Which? Or, Between Two Women

by Ernest Daudet

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE CONCIERGERIE.

  After their arrest Philip and Dolores were taken to the neareststation-house and ushered into a room where three persons, arrested likethemselves during the evening, were awaiting examination. Unfortunatelythe official charged with conducting these investigations had alreadygone home. As he would not return until the next morning, the sergeantof police decided that the prisoners must pass the night there. Somemattresses were spread upon the floor for those who chose to use them.Dolores refused to lie down. She seated herself in a broken-down armchair which Philip obtained for her, not without considerabledifficulty, and declared that she would spend the night there. Philipplaced himself on a stool at her feet and thus they waited the break ofday.

  Their companions were stretched upon their couches fast asleep, and thenight, 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 inforeign lands solely for this purpose. By sheltering him, Dolores hadbecome his accomplice. Such crimes would meet with, no indulgence. Inthe morning they would be interrogated by an official, whose mind hadbeen poisoned against them in advance, and who would show no mercy totheir youth. Accused of desiring the overthrow of the Republic and thereturn of the Bourbons, they would be sent to prison, taken from theircells to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and condemned to the guillotine.Such was the summary mode of procedure during the Reign of Terror. Tohope that any exception would be made in their case was folly. All thatwas left for them, therefore, was to prepare to die. If the prospect ofsuch a fate brought the tears to their eyes at first, it was not becauseeither of them was wanting in courage. No, it was only for the fate thatwas to befall the other that each wept. But when they had talkedtogether, and learned that they were mutually resigned, their sorrow wasappeased; and as if their sentence had already been pronounced, theythought only of making their last hours on earth pass as calmly andsweetly as possible.

  "Why should I fear to die?" said Dolores, when Philip tried to encourageher 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 Inot for a long time been the same as dead to her? I can leave the worldwithout 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 Ihave sighed so long."

  "Have you truly longed for death?" asked Philip.

  "I have seen so many loved ones fall around me," replied Dolores, "myeyes have witnessed so many sorrows, I have suffered so much, and mylife since my happy childhood has been so unspeakably lonely and sadthat 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, ifyou had but placed your hand in mine, what misery we should have beenspared."

  "It would not have averted our misfortunes."

  "No; but we might have borne them together, and after our sorrows foundconsolation 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 thesemoments which were, as they supposed, ushering them into eternity,Philip continued:

  "Whenever I pressed my suit, you pleaded my father's wishes as an excusefor not listening to my prayers. To gratify a foolish ambition hedesired me to marry Antoinette. Ah, well! my father's will no longerstands between us; and the engagement that binds me to her is broken bythe changed situation in which we find ourselves. We are free now in theshadow of death. Will you not tell me the truth? Will you not open yourheart to me as I have opened mine to you?"

  Dolores listened, her glowing eyes riveted upon Philip's face, herbosom heaving with emotion. The words; "We are free now in the shadow ofdeath," rang in her ears. She felt that she could not refuse her loverthe last joy and consolation that he claimed; and that she, whose pasthad been one long sacrifice of her happiness and of her hopes, had aright to reveal the secret so long buried in her soul. Gently, almostsolemnly, these words fell from her lips:

  "Listen, Philip, since you ask me for the truth, now, at this supremehour, I have always loved you as I love you now; and I love you now asardently as I am beloved!"

  There was so much tenderness in her manner that Philip sprang up, hiseyes 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; andif I were compelled to give my life in exchange for the happiness ofhearing this from your lips, I should not think that I paid too dearlyfor it. But you have restored my energy and my courage. I feel strongenough, now, to defy the whole world in a struggle for the felicity thatis rightfully ours. We shall live, Dolores, to belong to each other, tocomfort each other."

  "Do not, I entreat you, ask me to live," exclaimed Dolores, "since thecertainty of death alone decided me to speak."

  "But," pleaded Philip, "if I should succeed in rescuing you from theperil that surrounds us, would you be more rigorous than destiny? Wouldyou not feel that God smiled upon our love, and that it was He who hadmercifully united us again?"

  "Philip! Philip!" murmured Dolores. She could say no more, but yieldingat last to the sweet power of the love against which she had struggledso long, she laid her weary head upon the heart that worshipped her withsuch a tender and all-absorbing passion.

  It was nine o'clock in the morning when the officer who was to conductthe examination made his appearance. The expectations of Philip andDolores were realized. He questioned them hastily, listened to thereport of the sergeant who had arrested them, took a few notes, thenordered the culprits to be sent, one to the Conciergerie, the other tothe Madelonnettes.

  "Can we not be together?" asked Philip, filled with dismay by theprospect of a separation.

  "The Committee will decide. For the present, I shall be obliged toseparate 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 sentfor a carriage. She entered it and her guards seated themselves oppositeher and on the box with the driver. To reach the Conciergerie, theywere obliged to pass the Palais de Justice. Upon the steps of thepalace, not far from the prison, was a crowd of women that assembledthere every day to witness the departure of the prisoners who werecondemned to death. They saw Dolores when she alighted from thecarriage, and immediately began to clap their hands and utter shrillcries 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 notwithout considerable difficulty that the men acting as her escortprotected her from the infuriated throng. At last the dread door openedbefore her. She was ushered into the office, a small room where theprison register was kept. Her full name and age were recorded by theclerk, and she was then placed in charge of one of the jailers, who wasordered to find accommodations for her in that part of the prison overwhich he had jurisdiction.

  "I have two favors to ask of you," Dolores said to this man, whosebenevolent 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 whatelse?"

  "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 wasliving myself when I was arrested in his absence. You may see thecontents of the letter and assure yourself that it contains nothingobjectionable."

  "Very well," replied
the jailer, moved with compassion by themisfortunes of this beautiful young girl. "I will conduct you to a cellwhere you will be alone, and where you will have an opportunity to writeyour letter."

  As he spoke, he led Dolores to a small room on the second floor, lightedby a grated window, opening upon the court-yard.

  "You can remain here as long as you like. No one shall come to troubleyou. Meals are served in the refectory, unless a prisoner desires themin 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 itsdestination," said Dolores. "It took all I had to pay for the carriagethat 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 andpaper."

  The worthy man withdrew but soon returned, bringing the desiredarticles. Dolores wrote a hasty note to Coursegol, informing him of herarrest and that of Philip, and begging him to send her some money atonce. The jailer promised that the letter should be delivered some timeduring the day. Then he departed. Dolores, left in solitude, fell uponher knees and prayed for Philip. She had never loved him so fondly asnow; and the misfortune that had befallen her would have been nothinghad it been alleviated by the joy of knowing that her lover was nearher.

  She spent the day alone, and she was really surprised at her owncalmness. Comforted by the immortal hopes that are ever awakened in theChristian's soul by the prospect of death, and elevated to an idealworld by the exciting events of the previous evening and by the eloquentconfession 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 hadgiven him. Coursegol could not be found; he was no longer withVauquelas, 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 histhreats, and that he had drawn down some misfortune upon himself.Moreover, the disappearance of her protector cut off her pecuniaryresources; and as the prisoners could not obtain the slightest favorwithout the aid of gold, she was deprived of the means to alleviate thehardships of her lot. The jailer pitied her distress.

  "Do not worry, citoyenne," he said to Dolores. "You shall have yourmeals here, and you shall not be disturbed. By and by, you will be ableto compensate me for my services."

  Grateful for this unexpected kindness, Dolores removed a small cross setwith diamonds which she wore about her neck, and, offering it to thejailer, said:

  "Accept this as security for the expense that I shall cause you. If Idie, you can keep it; if I live, I will redeem it."

  The man refused at first; but the girl's entreaties conquered hisscruples, 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 theConciergerie. This first day in prison passed slowly. She did not leaveher cell, but toward evening Aubry brought up two dishes which were asunpleasing to the taste as to the eye. As he placed them before her andsaw the movement of disgust which Dolores could not repress, Aubry wasalmost ashamed of the meagre fare.

  "Things here are not as they were in your chateau," he remarked, rathertartly.

  "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 thesash; the breeze came in through the heavy bars, but Dolores could onlycatch a glimpse of the gray sky already overcast by the mists ofevening.

  An hour later, Dolores was sleeping calmly; and the next morning, as ifto render her first awakening in prison less gloomy, a bright sunbeampeeped in to salute her.

  When Aubry entered about ten o'clock with her breakfast, she waswalking about her cell.

  "Citoyenne," he began; "I must tell you that as I was leaving theprison, this morning, I met a man who inquired if I had seen, among theprisoners, a pretty young girl with golden hair and dark eyes. Thedescription 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 greattrouble."

  "It was Coursegol--the person for whom my letter was intended. Shall yousee him again?"

  "His evident distress excited my pity, and I promised to aid him in hissearch. 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 someexcuse 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 alook, Coursegol made her understand that he was employing every effortto effect her deliverance; and she returned to her cell cheered by thethought that a devoted heart was watching over her and over Philip. Thenext day, when she was least expecting it, the door opened and Coursegolentered.

  "I have taken Aubry's place to-day," he remarked.

  Dolores sprang towards him, and he clasped her in his arms. They hadbeen separated only three days, but those three days had seemed acentury 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 thisintelligence; and she gratefully thanked the protector whose devotionthus alleviated the hardships of her lot; then he told her what hadoccurred since her arrest, and how he had compelled Vauquelas to obtainan order for the release of those he had betrayed.

  "This order is now in my possession," he continued; "but it cannot beused until Philip is an inmate of the same prison in which you areconfined. He will be here in a few days and then you can both make yourescape. In the meantime I will make all the necessary arrangements toenable you to leave Paris as soon as you are set at liberty."

  This interview, which lasted nearly an hour, literally transformedDolores. For the first time in many years she allowed herself tocontemplate the possibility of happiness here below; and the grave andsolemn thoughts that had been occupying her mind gave place to brightanticipations of a blissful future with Philip.

  For the first time since her arrival at the Conciergerie, she went downinto the public hall. This hall was separated only by an iron gratingfrom the long and narrow corridor upon which the cells assigned to themen opened, and in which they spent most of their time. It was againstthis grating that they leaned when they wished to converse with theirlady friends; and, during the day, it not unfrequently happened that thedoors were left open, and prisoners of both sexes were allowed to mingletogether. Then, ladies and gentlemen promenaded gayly to and fro;acquaintances exchanged greetings; and handsome men and beautiful womenchatted as blithely as if they were in their elegant drawing-rooms.

  The ancient nobility of France thus entered its protest against thepersecutions of which it was the victim, and convinced even itsbitterest enemies that it was not lacking in spirit and in courage inthe very jaws of death. All the historians who have attempted adescription of the prison life of that time unite in declaring thatcontempt of death was never evinced more forcibly than by the victims ofthat bloody epoch.

  The ladies displayed habits of luxury that were worthy of the days ofthe Regency. In the morning they generally appeared in bewitchingnegliges; in the afternoon they made more careful and elegant toilettes,and when evening came they donned the costly, trailing robes which theyhad worn at Court, only a few short weeks before. Those who, by thecirc
umstances attendant upon their arrest, had been prevented frombringing a varied assortment of dresses with them, expended any amountof energy and ingenuity in their attempts to rival their more fortunatecompanions in the splendor of their costumes. Hence, the prisonresembled a ball-room rather than an antechamber of death. The ladieswere coquettish and bewitching; the men were gallant and impassioned;and more than one love was born in those days of alternate hope andterror--more than one love whose ardor was not impaired by fears for themorrow, and whose delights sweetened the last hours of those who sharedit. There was, of course, little real enjoyment or happiness in thoseclays which were constantly disturbed by the arrival of new victims. Onecame mourning for her children; another, for her husband. At intervals,the jailer appeared to summon those condemned to die. Heart-rendingshrieks and despairing farewells attended these separations; theexecutioner led away his victims, and all was over. Those who remainedfilled up the ranks, and, looking at one another with an anguish thatdeprived 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 weakand resignation to the strong. Cowardice was as rare as voluntarysacrifice was common; and that which rendered the sight of suchfortitude and courage in the presence of danger still more touching, wasthe tender sympathy that united all the prisoners, without regard toformer differences in social position.

  It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Dolores, reassured by herinterview with Coursegol, made her appearance in the hall frequented bythe inmates of the prison. More than a hundred persons had gatheredthere. They were now scattered about in little groups; and theconversation was very animated. Here sat an ancient dowager, delightingsome gentlemen with piquant anecdotes of the Court of Louis XV.; there,stood a jovial priest, composing rhymes for the amusement of ahalf-dozen young girls; at a little distance were several statesmen,earnestly discussing the recent acts of the Convention--all doing theirbest to kill time, as travellers detained at some wayside inn strive todivert one another, while they wait for the sunshine that will enablethem to pursue their journey.

  Dolores was not remarked at first among the crowd of prisoners. Each daybrought so many new faces there that one more unfortunate excited littlecomment. But soon this young girl, who seemed to be entirely alone, andwho gazed half-timidly, half-curiously, at the scene before her,attracted the attention of several prisoners. A woman, endowed with suchrare loveliness of form and feature as Nature had bestowed upon Dolores,cannot long remain unnoticed. Her golden hair lay in soft rings upon hersmooth, open brow, and drooped in heavy braids upon her white neck. Herdark brown dress and the little fichu knotted at the waist behind, werevery 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 placedthemselves in her path in order to obtain a closer look at her. Notuntil then did she note the sensation she had created. She becameembarrassed, and took a step backward as if to retire; but, at that verymoment, a lady, still young, in spite of the premature whiteness of herlocks, 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 Iwill gladly remain if you will act as my protectress."

  "Take my arm, my dear. I will present you to my friends here. I am theMarquise de Beaufort. And you?"

  "My name is Dolores. I have neither father nor mother. The Marquis deChamondrin adopted me; and I was reared in his house as his owndaughter."

  "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 asalon," added the Marquise, smiling.

  "Philip emigrated," remarked Dolores, "but unfortunately, he recentlyreturned to France. He, with several other gentlemen, attempted to savethe queen. He was with me, yesterday, when we were arrested; he, as anEmigre; I, for giving him shelter."

  This short explanation sufficed to awaken the liveliest sympathy amongher listeners. She was immediately surrounded and respectfully entreatedto accept certain comforts and delicacies that those who had money wereallowed to purchase for themselves. She refused these profferedkindnesses; 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 deeplyaffected by scenes which no longer moved her companions. Every evening aman entered, called several persons by name and handed them a foldedpaper, a badly written and often illegible scrawl in which not even thespelling of the names was correct, and which, consequently, notunfrequently failed to reach the one for whom it was intended. This wasan act of accusation. The person who received it was allowed no time toprepare his defence, but was compelled to appear before theRevolutionary 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 samefortitude, courage and firmness. They met their doom with such proudaudacity that those who survived them, but who well knew that the samefate awaited them, in their turn, watched them depart with sad, but notdespairing, eyes.

  These scenes, of which she was an almost hourly witness, strengthenedthe soul of Dolores and increased her distaste for life and her scorn ofdeath. Still, she experienced a feeling of profound sorrow when, on themorning of the ninth day of her captivity, she was obliged to bidfarewell to the Marquise de Beaufort, who, in company with the formerabbess of the Convent of Bellecombe, in Auvergne, and a venerablepriest, had been summoned before the Tribunal. They were absent scarcelythree hours; they returned, condemned. Their execution was to take placethat 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 diewithout regret. There was nothing left me here on earth. I have lost myhusband, my son--all who were dear to me. I am going to rejoin them. Icould ask no greater happiness."

  She spoke thus as she obeyed the call of the executioner, who summonedher and her companions to array themselves for their final journey. Whenher 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 blessedher. When she rose, her face was radiant. She took Dolores in her arms.

  "Farewell, my child;" she said, tenderly. "You are young. I hope youwill escape the fury of these misguided wretches. Pray for me!"

  And as the prisoners crowded around her with outstretched hands, shecried, cheerfully:

  "Au revoir, my friends, au revoir!"

  She was led away. Just as she was disappearing from sight, she turnedonce 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. Theirbearing was no less brave than that of the Marquise. They were notroyalists. They died accused of Moderantisme, that frightful word withwhich the revolution sealed the doom of so many of its most devotedchildren. The Marquise de Beaufort had cried: "Vive le Roi!" They cried:

  "Vive la Republique!"