THE CONCIERGERIE.
After their arrest Philip and Dolores were taken to the nearest
station-house and ushered into a room where three persons, arrested like
themselves during the evening, were awaiting examination. Unfortunately
the official charged with conducting these investigations had already
gone home. As he would not return until the next morning, the sergeant
of police decided that the prisoners must pass the night there. Some
mattresses were spread upon the floor for those who chose to use them.
Dolores refused to lie down. She seated herself in a broken-down arm
chair which Philip obtained for her, not without considerable
difficulty, and declared that she would spend the night there. Philip
placed himself on a stool at her feet and thus they waited the break of
day.
Their companions were stretched upon their couches fast asleep, and the
night, which promised to be heavy with cruel wakefulness and fatigue,
passed like some delightful dream.
They could not close their eyes to the fate that was in store for them.
Philip had plotted to save the queen; he had returned from his refuge in
foreign lands solely for this purpose. By sheltering him, Dolores had
become his accomplice. Such crimes would meet with, no indulgence. In
the morning they would be interrogated by an official, whose mind had
been poisoned against them in advance, and who would show no mercy to
their youth. Accused of desiring the overthrow of the Republic and the
return of the Bourbons, they would be sent to prison, taken from their
cells to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and condemned to the guillotine.
Such was the summary mode of procedure during the Reign of Terror. To
hope that any exception would be made in their case was folly. All that
was left for them, therefore, was to prepare to die. If the prospect of
such a fate brought the tears to their eyes at first, it was not because
either of them was wanting in courage. No, it was only for the fate that
was to befall the other that each wept. But when they had talked
together, and learned that they were mutually resigned, their sorrow was
appeased; and as if their sentence had already been pronounced, they
thought only of making their last hours on earth pass as calmly and
sweetly as possible.
"Why should I fear to die?" said Dolores, when Philip tried to encourage
her by hopes in which he himself had not the slightest confidence.
"Death has terrors only for those who leave some loved one behind them;
but when I am gone, who will be left to mourn for me? Antoinette? Have I
not for a long time been the same as dead to her? I can leave the world
without creating a void in any heart, without causing any one a pang.
Hence I can, without regret, go to seek the eternal rest for which I
have sighed so long."
"Have you truly longed for death?" asked Philip.
"I have seen so many loved ones fall around me," replied Dolores, "my
eyes have witnessed so many sorrows, I have suffered so much, and my
life since my happy childhood has been so unspeakably lonely and sad
that I have often and often entreated God to recall me to Himself."
"But, Dolores, if you had only listened to me when I pleaded in vain, if
you had but placed your hand in mine, what misery we should have been
spared."
"It would not have averted our misfortunes."
"No; but we might have borne them together, and after our sorrows found
consolation in each other."
"I could not be your wife."
"Is it true, then, that you do not love me?"
Dolores made no answer. Emboldened by the solemn calmness of these
moments which were, as they supposed, ushering them into eternity,
Philip continued:
"Whenever I pressed my suit, you pleaded my father's wishes as an excuse
for not listening to my prayers. To gratify a foolish ambition he
desired me to marry Antoinette. Ah, well! my father's will no longer
stands between us; and the engagement that binds me to her is broken by
the changed situation in which we find ourselves. We are free now in the
shadow of death. Will you not tell me the truth? Will you not open your
heart to me as I have opened mine to you?"
Dolores listened, her glowing eyes riveted upon Philip's face, her
bosom heaving with emotion. The words; "We are free now in the shadow of
death," rang in her ears. She felt that she could not refuse her lover
the last joy and consolation that he claimed; and that she, whose past
had been one long sacrifice of her happiness and of her hopes, had a
right to reveal the secret so long buried in her soul. Gently, almost
solemnly, these words fell from her lips:
"Listen, Philip, since you ask me for the truth, now, at this supreme
hour, I have always loved you as I love you now; and I love you now as
ardently as I am beloved!"
There was so much tenderness in her manner that Philip sprang up, his
eyes sparkling with rapture.
"And this is the avowal you have refused to make for five long years!"
he cried. "I knew that my love was returned. You have confessed it; and
if I were compelled to give my life in exchange for the happiness of
hearing this from your lips, I should not think that I paid too dearly
for it. But you have restored my energy and my courage. I feel strong
enough, now, to defy the whole world in a struggle for the felicity that
is rightfully ours. We shall live, Dolores, to belong to each other, to
comfort each other."
"Do not, I entreat you, ask me to live," exclaimed Dolores, "since the
certainty of death alone decided me to speak."
"But," pleaded Philip, "if I should succeed in rescuing you from the
peril that surrounds us, would you be more rigorous than destiny? Would
you not feel that God smiled upon our love, and that it was He who had
mercifully united us again?"
"Philip! Philip!" murmured Dolores. She could say no more, but yielding
at last to the sweet power of the love against which she had struggled
so long, she laid her weary head upon the heart that worshipped her with
such a tender and all-absorbing passion.
It was nine o'clock in the morning when the officer who was to conduct
the examination made his appearance. The expectations of Philip and
Dolores were realized. He questioned them hastily, listened to the
report of the sergeant who had arrested them, took a few notes, then
ordered the culprits to be sent, one to the Conciergerie, the other to
the Madelonnettes.
"Can we not be together?" asked Philip, filled with dismay by the
prospect of a separation.
"The Committee will decide. For the present, I shall be obliged to
separate you" was the officer's reply.
Philip approached Dolores.
"Do not lose courage," he whispered. "I shall soon rejoin you."
Dolores was to be taken to the Conciergerie.
Several gendarmes formed her escort. At her request, one of them sent
for a carriage. She entered it and her guards seated themselves opposite
her and on the box with the driver. To reach the Conciergerie, they
were obliged to pass the Palais de Justice. Upon the steps of the
palace, not far from the prison, was a crowd of women that assembled
there every day to witness the departure of the prisoners who were
condemned to death. They saw Dolores when she alighted from the
carriage, and immediately began to clap their hands and utter shrill
cries of delight. She was compelled to pass through a storm of hisses,
gibes and insults in making her way to the prison; and it was not
without considerable difficulty that the men acting as her escort
protected her from the infuriated throng. At last the dread door opened
before her. She was ushered into the office, a small room where the
prison register was kept. Her full name and age were recorded by the
clerk, and she was then placed in charge of one of the jailers, who was
ordered to find accommodations for her in that part of the prison over
which he had jurisdiction.
"I have two favors to ask of you," Dolores said to this man, whose
benevolent face inspired her with confidence.
"What do you desire, citoyenne?"
"First, to have a cell to myself, if possible. I will pay for it."
"That will be a difficult matter; but I think I can arrange it. And what
else?"
"I wish to send a letter to a person who is very dear to me."
"His name?"
"Coursegol. He lives at the house of Citizen Vauquelas, where I was
living myself when I was arrested in his absence. You may see the
contents of the letter and assure yourself that it contains nothing
objectionable."
"Very well," replied the jailer, moved with compassion by the
misfortunes of this beautiful young girl. "I will conduct you to a cell
where you will be alone, and where you will have an opportunity to write
your letter."
As he spoke, he led Dolores to a small room on the second floor, lighted
by a grated window, opening upon the court-yard.
"You can remain here as long as you like. No one shall come to trouble
you. Meals are served in the refectory, unless a prisoner desires them
in his own apartment, at a charge of six francs per day."
"I shall have no money until the letter I am about to write reaches its
destination," said Dolores. "It took all I had to pay for the carriage
that brought me here."
"I will give you credit," replied the jailer. "No no; do not thank me.
It always pays to be accommodating. I will now go for pen, ink and
paper."
The worthy man withdrew but soon returned, bringing the desired
articles. Dolores wrote a hasty note to Coursegol, informing him of her
arrest and that of Philip, and begging him to send her some money at
once. The jailer promised that the letter should be delivered some time
during the day. Then he departed. Dolores, left in solitude, fell upon
her knees and prayed for Philip. She had never loved him so fondly as
now; and the misfortune that had befallen her would have been nothing
had it been alleviated by the joy of knowing that her lover was near
her.
She spent the day alone, and she was really surprised at her own
calmness. Comforted by the immortal hopes that are ever awakened in the
Christian's soul by the prospect of death, and elevated to an ideal
world by the exciting events of the previous evening and by the eloquent
confession of Philip, as well as by her own, life seemed despicable,
unworthy of her; and she felt that she could leave it without a regret.
Toward evening, the jailer returned. He brought back the letter she had
given him. Coursegol could not be found; he was no longer with
Vauquelas, and the latter knew nothing of his whereabouts.
This news brought Dolores back to the stern reality of her situation.
She feared that Coursegol had excited the anger of Vauquelas by his
threats, and that he had drawn down some misfortune upon himself.
Moreover, the disappearance of her protector cut off her pecuniary
resources; and as the prisoners could not obtain the slightest favor
without the aid of gold, she was deprived of the means to alleviate the
hardships of her lot. The jailer pitied her distress.
"Do not worry, citoyenne," he said to Dolores. "You shall have your
meals here, and you shall not be disturbed. By and by, you will be able
to compensate me for my services."
Grateful for this unexpected kindness, Dolores removed a small cross set
with diamonds which she wore about her neck, and, offering it to the
jailer, said:
"Accept this as security for the expense that I shall cause you. If I
die, you can keep it; if I live, I will redeem it."
The man refused at first; but the girl's entreaties conquered his
scruples, and he finally accepted it.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"I am called Aubry. You will find me ever ready to serve you,
citoyenne."
Such were the incidents that marked our heroine's arrival at the
Conciergerie. This first day in prison passed slowly. She did not leave
her cell, but toward evening Aubry brought up two dishes which were as
unpleasing to the taste as to the eye. As he placed them before her and
saw the movement of disgust which Dolores could not repress, Aubry was
almost ashamed of the meagre fare.
"Things here are not as they were in your château," he remarked, rather
tartly.
"No matter, my good Aubry, I am content;" responded Dolores, pleasantly.
She ate the food, however, for she had fasted since the evening before;
then, drawing the table to the wall pierced by the small, high window,
she mounted it to obtain a few breaths of fresh air. She opened the
sash; the breeze came in through the heavy bars, but Dolores could only
catch a glimpse of the gray sky already overcast by the mists of
evening.
An hour later, Dolores was sleeping calmly; and the next morning, as if
to render her first awakening in prison less gloomy, a bright sunbeam
peeped in to salute her.
When Aubry entered about ten o'clock with her breakfast, she was
walking about her cell.
"Citoyenne," he began; "I must tell you that as I was leaving the
prison, this morning, I met a man who inquired if I had seen, among the
prisoners, a pretty young girl with golden hair and dark eyes. The
description corresponded with you in every particular."
"Describe the man," said Dolores, eagerly.
"He was very tall; he had gray hair, and he seemed to be in great
trouble."
"It was Coursegol--the person for whom my letter was intended. Shall you
see him again?"
"His evident distress excited my pity, and I promised to aid him in his
search. He agreed to come to the office at ten o'clock this morning,
ostensibly to seek employment in the prison; and I promised to make some
excuse for taking you there at the same hour, so you can see each other;
but you are not to exchange a word or even a sign of recognition."
So in a few moments Dolores found herself face to face with Coursegol.
Of course, they did not attempt to exchange a single word: but, by a
look, Coursegol made her understand that he was employing every effort
to effect her deliverance; and she returned to her cell cheered by the
thought that a devoted heart was watching over her and over Philip. The
next day, when she was least expecting it, the door opened and Coursegol
entered.
"I have taken Aubry's place to-day," he remarked.
Dolores sprang towards him, and he clasped her in his arms. They had
been separated only three days, but those three days had seemed a
century to both.
"Have you seen Philip?" inquired Dolores.
"I saw him yesterday, after leaving here, my child."
"Is he still in the Madelonnettes?"
"Yes; but next week he will be brought here."
Nothing could have afforded Dolores greater pleasure than this
intelligence; and she gratefully thanked the protector whose devotion
thus alleviated the hardships of her lot; then he told her what had
occurred since her arrest, and how he had compelled Vauquelas to obtain
an order for the release of those he had betrayed.
"This order is now in my possession," he continued; "but it cannot be
used until Philip is an inmate of the same prison in which you are
confined. He will be here in a few days and then you can both make your
escape. In the meantime I will make all the necessary arrangements to
enable you to leave Paris as soon as you are set at liberty."
This interview, which lasted nearly an hour, literally transformed
Dolores. For the first time in many years she allowed herself to
contemplate the possibility of happiness here below; and the grave and
solemn thoughts that had been occupying her mind gave place to bright
anticipations of a blissful future with Philip.
For the first time since her arrival at the Conciergerie, she went down
into the public hall. This hall was separated only by an iron grating
from the long and narrow corridor upon which the cells assigned to the
men opened, and in which they spent most of their time. It was against
this grating that they leaned when they wished to converse with their
lady friends; and, during the day, it not unfrequently happened that the
doors were left open, and prisoners of both sexes were allowed to mingle
together. Then, ladies and gentlemen promenaded gayly to and fro;
acquaintances exchanged greetings; and handsome men and beautiful women
chatted as blithely as if they were in their elegant drawing-rooms.
The ancient nobility of France thus entered its protest against the
persecutions of which it was the victim, and convinced even its
bitterest enemies that it was not lacking in spirit and in courage in
the very jaws of death. All the historians who have attempted a
description of the prison life of that time unite in declaring that
contempt of death was never evinced more forcibly than by the victims of
that bloody epoch.
The ladies displayed habits of luxury that were worthy of the days of
the Regency. In the morning they generally appeared in bewitching
négligés; in the afternoon they made more careful and elegant toilettes,
and when evening came they donned the costly, trailing robes which they
had worn at Court, only a few short weeks before. Those who, by the
circumstances attendant upon their arrest, had been prevented from
bringing a varied assortment of dresses with them, expended any amount
of energy and ingenuity in their attempts to rival their more fortunate
companions in the splendor of their costumes. Hence, the prison
resembled a ball-room rather than an antechamber of death. The ladies
were coquettish and bewitching; the men were gallant and impassioned;
and more than one love was born in those days of alternate hope and
terror--more than one love whose ardor was not impaired by fears for the
morrow, and whose delights sweetened the last hours of those who shared
it. There was, of course, little real enjoyment or happiness in those
clays which were constantly disturbed by the arrival of new victims. One
came mourning for her children; another, for her husband. At intervals,
the jailer appeared to summon those condemned to die. Heart-rending
shrieks and despairing farewells attended these separations; the
executioner led away his victims, and all was over. Those who remained
filled up the ranks, and, looking at one another with an anguish that
deprived them of none of their courage, whispered:
"Who of us will die to-morrow?"
But a secret flame burned in every heart, imparting strength to the weak
and resignation to the strong. Cowardice was as rare as voluntary
sacrifice was common; and that which rendered the sight of such
fortitude and courage in the presence of danger still more touching, was
the tender sympathy that united all the prisoners, without regard to
former differences in social position.
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Dolores, reassured by her
interview with Coursegol, made her appearance in the hall frequented by
the inmates of the prison. More than a hundred persons had gathered
there. They were now scattered about in little groups; and the
conversation was very animated. Here sat an ancient dowager, delighting
some gentlemen with piquant anecdotes of the Court of Louis XV.; there,
stood a jovial priest, composing rhymes for the amusement of a
half-dozen young girls; at a little distance were several statesmen,
earnestly discussing the recent acts of the Convention--all doing their
best to kill time, as travellers detained at some wayside inn strive to
divert one another, while they wait for the sunshine that will enable
them to pursue their journey.
Dolores was not remarked at first among the crowd of prisoners. Each day
brought so many new faces there that one more unfortunate excited little
comment. But soon this young girl, who seemed to be entirely alone, and
who gazed half-timidly, half-curiously, at the scene before her,
attracted the attention of several prisoners. A woman, endowed with such
rare loveliness of form and feature as Nature had bestowed upon Dolores,
cannot long remain unnoticed. Her golden hair lay in soft rings upon her
smooth, open brow, and drooped in heavy braids upon her white neck. Her
dark brown dress and the little fichu knotted at the waist behind, were
very simple in texture and in make; but she wore them with such grace,
and there was such an air of elegance and distinction in her bearing,
that she soon became an object of general curiosity.
"What! So young, so beautiful, and in prison!" said one.
"Youth and beauty do not soften the hearts of tigers!" another replied.
A murmur of pity was heard as she passed, and some young men placed
themselves in her path in order to obtain a closer look at her. Not
until then did she note the sensation she had created. She became
embarrassed, and took a step backward as if to retire; but, at that very
moment, a lady, still young, in spite of the premature whiteness of her
locks, approached her and said:
"Why do you draw back, my child? Do we frighten you?"
"No, madame," replied Dolores; "but I am a stranger, and, finding,
myself alone among so many, I thought to retire to my own cell; but I
will gladly remain if you will act as my protectress."
"Take my arm, my dear. I will present you to my friends here. I am the
Marquise de Beaufort. And you?"
"My name is Dolores. I have neither father nor mother. The Marquis de
Chamondrin adopted me; and I was reared in his house as his own
daughter."
"The Marquis de Chamondrin? Why! his son Philip----"
"My adopted brother! You know him, madame?"
"He is one of my friends and often came to my salon--when I had a
salon," added the Marquise, smiling.
"Philip emigrated," remarked Dolores, "but unfortunately, he recently
returned to France. He, with several other gentlemen, attempted to save
the queen. He was with me, yesterday, when we were arrested; he, as an
Émigré; I, for giving him shelter."
This short explanation sufficed to awaken the liveliest sympathy among
her listeners. She was immediately surrounded and respectfully entreated
to accept certain comforts and delicacies that those who had money were
allowed to purchase for themselves. She refused these proffered
kindnesses; but remained until evening beside the Marquise de Beaufort,
who seemed to take an almost motherly interest in the young girl.
The days that followed were in no way remarkable; but Dolores was deeply
affected by scenes which no longer moved her companions. Every evening a
man entered, called several persons by name and handed them a folded
paper, a badly written and often illegible scrawl in which not even the
spelling of the names was correct, and which, consequently, not
unfrequently failed to reach the one for whom it was intended. This was
an act of accusation. The person who received it was allowed no time to
prepare his defence, but was compelled to appear before the
Revolutionary Tribunal the following day, and on that day or the next,
he was usually led forth to die.
How many innocent persons Dolores saw leave the prison never to return!
But the victims, whatever might be their age or sex, displayed the same
fortitude, courage and firmness. They met their doom with such proud
audacity that those who survived them, but who well knew that the same
fate awaited them, in their turn, watched them depart with sad, but not
despairing, eyes.
These scenes, of which she was an almost hourly witness, strengthened
the soul of Dolores and increased her distaste for life and her scorn of
death. Still, she experienced a feeling of profound sorrow when, on the
morning of the ninth day of her captivity, she was obliged to bid
farewell to the Marquise de Beaufort, who, in company with the former
abbess of the Convent of Bellecombe, in Auvergne, and a venerable
priest, had been summoned before the Tribunal. They were absent scarcely
three hours; they returned, condemned. Their execution was to take place
that same day at sunset. They spent the time that remained, in prayer;
and Dolores, kneeling beside them, wept bitterly.
"Do not mourn, my dear child," said the Marquise, tenderly. "I die
without regret. There was nothing left me here on earth. I have lost my
husband, my son--all who were dear to me. I am going to rejoin them. I
could ask no greater happiness."
She spoke thus as she obeyed the call of the executioner, who summoned
her and her companions to array themselves for their final journey. When
her toilet was completed, she knelt before the aged priest.
"Bless me, my father!" said she.
And the priest, who was to die with her, extended his hands and blessed
her. When she rose, her face was radiant. She took Dolores in her arms.
"Farewell, my child;" she said, tenderly. "You are young. I hope you
will escape the fury of these misguided wretches. Pray for me!"
And as the prisoners crowded around her with outstretched hands, she
cried, cheerfully:
"Au revoir, my friends, au revoir!"
She was led away. Just as she was disappearing from sight, she turned
once more and sent Dolores a last supreme farewell in a smile and kiss.
Then, in a clear, strong voice, that rang out like a song of victory,
she cried:
"Vive le Roi!"
The very next day Dolores saw two young men led out to die. Their
bearing was no less brave than that of the Marquise. They were not
royalists. They died accused of Modérantisme, that frightful word with
which the revolution sealed the doom of so many of its most devoted
children. The Marquise de Beaufort had cried: "Vive le Roi!" They cried:
"Vive la République!"