be prowling
about the house. They are in pursuit of him. The police are coming."
"I am getting up," replied Dolores, anxious to gain time, and racking
her brain to discover some means of escape for Philip.
"The night is very dark," he whispered. "I will go into the garden and
conceal myself there until the soldiers have searched the house and
gone."
Dolores nodded her approval, and went on tip-toe to the glass door to
open it and let Philip out. She turned the knob, softly opened the door,
and stepped aside to let him pass. The next instant she uttered a cry of
dismay, for she saw five members of the National Guard approaching the
house, beating the shrubbery that bordered the path through which they
were advancing with the butt ends of their muskets. She recoiled in
horror, for before she could prevent it Philip stepped out and stood for
an instant plainly visible in the light that streamed through the open
door ere he perceived them. As soon as they saw him, they raised their
guns and took aim.
"Do not fire!" he exclaimed. "I surrender!"
And he paused, awaiting their approach. At the same moment Vauquelas
entered the room by the other door. Dolores cast a despairing look at
Philip, then involuntarily stepped to his side as if to protect him.
There was a moment's silence caused by surprise on the one side and
terror on the other. Philip was filled with consternation not that his
courage failed him, but because he was appalled by the thought of the
danger in which he had involved Dolores.
As for Vauquelas, he glanced from one to the other in evident anger and
astonishment. The presence of the soldiers, and the thought of the
suspicions to which he--ardent patriot though he was--might be exposed
on account of this stranger's arrest in his house irritated him not a
little. He was about to vent his wrath and indignation upon Philip when
the sergeant in command interposed, and addressing the young man, said,
harshly;
"What are you doing in this house, you rascal? Who are you?"
Philip attempted to reply, but Vauquelas did not give him time.
"Who is he?" he exclaimed. "It is easy to answer that question. Some
enemy of the Republic, you may be sure, who has sought shelter in my
house at the risk of compromising the honor of this young girl, and my
reputation as well."
Dolores trembled; then sacrificing, not without a terrible effort, her
maidenly delicacy and modesty she said: "You are mistaken, Citizen
Vauquelas. This man is my husband!"
"Your husband! Are you married?"
"I had a special reason for keeping the fact a secret from every one."
"But Coursegol--"
"Even he is ignorant of it," answered Dolores, with downcast eyes.
"Married! married!" repeated Vauquelas mechanically, while Philip drew
nearer to Dolores and, in a voice audible to her alone, murmured:
"Ah! cruel one, had you uttered those words sooner, we should not be
here now."
Dolores made no response. She cast a beseeching look upon Vauquelas. At
a word from him the soldiers would have departed; but he remembered the
history of Dolores which Coursegol had confided to him, and he said to
himself that the adopted daughter of the late Marquis de Chamondrin
would not be likely to marry other than a nobleman, and that this
nobleman must be an implacable enemy to the new order of things, and
consequently one of those men whom the Committee of Public Safety were
so relentlessly pursuing. That such a person should be found in his
house augured ill for his patriotism and might cost him his influence
over Robespierre, so it was necessary to strike a crushing blow if he
wished to emerge from this ordeal unscathed.
"Why have you concealed your marriage from me?" he inquired, turning to
Dolores.
"For purely personal reasons."
"And why does your husband steal into my house like a robber, instead of
entering by the door?"
"Because we wished to keep our marriage a secret."
"All this is not very clear," remarked the sergeant; then addressing
Philip, he demanded:
"What is your name, and from whence do you come?"
And seeing Philip hesitate, the man continued:
"The citizen and this young woman will follow us to the station-house.
They can explain matters to the officials there; and if no blame
attaches to them, they will be immediately set at liberty."
"Yes, yes, take them away," cried Vauquelas, glad of any decision that
would remove the soldiers from his house.
Then Dolores comprehended that the falsehood to which she had resorted
had not only failed to save Philip but had probably cost her her own
life. For herself, she did not care. She had long ago sacrificed for his
sake that which was a thousand times dearer than life; and now her only
regret was for him. But Philip would not accept the sacrifice. When he
saw that both Dolores and himself were to be placed under arrest, he
exclaimed:
"This young girl has uttered a falsehood. She did it, probably, to save
a stranger whom she would have forgotten in a few hours. I am not her
husband, and that I have been found in her room is simply due to the
fact that I took refuge here a few moments ago from a pursuer. I am the
Marquis de Chamondrin. I am an Émigré and a conspirator!"
"Ah, he is lost! he is lost!" murmured Dolores.
On hearing Philip's confession, Vauquelas sprang towards him, wild with
rage.
"You call yourself Philip de Chamondrin?" he demanded.
"That is my name."
"Then you are the adopted brother of this young girl, and if you, an
Émigré and a conspirator, are here, it can only be because she is your
accomplice. Vile wretch! to make my house a rendezvous for the enemies
of the Nation!"
Anger crimsoned his cheeks and glittered in his eyes. He actually
frothed with rage.
"Arrest them! Arrest them both!" he exclaimed.
Philip, who had supposed he could save Dolores by the confession he had
just made, could not repress a movement of wrath and despair.
"You will regret this, sir," he said, haughtily.
"There could be no greater misfortune than to shelter aristocrats like
you under my roof. I am a patriot; I love the Republic. France, first of
all! Citizens, this is a dangerous man. This so-called nobleman has been
plotting to save the queen and to place the little Capet upon the
throne. As for this young woman, she is a viper who has repaid my
hospitality with treachery. Take them away!--and so perish the enemies
of the Nation!"
He uttered these words with great energy and enthusiasm as if he wished
to give convincing proofs of his patriotism. The soldiers were
consulting together; presently they formed into two squads. One division
took Dolores in charge; the other took Philip, and they were led away.
It was then nearly eleven o'clock.