Which? Or, Between Two Women

by Ernest Daudet

  CHAPTER XIII.

  LOVE'S CONFLICTS.

  What Philip had just heard filled his heart with grief andconsternation. How had Antoinette succeeded in reaching Paris? What hadbeen her object in coming? Dolores repeated the story exactly asAntoinette had told it. When it was ended she simply added:

  "Philip, why did you not tell me of the engagement that existed betweenyou? What! you left Antoinette scarcely six weeks ago--left her,promising to marry her on your return, and now you entreat me to be yourwife!"

  Philip hastily interrupted her.

  "Ah, Dolores, do not reproach me. I have been neither false nortreacherous. There has been a terrible, a fatal mistake. Yes, separatedfrom you, convinced that I should never see you again--that you weredead or forever lost to me, I made Antoinette the same promise I made myfather four years ago, when I believed you consecrated to God; but whenI found you once more, you whom I adore, how could I forget that youfirst--that you alone, possessed my heart? Even as a child, I loved youas one loves a wife, not as one loves a sister; and this passion hasgrown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength, until it hasbecome the ruling power of my life."

  "Alas!" murmured Dolores.

  "And when a thrice-blessed change has brought us together once more, nowthat I can at last cover your dear hands with kisses, and feast myhungry eyes upon your beauty, you would forbid me in the name ofAntoinette to tell you what has been in my heart so many years? No,Dolores, no. You are strong, I know. You possess sufficient energy anddetermination to conquer yourself and to remain apparently cold andunmoved while your heart is writhing in anguish; but I have no suchfortitude. 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 hiseyes and his features worked convulsively.

  "Do you not see," he resumed, after a short silence, "that the scrupleswhich 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 eachother, give us your blessing,' he would have been content."

  "You are mistaken, Philip. Just before I left for the convent, I toldthe Marquis with my own lips of your love for me, and he did not bid mestay."

  Philip stood as if stupefied.

  "My father knew--"

  "Yes."

  "And yet, on his deathbed, he compelled me to promise that I would marryAntoinette!"

  "He thought you would forget me."

  "Can those who truly love ever forget?" cried Philip. "But what is to bedone?" he asked.

  Dolores made no response. She stood before him with eyes downcast thathe might not see the conflict which was raging in her soul. Philip tookadvantage of her hesitation to plead his cause anew.

  "Listen, Dolores; it is not right that we should all sacrifice ourselvesto my father's ambition; and if I wed Antoinette, still loving you, Icannot 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 anyother young man, before she had seen the world; but she will soon forgetme. After a few tears that cannot compare in bitterness with those thatI have shed, and with those I shall shed, if I am compelled to give youup, she will bestow her love elsewhere."

  "Do not wrong her, Philip. For four long years she has consideredherself your wife in the sight of God, and now you would leave her tomourn your infidelity!"

  "My infidelity!"

  "Yes, Philip, for you have plighted your troth to her. You have made nopromise to me."

  "And you?"

  "I have promised nothing."

  "But your silence the other evening when I entreated you to grant mysuit--was not your silence then an avowal?"

  "You misunderstood me!" replied Dolores, courageously.

  The girl could endure no more; her strength was exhausted; but herdecision was made, and her sole aim now was to assure Antoinette'shappiness by compelling Philip to marry her. She said, gently:

  "Coursegol must bring the order of release by the aid of which you and Iwere to leave the prison. It will be of service when we planAntoinette's escape."

  Philip uttered an exclamation of remonstrance. She pretended not to hearit and continued:

  "You will go with her. When you are once outside these walls, thanks toCoursegol, it will be easy for you to reach a place of safety. I do notask you to marry Antoinette as soon as you have left me; but when timehas calmed the fever that is now raging in your heart, and peace hasdescended upon your troubled soul, you will bravely fulfil the promiseyou 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, Ishall go to some foreign land and there, resuming the vocation to whichI have consecrated myself, I shall pass the remainder of my life in aconvent where I shall pray for you. But I shall not take the vows ofeternal seclusion from the world; and if, some day, you feel strongenough to endure my presence without danger to your peace of mind, Iwill see you again, Philip, and give your children a second mother bythe renewal of my friendship with Antoinette."

  "I refuse to obey you! No; I will not marry Antoinette, and since youwould compel me to do so, she shall decide what course I ought topursue. 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 noright to reveal a secret that is as much mine as it is yours."

  Their conversation had lasted some time. The yard and the hall thatopened into it were beginning to fill with the inmates of the prison.They came down from their cells by no means certain that evening wouldfind them still alive; and yet this uncertainty did not mar the serenityof their features or of their minds. Several, on passing Philip andDolores, looked at them with evident curiosity, as if anxious to knowthe theme of such an animated conversation.

  "I must return to Antoinette," said Dolores. "I will bring her down withme, and I entreat you, in the name of your love, to say nothing thatwill cause her pain. There is no haste. We are in prison, and, in spiteof Coursegol's efforts, none of us may succeed in making our escape. Anact 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, butlet us not embitter the present by reproaches and differences. Let uslive here, as we lived at Chamondrin, in perfect harmony, encouragingand sustaining one another in our misfortunes, so we can endure themcheerfully, and wait with patience until time shall solve thisdifficulty for us."

  "What energy you possess!" replied Philip, gladly accepting thisproposal, since it gave him a gleam of hope.

  Dolores left him to go to Antoinette, and Philip mingled with the otherprisoners, among whom he found many noblemen and titled ladies whoseacquaintance he had made at court and at the house of the Duke dePenthieore. Antoinette was just waking when Dolores returned to the cellthey shared in common, and she did not notice the emotion that was stillvisible on her friend's face. She smiled, extended her hand and kissedher.

  "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 thetwo girls went down to join Philip. Dolores felt Antoinette's heartthrob violently, so deeply was she moved by the thought of seeing himwhom she regarded as her betrothed. She flew to his arms with suchartless delight that he was really touched with remorse when heremembered that, only a moment before, he had almost hated this lovelyyoung girl whose only fault was her love for him.

  "Poor child," he said, almost tenderly, "why did you not remain inEngland? 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 deathof the queen, I said to myself that, in your fruitless efforts to saveher, you must have incurred great peril, and that you had probably beenarrested. You see that I was not mistaken. So I started to find you, andI deem myself fortunate to be with you once more."

  This response, which Dolores heard distinctly, was only another proof ofthe promises Philip had made to Antoinette. These promises, consecratedas they had been by the blessing of the Abbe Peretty, beside thedeathbed of the Marquis de Chamondrin, seemed of so sacred a nature inthe eyes of Antoinette that she really felt it her duty to treat Philipas 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 ofmaking yourself worthy of her, and of assuring the happiness to whichshe is justly entitled."

  Philip was greatly embarrassed. Antoinette seemed to expect that hewould 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 ofDolores from whom he could no longer conceal the truth, intimidated himand rendered him mute. Some minutes passed thus. The prisoners werepassing and repassing. Those who had been surprised by the arrival ofPhilip a short time before, were now wondering who this young girl, forwhom Dolores evinced all a sister's tenderness, could be.

  We have already said that each of the prisons which had been crowdedwith victims by the Reign of Terror was a faithful reproduction of thearistocratic society of Paris, now decimated by death and by exile, butwhich was famous for its intrigues, its wit, its indiscretions, itsluxury and its gallantries. Behind the prison bars the ladies stillremained grandes dames; the men, courtiers: and neither sex had lost anyof its interest in small events as well as great. On the contrary, themonotony of prison life and the desire to kill time intensified thisinterest so natural to the French mind. An incident of triflingimportance furnished them with a topic of conversation for hours. Thenew dress in which the duchess had appeared, the pleasure with which themarquise seemed to receive the attentions of the chevalier, interestedthis little world, which had not been cured of its frivolity by itsmisfortunes, as much as the heroism which the last person condemned haddisplayed on ascending the scaffold.

  This serves to explain how and why a general curiosity was awakened bythe appearance of Antoinette de Mirandol. A few moments before, they hadnoticed the Marquis de Chamondrin engaged in animated conversation withDolores. The malicious scented an intrigue; the ladies undertook thedefence of Dolores; the old people remembered that she had been educatedwith Philip, and thought it quite natural that they should have much tosay to each other after a long separation; but when Dolores, afterabsenting herself a few moments, returned with a charming young girlupon her arm, a stranger, whom she led straight to Philip, every onewas eager to know the name of the new-comer. They watched the groupwith evident curiosity, as if trying to divine what was passing; theycommented on the emotion betrayed in Philip's face, and theacquaintances of Dolores were anxiously waiting for an opportunity toquestion her.

  "I think we are creating quite a sensation," Dolores said, at last, in alow 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 trembledviolently. Dolores led her gently back to the cell which they occupiedin common. When Antoinette found herself again alone with her friend shemade no attempt to restrain her tears.

  "He did not even answer me," she sobbed. "My arrival seemed to cause himsorrow rather than joy."

  "It is because he loves you and it makes him wretched to see youthreatened 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 Ishould 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 haveforgotten the dangers he had incurred in the rapture of meeting. Whentwo persons love, there is no sorrow so great as to be separated bydeath. The one who survives can but be wretched for the rest of hislife; and the kindest and most generous wish the departing soul canframe is that the loved one left behind, may soon follow."

  Dolores made no reply. She understood the deep despondency which hadtaken possession of Antoinette's mind. Her own sorrow was no lesspoignant, but it was mitigated by a feeling of serenity and resignation,which was constantly gaining strength now that what has just passed hadconvinced her of the necessity of her sacrifice; and, from that moment,there reigned in the heart of Dolores, a boundless self-abnegation, aconstant desire to insure the happiness of her friend by the surrenderof her own. The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. Dolores andAntoinette made only one more visit to the hall below, and then Philipavoided them.

  "He is suffering," said Antoinette. "What troubles him?"

  She could learn this only by learning, at the same time, that Philip wasnot only indifferent to her, but that his love was given to Dolores. Thelatter, faithful to her vow, carefully concealed Philip's secret fromher friend. That evening, before they retired, the two girls talked longand sadly of the past. They lived over again the happy hours they hadspent together; and when, overcome with weariness, sleep at lastovertook them, they fancied themselves once more in the Chateau deChamondrin. Dolores was listening to the Marquis, as he divulged thehopes he had centred on Philip, and planned a noble and wealthy alliancewhich would restore the glory of his name. But Antoinette's thoughtshad taken a different course. When she awoke in the morning, her mindreverted to the days which had immediately followed her arrival at thechateau five years before--the days when love suddenly sprang up andblossomed in her soul. Then, she recalled a morning when Philiprequested an interview with her. She believed herself beloved, and stoleto the trysting-place in a transport of unspeakable joy. Whatconsternation filled her heart when Philip told her of his love forDolores, and entreated her to plead his cause! The painful impressionproduced by this scene gradually faded after Dolores left the chateau toenter the convent at Avignon, and when Antoinette saw Philip becoming,each day, more and more favorably disposed toward herself; but now thisimpression returned again even more strongly and vividly than before,and awakened fresh sorrow and despair in the poor girl's soul. Philip'sdesire to postpone their marriage and his failure to keep his promiseswere now explained. The cold reception he had accorded her enlightenedthe poor child as to the real sentiments of the man whom she onlyyesterday regarded as her husband. She found herself in the sameposition she had occupied years before; the same danger threatened herhappiness with destruction--Philip loved Dolores. When the revelationburst upon her, she could not repress a moan, and burying her face inher pillow, she sobbed and wept unheard by Dolores, who was sleepingpeacefully only a few feet from her. All the pangs of anguish that hadtortured her five years before now returned; and her suffering was evenmore poignant, for her love had increased and her hopes had grownstronger. Her first outbreak of despair was followed by a season ofcalmness which enabled her to decide upon her future course; and, afterfighting against her doubts and fears for a long time, she finallyconcluded to go to Dolores and ascertain the extent of her misfortunefrom this faithful friend. The first gray light of morning was stealinginto the gloomy cell when Antoinette arrived at this conclusion, and thenext moment she was up and dressed. She approached the bed upon whichDolores was lying, still asleep. Antoinette seated herself at the footof the bed and waited. It was her pale face and eyes swimming with tearsthat first met her companion's gaze when she awoke.

  "You have been weeping, Antoinette?" she exclaimed with tendersolicitude.

  "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, isperhaps, an excess of tenderness. Philip regrets that you did not remainin 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 lattercould 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 moreprobable that there is another love in his heart?"

  "Another love!" repeated Dolores, frightened by these words; "do notbelieve it. Philip is your betrothed husband; he knows it. He is asconscious of his present as of his future duties; and he loves youonly."

  "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 metyou 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, andsaid gently:

  "Be comforted, I entreat you. Your imagination deceives you and leadsyou 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 heartby memories of the past; but these emotions are fleeting and do notendanger your happiness. If Philip once cherished fancies that troubledyour peace, you know that my departure sufficed to cure him of them; andshould these foolish fancies revive, my departure will again suffice todispel 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 wholeheart 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. Myplace is there, and I solemnly assure you that I shall never marry."

  "Ah! how I thank you!" cried Antoinette. "You have restored myhappiness and my peace of mind."

  Love is selfish, and Antoinette knew nothing of Dolores' struggles. Shedid not attempt to fathom the motives of her friend, and relieved by theassurance she had just received, and no longer doubting her ability toregain her lost influence over Philip, she passed suddenly from thepoignant suffering we have described to a state of peaceful security.