LOVE'S CONFLICTS.
What Philip had just heard filled his heart with grief and
consternation. How had Antoinette succeeded in reaching Paris? What had
been her object in coming? Dolores repeated the story exactly as
Antoinette had told it. When it was ended she simply added:
"Philip, why did you not tell me of the engagement that existed between
you? What! you left Antoinette scarcely six weeks ago--left her,
promising to marry her on your return, and now you entreat me to be your
wife!"
Philip hastily interrupted her.
"Ah, Dolores, do not reproach me. I have been neither false nor
treacherous. There has been a terrible, a fatal mistake. Yes, separated
from you, convinced that I should never see you again--that you were
dead or forever lost to me, I made Antoinette the same promise I made my
father four years ago, when I believed you consecrated to God; but when
I found you once more, you whom I adore, how could I forget that you
first--that you alone, possessed my heart? Even as a child, I loved you
as one loves a wife, not as one loves a sister; and this passion has
grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength, until it has
become the ruling power of my life."
"Alas!" murmured Dolores.
"And when a thrice-blessed change has brought us together once more, now
that I can at last cover your dear hands with kisses, and feast my
hungry eyes upon your beauty, you would forbid me in the name of
Antoinette to tell you what has been in my heart so many years? No,
Dolores, no. You are strong, I know. You possess sufficient energy and
determination to conquer yourself and to remain apparently cold and
unmoved while your heart is writhing in anguish; but I have no such
fortitude. I cannot hide my suffering; I love you, I must tell you so."
As he spoke, Philip became more and more agitated. Tears gathered in his
eyes and his features worked convulsively.
"Do you not see," he resumed, after a short silence, "that the scruples
which led us to conceal the truth were the causes of all our misery? If,
hand in hand, we had knelt before him and said: 'Father, we love each
other, give us your blessing,' he would have been content."
"You are mistaken, Philip. Just before I left for the convent, I told
the Marquis with my own lips of your love for me, and he did not bid me
stay."
Philip stood as if stupefied.
"My father knew--"
"Yes."
"And yet, on his deathbed, he compelled me to promise that I would marry
Antoinette!"
"He thought you would forget me."
"Can those who truly love ever forget?" cried Philip. "But what is to be
done?" he asked.
Dolores made no response. She stood before him with eyes downcast that
he might not see the conflict which was raging in her soul. Philip took
advantage of her hesitation to plead his cause anew.
"Listen, Dolores; it is not right that we should all sacrifice ourselves
to my father's ambition; and if I wed Antoinette, still loving you, I
cannot make her happy. Besides, what would become of you?"
"But if I listen to you, what will become of Antoinette?"
"She will forget. She loves me because she met me before she met any
other young man, before she had seen the world; but she will soon forget
me. After a few tears that cannot compare in bitterness with those that
I have shed, and with those I shall shed, if I am compelled to give you
up, she will bestow her love elsewhere."
"Do not wrong her, Philip. For four long years she has considered
herself your wife in the sight of God, and now you would leave her to
mourn your infidelity!"
"My infidelity!"
"Yes, Philip, for you have plighted your troth to her. You have made no
promise to me."
"And you?"
"I have promised nothing."
"But your silence the other evening when I entreated you to grant my
suit--was not your silence then an avowal?"
"You misunderstood me!" replied Dolores, courageously.
The girl could endure no more; her strength was exhausted; but her
decision was made, and her sole aim now was to assure Antoinette's
happiness by compelling Philip to marry her. She said, gently:
"Coursegol must bring the order of release by the aid of which you and I
were to leave the prison. It will be of service when we plan
Antoinette's escape."
Philip uttered an exclamation of remonstrance. She pretended not to hear
it and continued:
"You will go with her. When you are once outside these walls, thanks to
Coursegol, it will be easy for you to reach a place of safety. I do not
ask you to marry Antoinette as soon as you have left me; but when time
has calmed the fever that is now raging in your heart, and peace has
descended upon your troubled soul, you will bravely fulfil the promise
you have made, as befits an honest man. This is my request."
Philip shook his head.
"What is to be your fate?" he inquired.
"If I ever leave this prison, or rather, if I escape the guillotine, I
shall go to some foreign land and there, resuming the vocation to which
I have consecrated myself, I shall pass the remainder of my life in a
convent where I shall pray for you. But I shall not take the vows of
eternal seclusion from the world; and if, some day, you feel strong
enough to endure my presence without danger to your peace of mind, I
will see you again, Philip, and give your children a second mother by
the renewal of my friendship with Antoinette."
"I refuse to obey you! No; I will not marry Antoinette, and since you
would compel me to do so, she shall decide what course I ought to
pursue. I will tell her all; I will tell her that we love each other,
that we have always loved each other."
"Hush!" said Dolores, beseechingly; "she must never know--you have no
right to reveal a secret that is as much mine as it is yours."
Their conversation had lasted some time. The yard and the hall that
opened into it were beginning to fill with the inmates of the prison.
They came down from their cells by no means certain that evening would
find them still alive; and yet this uncertainty did not mar the serenity
of their features or of their minds. Several, on passing Philip and
Dolores, looked at them with evident curiosity, as if anxious to know
the theme of such an animated conversation.
"I must return to Antoinette," said Dolores. "I will bring her down with
me, and I entreat you, in the name of your love, to say nothing that
will cause her pain. There is no haste. We are in prison, and, in spite
of Coursegol's efforts, none of us may succeed in making our escape. An
act of accusation may fall upon one of us, if not upon all three of us,
at any moment. What the future has in store for us we do not know, but
let us not embitter the present by reproaches and differences. Let us
live here, as we lived at Chamondrin, in perfect harmony, encouraging
and sustaining one another in our misfortunes, so we can endure them
cheerfully, and wait with patience until time shall solve this
difficulty for us."
"What energy you possess!" replied Philip, gladly accepting this
proposal, since it gave him a gleam of hope.
Dolores left him to go to Antoinette, and Philip mingled with the other
prisoners, among whom he found many noblemen and titled ladies whose
acquaintance he had made at court and at the house of the Duke de
Penthieore. Antoinette was just waking when Dolores returned to the cell
they shared in common, and she did not notice the emotion that was still
visible on her friend's face. She smiled, extended her hand and kissed
her.
"Philip?" she asked.
This was the first word she uttered.
"Philip has come. I have seen him; he is waiting for you below."
This news made Antoinette spring hastily to her feet; and arm in arm the
two girls went down to join Philip. Dolores felt Antoinette's heart
throb violently, so deeply was she moved by the thought of seeing him
whom she regarded as her betrothed. She flew to his arms with such
artless delight that he was really touched with remorse when he
remembered that, only a moment before, he had almost hated this lovely
young girl whose only fault was her love for him.
"Poor child," he said, almost tenderly, "why did you not remain in
England? Why did you expose yourself to such danger?"
"Was it not my duty to come to you that I might die with you? When,
after vainly waiting a fortnight for news of you, I heard of the death
of the queen, I said to myself that, in your fruitless efforts to save
her, you must have incurred great peril, and that you had probably been
arrested. You see that I was not mistaken. So I started to find you, and
I deem myself fortunate to be with you once more."
This response, which Dolores heard distinctly, was only another proof of
the promises Philip had made to Antoinette. These promises, consecrated
as they had been by the blessing of the Abbé Peretty, beside the
deathbed of the Marquis de Chamondrin, seemed of so sacred a nature in
the eyes of Antoinette that she really felt it her duty to treat Philip
as if their marriage was an accomplished fact.
Dolores glanced at Philip; her look seemed to say:
"Would you dare to tell her that you do not love her? No; think only of
making yourself worthy of her, and of assuring the happiness to which
she is justly entitled."
Philip was greatly embarrassed. Antoinette seemed to expect that he
would greet her arrival with some word expressive of joy or of love;
but, in spite of his efforts, he could not utter a word. The presence of
Dolores from whom he could no longer conceal the truth, intimidated him
and rendered him mute. Some minutes passed thus. The prisoners were
passing and repassing. Those who had been surprised by the arrival of
Philip a short time before, were now wondering who this young girl, for
whom Dolores evinced all a sister's tenderness, could be.
We have already said that each of the prisons which had been crowded
with victims by the Reign of Terror was a faithful reproduction of the
aristocratic society of Paris, now decimated by death and by exile, but
which was famous for its intrigues, its wit, its indiscretions, its
luxury and its gallantries. Behind the prison bars the ladies still
remained grandes dames; the men, courtiers: and neither sex had lost any
of its interest in small events as well as great. On the contrary, the
monotony of prison life and the desire to kill time intensified this
interest so natural to the French mind. An incident of trifling
importance furnished them with a topic of conversation for hours. The
new dress in which the duchess had appeared, the pleasure with which the
marquise seemed to receive the attentions of the chevalier, interested
this little world, which had not been cured of its frivolity by its
misfortunes, as much as the heroism which the last person condemned had
displayed on ascending the scaffold.
This serves to explain how and why a general curiosity was awakened by
the appearance of Antoinette de Mirandol. A few moments before, they had
noticed the Marquis de Chamondrin engaged in animated conversation with
Dolores. The malicious scented an intrigue; the ladies undertook the
defence of Dolores; the old people remembered that she had been educated
with Philip, and thought it quite natural that they should have much to
say to each other after a long separation; but when Dolores, after
absenting herself a few moments, returned with a charming young girl
upon her arm, a stranger, whom she led straight to Philip, every one
was eager to know the name of the new-comer. They watched the group
with evident curiosity, as if trying to divine what was passing; they
commented on the emotion betrayed in Philip's face, and the
acquaintances of Dolores were anxiously waiting for an opportunity to
question her.
"I think we are creating quite a sensation," Dolores said, at last, in a
low tone and with a smile.
Philip turned, and seeing they were the subject of universal comment,
and desiring an opportunity to collect his scattered thoughts, he said:
"We will meet again presently."
Then, without another word, he left them.
Dolores looked at Antoinette. She was very pale, and she trembled
violently. Dolores led her gently back to the cell which they occupied
in common. When Antoinette found herself again alone with her friend she
made no attempt to restrain her tears.
"He did not even answer me," she sobbed. "My arrival seemed to cause him
sorrow rather than joy."
"It is because he loves you and it makes him wretched to see you
threatened by the same dangers that surround us," replied Dolores,
striving to console her.
"Does he love me? I am quite sure, had I been in his place, that I
should have awaited his coming with impatience and greeted him with joy.
I should have seen in it only a proof of love, and I should have
forgotten the dangers he had incurred in the rapture of meeting. When
two persons love, there is no sorrow so great as to be separated by
death. The one who survives can but be wretched for the rest of his
life; and the kindest and most generous wish the departing soul can
frame is that the loved one left behind, may soon follow."
Dolores made no reply. She understood the deep despondency which had
taken possession of Antoinette's mind. Her own sorrow was no less
poignant, but it was mitigated by a feeling of serenity and resignation,
which was constantly gaining strength now that what has just passed had
convinced her of the necessity of her sacrifice; and, from that moment,
there reigned in the heart of Dolores, a boundless self-abnegation, a
constant desire to insure the happiness of her friend by the surrender
of her own. The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. Dolores and
Antoinette made only one more visit to the hall below, and then Philip
avoided them.
"He is suffering," said Antoinette. "What troubles him?"
She could learn this only by learning, at the same time, that Philip was
not only indifferent to her, but that his love was given to Dolores. The
latter, faithful to her vow, carefully concealed Philip's secret from
her friend. That evening, before they retired, the two girls talked long
and sadly of the past. They lived over again the happy hours they had
spent together; and when, overcome with weariness, sleep at last
overtook them, they fancied themselves once more in the Château de
Chamondrin. Dolores was listening to the Marquis, as he divulged the
hopes he had centred on Philip, and planned a noble and wealthy alliance
which would restore the glory of his name. But Antoinette's thoughts
had taken a different course. When she awoke in the morning, her mind
reverted to the days which had immediately followed her arrival at the
château five years before--the days when love suddenly sprang up and
blossomed in her soul. Then, she recalled a morning when Philip
requested an interview with her. She believed herself beloved, and stole
to the trysting-place in a transport of unspeakable joy. What
consternation filled her heart when Philip told her of his love for
Dolores, and entreated her to plead his cause! The painful impression
produced by this scene gradually faded after Dolores left the château to
enter the convent at Avignon, and when Antoinette saw Philip becoming,
each day, more and more favorably disposed toward herself; but now this
impression returned again even more strongly and vividly than before,
and awakened fresh sorrow and despair in the poor girl's soul. Philip's
desire to postpone their marriage and his failure to keep his promises
were now explained. The cold reception he had accorded her enlightened
the poor child as to the real sentiments of the man whom she only
yesterday regarded as her husband. She found herself in the same
position she had occupied years before; the same danger threatened her
happiness with destruction--Philip loved Dolores. When the revelation
burst upon her, she could not repress a moan, and burying her face in
her pillow, she sobbed and wept unheard by Dolores, who was sleeping
peacefully only a few feet from her. All the pangs of anguish that had
tortured her five years before now returned; and her suffering was even
more poignant, for her love had increased and her hopes had grown
stronger. Her first outbreak of despair was followed by a season of
calmness which enabled her to decide upon her future course; and, after
fighting against her doubts and fears for a long time, she finally
concluded to go to Dolores and ascertain the extent of her misfortune
from this faithful friend. The first gray light of morning was stealing
into the gloomy cell when Antoinette arrived at this conclusion, and the
next moment she was up and dressed. She approached the bed upon which
Dolores was lying, still asleep. Antoinette seated herself at the foot
of the bed and waited. It was her pale face and eyes swimming with tears
that first met her companion's gaze when she awoke.
"You have been weeping, Antoinette?" she exclaimed with tender
solicitude.
"Yes; I have passed a miserable night."
"Why? How?"
"Philip's indifference has wounded me to the heart!"
"Do not grieve about that, my dearest. What you think indifference, is
perhaps, an excess of tenderness. Philip regrets that you did not remain
in England. The terrible position in which you are placed grieves and,
at the same time, irritates him."
She thus endeavored to quiet Antoinette's suspicions, but the latter
could no longer be deceived. She heard her to the end; then she asked.
"Are you sure that these are really Philip's sentiments? Is it not more
probable that there is another love in his heart?"
"Another love!" repeated Dolores, frightened by these words; "do not
believe it. Philip is your betrothed husband; he knows it. He is as
conscious of his present as of his future duties; and he loves you
only."
"You are wrong, Dolores. It is you he loves!"
"Loves me! Who has told you this?"
"So it is true! Ah! I was sure of it," murmured Antoinette. "He has met
you again after a separation of four years, and I am forgotten."
Dolores rose, took her friend in her arms as if she were a child, and
said gently:
"Be comforted, I entreat you. Your imagination deceives you and leads
you far from the truth. It is possible that Philip, on meeting me again,
was moved by some of the emotions that are often awakened in the heart
by memories of the past; but these emotions are fleeting and do not
endanger your happiness. If Philip once cherished fancies that troubled
your peace, you know that my departure sufficed to cure him of them; and
should these foolish fancies revive, my departure will again suffice to
dispel them and to restore to you the heart to which you, and you alone,
have an inalienable claim."
These words reassured Antoinette. She ceased to weep, and her whole
heart seemed to go out in gratitude to Dolores. The latter continued:
"If God wills that we recover our freedom, you shall depart with Philip.
As for me, I shall take refuge in some convent in a foreign land. My
place is there, and I solemnly assure you that I shall never marry."
"Ah! how I thank you!" cried Antoinette. "You have restored my
happiness and my peace of mind."
Love is selfish, and Antoinette knew nothing of Dolores' struggles. She
did not attempt to fathom the motives of her friend, and relieved by the
assurance she had just received, and no longer doubting her ability to
regain her lost influence over Philip, she passed suddenly from the
poignant suffering we have described to a state of peaceful security.