ANTOINETTE DE MIRANDOL.
A fortnight had elapsed since Dolores first entered the Conciergerie. In
the many trying experiences through which she had been obliged to pass,
she had been sustained by the hope of a speedy meeting with Philip. She
dare not believe that Coursegol's efforts, or even the order of release
which he had obtained through Vauquelas, could save them; but it seemed
to her if she could only see her lover once more before she died, she
could mount the scaffold without a regret.
One morning, on entering the public hall, she saw Coursegol behind the
grating in the corridor. She hastened to him, and he whispered through
the bars that Philip was to be brought to the Conciergerie the next day.
Dolores was overcome with joy at this news.
"As soon as M. Philip arrives here," added Coursegol; "we will arrange
to make use of the order of release and to remove you from prison."
"Will that be possible?" inquired Dolores.
"Certainly. All prisoners who are set at liberty are released by order
of the Committee; and the order given me by Vauquelas is a fac-simile of
those always used."
"With this difference, however: the names of those to be released have
not yet been inserted," objected Dolores.
"What of that?" exclaimed Coursegol, "I will insert the names myself,
and then the order will be in favor of citoyen and citoyenne
Chamondrin."
"But if we should succeed in escaping from this prison, Coursegol, where
shall we go?"
"To Bridoul's at first, where you will be safe for at least twenty-four
hours. From there I shall conduct you to a cottage in the Forest of
Chévreuse, some little distance from Versailles. The place is almost a
wilderness; no one will ever think of looking for us there."
Coursegol's words made a deep impression upon the girl's mind. After
resigning herself to an eternal separation from the object of her love;
after trampling her own heart and all her hopes of happiness under foot,
and just as her peace, her future, her very life itself seemed
irretrievably lost, hope sprang up from the ruins like some gorgeous
flower and unfolded its brilliant petals one by one before her wondering
and enraptured eyes.
"And Antoinette?" some one asks, "Had Dolores forgotten Antoinette's
right to Philip's devotion?" No; the reader knows how heroically Dolores
had sacrificed her happiness for her friend's sake, and how earnestly
she had endeavored to compel Philip to fulfil his father's wishes; but
when Philip met her at the house of Vauquelas after their long
separation, he made no allusion to the recent promise which bound him
more closely than ever to Mlle. de Mirandol; and, knowing that Dolores
was aware of the engagement which had formerly existed between himself
and Antoinette, he did his best to make that bond appear of a trivial
nature in order to induce her to listen to his suit with favor. So he
had merely told Dolores that he did not love Antoinette, that he could
never love Antoinette, that it was she, Dolores, whom he passionately
adored and whom he was resolved to make his wife. If we remember the
influence such words as these could not fail to exercise over the mind
of Dolores, and the influence exerted by the peculiar circumstances of
their meeting, and by the perils that surrounded them; if we recollect,
too, that Antoinette was far away and presumably beyond the reach of
danger or of want, it is easy to understand how they came to forget
everything but their own happiness, and to regard their marriage--until
now deemed an impossibility--as a most natural and proper thing.
It was in this condition of mind that Dolores listened to Coursegol's
description of the little house in the Chévreuse valley, in which they
were to take refuge; but the vision of happiness conjured up by his
words was rudely dispelled by a sudden commotion around her which
recalled her to the grim reality of the dangers that still threatened
her on every side. The jailer was reading the names of the prisoners who
were to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal the next day.
That evening, when Dolores re-entered her cell, eagerly longing for the
morrow which would bring Philip once more to her side, she was followed
by Aubry, who was carrying a small iron bedstead which he placed near
the one occupied by Dolores.
"What are you doing?" inquired the young girl.
"I am placing a bed here for the companion I shall be compelled to give
you to-morrow, citoyenne. I have resorted to every sort of stratagem to
gratify your desire to be alone, but now there is no help for it. We are
expecting a party of prisoners from La Vendée. There are several women
among them; and some place must be found for them, although the prison
is filled to overflowing. While you were down-stairs the inspector came
here and ordered me to put another prisoner in this cell. It is
annoying, but, never mind; when the new-comers arrive I will choose your
room-mate, and you will be pleased with her."
This intelligence was exceedingly unwelcome to Dolores, but the hope of
seeing Philip the next day greatly mitigated her regret. She had just
left her bed the next morning, when she heard footsteps in the corridor.
She hastily completed her toilet, and had hardly done so when the key
turned in the lock. The door opened and Aubry entered. He was not alone;
but Dolores could not distinguish the features of the lady who
accompanied him, on account of the dim light and the thick veil that
shrouded her face.
"Here is your companion," Aubry whispered to Dolores. "I hope you will
be pleased with my selection. Poor little thing, she seems worn out and
terribly dejected."
The stranger, without lifting her veil, had seated herself upon her bed
in an attitude which indicated intense fatigue or despondency. Aubry
gave her a few directions to which she listened abstractedly, without
replying or even looking at the jailer, who then withdrew. Dolores,
after a moment, approached the stranger and said:
"Since we are to be together for a time more or less long, shall we not
be friends?"
At the sound of the girl's voice, the stranger trembled; then she rose
and looked Dolores full in the face with a strange intentness.
"Shall we not be friends!" she repeated. "Dolores, do you not know me?"
It was Dolores' turn to tremble. She clasped her hands, uttered a cry of
astonishment in which one could detect both consternation and joy; then,
springing forward, she hastily lifted the veil which hid the face of the
speaker.
"Antoinette! Antoinette!"
"Dolores, you here!"
They were again in each other's arms after four long years of
separation, kissing each other, questioning each other, smiling and
weeping by turns.
"Tell me about yourself!" cried Antoinette.
"All in good time, my dearest," replied Dolores. "First, lie down and
rest. You look weary and are pale with fatigue."
"I was travelling all night!"
Dolores helped her remove her damp clothing and made her lie down upon
her own bed; then she left her a moment to ask Aubry to bring a cup of
coffee to her weary friend. That worthy man exhibited his accustomed
zeal, and soon the two young-girls, one reclining on her couch, the
other seated by her bedside were talking of the past. But their
conversation had hardly begun when Antoinette inquired:
"Have you seen Philip?"
A slight pallor overspread the cheeks of Dolores, but the next instant
she responded, calmly:
"I have seen Philip. He, too, has been arrested, and he will be brought
here to-day."
Antoinette was eager to know the circumstances of Philip's arrest.
Dolores related them, and to do so she was obliged to give her companion
some account of her own life since she left the Château de Chamondrin
four years before. Antoinette was affected to tears by the story of her
friend's misfortunes. She interrupted her again and again to pity and
caress her, and Dolores could not summon up courage to speak of her love
for Philip, or of what had passed between them.
Then, it was Antoinette's turn to speak of herself and of her own past;
and she soon revealed the fact that Philip had solemnly plighted his
troth to her at last. She also told her friend that she could not endure
her life in England, separated from him, and that anxiety for his safety
had induced her to leave the Reed mansion by stealth and come to France
in quest of him.
In London, she had sought the protection of the Chevalier de Millemont,
an aged nobleman, and Philip's devoted friend. That gentleman, after
vainly attempting to dissuade her, at last consented to make such
arrangements as would enable her to reach France in safety. It was
through his efforts that Antoinette was allowed to take passage in a
small vessel that was sent to bear a message from the princes to La
Vendée. On reaching the coast of Brittany where the vessel landed, she
and her travelling companions parted. She was eager to reach Paris, but
found that the journey would be no easy task. She finally succeeded in
finding a man who agreed to take her as far as Nantes in his carriage.
He procured two passports, one for his own use, and in which he figured
as a grain merchant; the other for Antoinette, who was represented to be
his daughter. Unfortunately, they stopped for refreshments at a small
village near Nantes; and Antoinette's unmistakable air of distinction
and the whiteness of her hands led people to suspect that she was not
the child of a petty village merchant. The man discovered this; his
fears were aroused, and while Antoinette was sitting in the parlor of
the inn, he harnessed his horses and drove off at full speed. This
cowardly desertion filled the girl with dismay. On finding herself
alone, she could not conceal her disquietude, and this increased the
suspicions that had already been aroused. The inn-keeper, who was a
zealous patriot, compelled her to go with him to the district
Commissioner. Her presence of mind deserted her; and her incoherent
replies and her reticence caused her arrest. The Commissioner intended
to send her to Nantes; but she begged so hard to be sent to Paris,
instead, that he finally granted her request. That same evening a party
of prisoners from La Vendée passed through the village; and Antoinette
was entrusted to the care of the officer in charge of them. After a long
and painful journey, she at last reached Paris, where the Conciergerie
opened to receive her.
Such was the story she related to Dolores. The latter listened to it in
silence. When it was ended, she said to her friend:
"Now you must sleep and regain your strength. Have no fears, I will
watch over you."
"If I could only see Philip!" sighed Antoinette.
"You shall see him; I promise you that."
Antoinette submissively closed her eyes and soon fell asleep. Dolores
sat motionless, her thoughts busy with what she had just heard. In all
this narrative she had clearly understood only two things: first, that
it was the hope of discovering and saving Philip, whom she still
passionately loved, that had induced Mlle. de Mirandol to make this
journey which had terminated so disastrously, and secondly, that Philip
only a few weeks before had solemnly renewed an engagement which he had
concealed from her.
"What shall I do?" asked the poor girl, as she remembered with a
breaking heart her blissful dreams of the evening before.
Her own great love stood face to face with that of Antoinette. Which
should be sacrificed? Antoinette's most assuredly, since Philip loved
Dolores. But she dare not contemplate such a solution of the problem.
"What!" she thought; "after the Marquis de Chamondrin has reared me as
his own child, I repay his kindness by encouraging his son to disobey
his last wishes? No, no! It is impossible! He made him promise to marry
Antoinette; and Philip did promise, first his father and afterwards
Antoinette. What does it matter if he does love me! When he no longer
sees me, he will forget me! Antoinette will again become dear to him.
They will be happy. What am I, that I should destroy the plans that were
so dear to the heart of my benefactor? Have I not made one sacrifice,
and can I not make another? Come, Dolores, be brave, be strong! If you
wed Philip, Antoinette will be miserable. Her disappointment would break
her heart; and all your life long, the phantom form of the dear sister
whose happiness you had wrecked would stand between your husband and
yourself. She is innocent; she does not even know that I love Philip. I
have never admitted it to her; I have always concealed the truth. She
will be happy; she will feel no remorse, and she will cause peace,
resignation and love to descend with healing wings upon the heart of him
she so fondly loves."
Never was there a nobler example of self-denial and renunciation. She
had only to utter a single word and Philip was hers forever; but if she
must pain Antoinette's tender heart, and fail in respect to her
benefactor in order to win happiness, she would have none of it. Such
were her reflections as she watched over her sleeping friend.
"Ah!" she murmured, as she sadly gazed upon her; "why did you not
remain in England? Why did you come here? You little know how much
misery you have caused me!"
One cannot wonder that a rebellious cry rose from her tortured heart;
but the cry did not escape her lips. It was stifled in her inmost soul
with the hopes she had just relinquished forever. Suddenly the door
opened, and the jailer entered. It was now about ten o'clock in the
morning.
"There is a prisoner below who has just arrived, and who wishes to see
you, citoyenne."
"It is he!" thought Dolores, turning pale at the thought of meeting
Philip again.
Nevertheless, she armed herself with courage, and went down-stairs with
a firm step to welcome Philip. He was awaiting her with feverish
impatience. On seeing her, he uttered a cry of joy and sprang forward,
crying:
"Dolores, Dolores, at last we meet never again to part!"
"Never?" she asked, faintly.
"Do you not remember my words? If God, who has united us once more,
after a long and cruel separation, saves us from the dangers that
threaten us with destruction, shall you not believe that he smiles upon
our love? Ah, well! thanks to Coursegol, we shall succeed in making our
escape from this place. We shall soon be free!"
"And what is to be Antoinette's fate?'
"Antoinette?"
Dolores looked him full in the eyes and said, with all the firmness she
could command:
"You left Antoinette in England, Philip, promising to marry her on your
return. She is now in France, in Paris, in this prison. She comes to
claim the fulfilment of your promise."
While Dolores was speaking, Philip's face underwent an entire change, so
great was the surprise and emotion caused by this intelligence. When she
had finished, he could make no response; he could only lean against the
wall of the prison, speechless and motionless.