Which? Or, Between Two Women

by Ernest Daudet

  CHAPTER XII.

  ANTOINETTE DE MIRANDOL.

  A fortnight had elapsed since Dolores first entered the Conciergerie. Inthe many trying experiences through which she had been obliged to pass,she had been sustained by the hope of a speedy meeting with Philip. Shedare not believe that Coursegol's efforts, or even the order of releasewhich he had obtained through Vauquelas, could save them; but it seemedto her if she could only see her lover once more before she died, shecould mount the scaffold without a regret.

  One morning, on entering the public hall, she saw Coursegol behind thegrating in the corridor. She hastened to him, and he whispered throughthe 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 arrangeto 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 orderof the Committee; and the order given me by Vauquelas is a fac-simile ofthose always used."

  "With this difference, however: the names of those to be released havenot 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 citoyenneChamondrin."

  "But if we should succeed in escaping from this prison, Coursegol, whereshall we go?"

  "To Bridoul's at first, where you will be safe for at least twenty-fourhours. From there I shall conduct you to a cottage in the Forest ofChevreuse, some little distance from Versailles. The place is almost awilderness; no one will ever think of looking for us there."

  Coursegol's words made a deep impression upon the girl's mind. Afterresigning 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 seemedirretrievably lost, hope sprang up from the ruins like some gorgeousflower and unfolded its brilliant petals one by one before her wonderingand enraptured eyes.

  "And Antoinette?" some one asks, "Had Dolores forgotten Antoinette'sright to Philip's devotion?" No; the reader knows how heroically Doloreshad sacrificed her happiness for her friend's sake, and how earnestlyshe had endeavored to compel Philip to fulfil his father's wishes; butwhen Philip met her at the house of Vauquelas after their longseparation, he made no allusion to the recent promise which bound himmore closely than ever to Mlle. de Mirandol; and, knowing that Doloreswas aware of the engagement which had formerly existed between himselfand Antoinette, he did his best to make that bond appear of a trivialnature in order to induce her to listen to his suit with favor. So hehad merely told Dolores that he did not love Antoinette, that he couldnever love Antoinette, that it was she, Dolores, whom he passionatelyadored and whom he was resolved to make his wife. If we remember theinfluence such words as these could not fail to exercise over the mindof Dolores, and the influence exerted by the peculiar circumstances oftheir meeting, and by the perils that surrounded them; if we recollect,too, that Antoinette was far away and presumably beyond the reach ofdanger or of want, it is easy to understand how they came to forgeteverything but their own happiness, and to regard their marriage--untilnow deemed an impossibility--as a most natural and proper thing.

  It was in this condition of mind that Dolores listened to Coursegol'sdescription of the little house in the Chevreuse valley, in which theywere to take refuge; but the vision of happiness conjured up by hiswords was rudely dispelled by a sudden commotion around her whichrecalled her to the grim reality of the dangers that still threatenedher on every side. The jailer was reading the names of the prisoners whowere to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal the next day.

  That evening, when Dolores re-entered her cell, eagerly longing for themorrow which would bring Philip once more to her side, she was followedby Aubry, who was carrying a small iron bedstead which he placed nearthe 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 giveyou to-morrow, citoyenne. I have resorted to every sort of stratagem togratify your desire to be alone, but now there is no help for it. We areexpecting a party of prisoners from La Vendee. There are several womenamong them; and some place must be found for them, although the prisonis filled to overflowing. While you were down-stairs the inspector camehere and ordered me to put another prisoner in this cell. It isannoying, but, never mind; when the new-comers arrive I will choose yourroom-mate, and you will be pleased with her."

  This intelligence was exceedingly unwelcome to Dolores, but the hope ofseeing Philip the next day greatly mitigated her regret. She had justleft her bed the next morning, when she heard footsteps in the corridor.She hastily completed her toilet, and had hardly done so when the keyturned in the lock. The door opened and Aubry entered. He was not alone;but Dolores could not distinguish the features of the lady whoaccompanied him, on account of the dim light and the thick veil thatshrouded her face.

  "Here is your companion," Aubry whispered to Dolores. "I hope you willbe pleased with my selection. Poor little thing, she seems worn out andterribly dejected."

  The stranger, without lifting her veil, had seated herself upon her bedin an attitude which indicated intense fatigue or despondency. Aubrygave her a few directions to which she listened abstractedly, withoutreplying 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 notbe friends?"

  At the sound of the girl's voice, the stranger trembled; then she roseand 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 ofastonishment in which one could detect both consternation and joy; then,springing forward, she hastily lifted the veil which hid the face of thespeaker.

  "Antoinette! Antoinette!"

  "Dolores, you here!"

  They were again in each other's arms after four long years ofseparation, kissing each other, questioning each other, smiling andweeping by turns.

  "Tell me about yourself!" cried Antoinette.

  "All in good time, my dearest," replied Dolores. "First, lie down andrest. 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 uponher own bed; then she left her a moment to ask Aubry to bring a cup ofcoffee to her weary friend. That worthy man exhibited his accustomedzeal, and soon the two young-girls, one reclining on her couch, theother seated by her bedside were talking of the past. But theirconversation had hardly begun when Antoinette inquired:

  "Have you seen Philip?"

  A slight pallor overspread the cheeks of Dolores, but the next instantshe responded, calmly:

  "I have seen Philip. He, too, has been arrested, and he will be broughthere 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 companionsome account of her own life since she left the Chateau de Chamondrinfour years before. Antoinette was affected to tears by the story of herfriend's misfortunes. She interrupted her again and again to pity andcaress her, and Dolores could not summon up courage to speak of her lovefor 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 histroth to her at last. She also told her friend that she could not endureher life in England, separated from him, and that anxiety for his safetyhad induced her to leave the Reed mansion by stealth and come to Francein quest of him.

  In London, she had sought the protection of the Chevalier de Millemont,an aged nobl
eman, and Philip's devoted friend. That gentleman, aftervainly attempting to dissuade her, at last consented to make sucharrangements as would enable her to reach France in safety. It wasthrough his efforts that Antoinette was allowed to take passage in asmall vessel that was sent to bear a message from the princes to LaVendee. On reaching the coast of Brittany where the vessel landed, sheand her travelling companions parted. She was eager to reach Paris, butfound that the journey would be no easy task. She finally succeeded infinding 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 figuredas a grain merchant; the other for Antoinette, who was represented to behis daughter. Unfortunately, they stopped for refreshments at a smallvillage near Nantes; and Antoinette's unmistakable air of distinctionand the whiteness of her hands led people to suspect that she was notthe child of a petty village merchant. The man discovered this; hisfears were aroused, and while Antoinette was sitting in the parlor ofthe inn, he harnessed his horses and drove off at full speed. Thiscowardly desertion filled the girl with dismay. On finding herselfalone, she could not conceal her disquietude, and this increased thesuspicions that had already been aroused. The inn-keeper, who was azealous patriot, compelled her to go with him to the districtCommissioner. Her presence of mind deserted her; and her incoherentreplies and her reticence caused her arrest. The Commissioner intendedto 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 partyof prisoners from La Vendee passed through the village; and Antoinettewas entrusted to the care of the officer in charge of them. After a longand painful journey, she at last reached Paris, where the Conciergerieopened to receive her.

  Such was the story she related to Dolores. The latter listened to it insilence. When it was ended, she said to her friend:

  "Now you must sleep and regain your strength. Have no fears, I willwatch 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. Doloressat motionless, her thoughts busy with what she had just heard. In allthis narrative she had clearly understood only two things: first, thatit was the hope of discovering and saving Philip, whom she stillpassionately loved, that had induced Mlle. de Mirandol to make thisjourney which had terminated so disastrously, and secondly, that Philiponly a few weeks before had solemnly renewed an engagement which he hadconcealed from her.

  "What shall I do?" asked the poor girl, as she remembered with abreaking heart her blissful dreams of the evening before.

  Her own great love stood face to face with that of Antoinette. Whichshould be sacrificed? Antoinette's most assuredly, since Philip lovedDolores. But she dare not contemplate such a solution of the problem.

  "What!" she thought; "after the Marquis de Chamondrin has reared me ashis own child, I repay his kindness by encouraging his son to disobeyhis last wishes? No, no! It is impossible! He made him promise to marryAntoinette; and Philip did promise, first his father and afterwardsAntoinette. What does it matter if he does love me! When he no longersees 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 wereso 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 youwed Philip, Antoinette will be miserable. Her disappointment would breakher heart; and all your life long, the phantom form of the dear sisterwhose happiness you had wrecked would stand between your husband andyourself. She is innocent; she does not even know that I love Philip. Ihave never admitted it to her; I have always concealed the truth. Shewill be happy; she will feel no remorse, and she will cause peace,resignation and love to descend with healing wings upon the heart of himshe so fondly loves."

  Never was there a nobler example of self-denial and renunciation. Shehad only to utter a single word and Philip was hers forever; but if shemust pain Antoinette's tender heart, and fail in respect to herbenefactor in order to win happiness, she would have none of it. Suchwere her reflections as she watched over her sleeping friend.

  "Ah!" she murmured, as she sadly gazed upon her; "why did you notremain in England? Why did you come here? You little know how muchmisery 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 soulwith the hopes she had just relinquished forever. Suddenly the dooropened, and the jailer entered. It was now about ten o'clock in themorning.

  "There is a prisoner below who has just arrived, and who wishes to seeyou, citoyenne."

  "It is he!" thought Dolores, turning pale at the thought of meetingPhilip again.

  Nevertheless, she armed herself with courage, and went down-stairs witha firm step to welcome Philip. He was awaiting her with feverishimpatience. 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 thatthreaten us with destruction, shall you not believe that he smiles uponour love? Ah, well! thanks to Coursegol, we shall succeed in making ourescape 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 shecould command:

  "You left Antoinette in England, Philip, promising to marry her on yourreturn. She is now in France, in Paris, in this prison. She comes toclaim the fulfilment of your promise."

  While Dolores was speaking, Philip's face underwent an entire change, sogreat was the surprise and emotion caused by this intelligence. When shehad finished, he could make no response; he could only lean against thewall of the prison, speechless and motionless.