WHICH?

OR, BETWEEN TWO WOMEN. 

BY ERNEST DAUDET. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCHBY LAURA E. KENDALL. 

 * * * * *

 "WHICH? OR, BETWEEN TWO WOMEN, " is the latest and most powerful novel from the pen of the celebrated French novelist, Ernest Daudet. It is fully worthy of its famous author's great reputation, for a more absorbing and thrilling romance has seldom been published. The interest begins at once with the flight of the gypsy mother with her child and her death in the Château de Chamondrin, where the friendless little one is received and cared for. The plot is simple and without mystery, but never, perhaps, were so many stirring incidents crowded within the covers of a novel. The scene is laid in Paris and the country, and some of the most striking events of the times are vividly reproduced. The reader is given a very realistic glimpse of Paris, and part of the action takes place in that historic prison, the Conciergerie, where nobles and others accused of crimes against the French Republic were confined. History and fiction are adroitly mingled in the excellent novel, which may be termed a double love story in that two women are passionately attached to one man. On the thrilling adventures and heart experiences of this trio the romance turns, and the reader's attention is kept constantly riveted to the exciting narrative. The other characters are all naturally drawn, and the book as a whole is one of the best and most absorbing novels that can be found. It will delight everybody. 

 * * * * *

 NEW YORK: W. L. ALLISON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 1893. 

 COPYRIGHT:

 BY T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS. 

 1887. 

 * * * * *

WHICH?

"WHICH? OR, BETWEEN TWO WOMEN, " _is the title of a new, very thrillingand intensely interesting novel, by Ernest Daudet, one of the best knownand most widely read of the living French novelists. A highly romantic, attractive and touching love story, in which a gypsy girl of greatbeauty and heroism, named Dolores, and Antoinette de Mirandol, anheiress, are rivals for the possession of Philip de Chamondrin, thehero, forms the main theme, and it is most skilfully and effectivelyhandled. About this double romance of the heart are clustered a seriesof exceedingly stirring episodes, many of which are historic. Theadventures of Philip, Dolores and Antoinette in Paris are graphicallydescribed and hold the reader spell-bound. The book is highly dramaticfrom beginning to end, and especially so that portion where theConciergerie prison and its noble inmates are depicted. Very stirringscenes also are the attack on the Château de Chamondrin, Coursegol'sstruggle with Vauquelas and Bridoul's rescue of the condemned prisonerson the Place de la Révolution. But the entire novel is exceedinglyspirited, exciting and absorbing, and every character is finely drawn. "Which? or, Between Two Women, " should be read by all who relish anexcellent novel. _

CONTENTS. 

Chapter. Page. 

 I. THE BOHEMIANS 21

 II. THE CHATEAU DE CHAMONDRIN 36

 III. THE CHILDHOOD OF DOLORES 53

 IV. PERTAINING TO LOVE MATTERS 73

 V. IN WHICH HISTORY IS MINGLED WITH ROMANCE 105

 VI. PARIS IN 1792 131

 VII. CITIZEN JEAN VAUQUELAS 163

 VIII. AN EPISODE OF THE EMIGRATION 179

 IX. THE MOVING CURTAIN 193

 X. COURSEGOL'S EXPLOITS 209

 XI. THE CONCIERGERIE 220

 XII. ANTOINETTE DE MIRANDOL 238

 XIII. LOVE'S CONFLICTS 249

 XIV. THE THUNDERBOLT 263

 XV. THE LAST FAREWELL 284

 XVI. IN THE CHÉVREUSE VALLEY 304

WHICH?

BY ERNEST DAUDET. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE BOHEMIANS. 

Early one morning in the month of March, 1770, a woman bearing in herarms a new-born infant, was hastening along the left bank of the Garden, a small river that rises in the Cevennes, traverses the department ofthe Gard, and empties into the Rhone, not far from Beaucaire. It wouldbe difficult to find more varied and picturesque scenery than that whichborders this stream whose praises have been chanted by Florian, andwhich certainly should not be unknown to fame since it was here theRomans constructed the Pont du Gard, that gigantic aqueduct whichconveyed the waters of Eure to Nîmes. 

The woman of whom we speak was at that moment very near the famous Pontdu Gard--which is only a short distance from the spot on which thelittle village of Lafous now stands, and directly opposite Remoulins, atown of considerable size situated on the right bank of the river--andat a point where the highway from Nîmes to Avignon intersects the roadleading up from the villages that dot the river banks. The woman pausedon reaching the place where these roads meet, not to take breath, but todecide which course she should pursue. But she did not hesitate long. After casting an anxious glance behind her, she hastened on again, directing her steps toward the Pont du Gard, which was distant not morethan half a mile. 

The air was very cold; the wind had been blowing furiously all night, and at day-break it was still raging, ruffling the water, bending thetrees, snatching up great clouds of dust, and moaning and shriekingthrough the clumps of willows that bordered the stream, while immensemasses of gray and white clouds scudding rapidly across the sky, imparted to it the appearance of a tempest-tossed ocean. Some of theseclouds were so low that they seemed almost to touch the earth as theyrushed wildly on, pursued by the fury of the gale, and assuming strangeand fantastic forms in their erratic course. Undeterred by the violenceof the tempest, the stranger advanced steadily, apparently with but oneaim in view: to reach her journey's end with all possible expedition inorder to protect her sleeping infant from the inclemency of the weather. 

She was a young woman, not yet twenty years of age. Her luxuriant goldenhair hung in wild disorder from the brilliant-hued kerchief that wasbound about her head; and her garments were as remarkable for theirpeculiarity of form as for their diversity of color. She wore a short, full dress of blue de laine bordered with yellow, and confined at thewaist by a red silk girdle. Over this, she wore a gray cape of coarsewoollen stuff. Her legs were bare, and her feet were protected only byrude sandals, held in place by leathern thongs. Many rents, more or lessneatly repaired by the aid of thread or if material of another color, revealed the fact that these faded garments had been in long andconstant use. Even the sandals were so dilapidated that the feet oftheir wearer were upon the ground. Her whole attire, in short, waswretched and poverty-stricken in the extreme. 

But no face could be more charming. Her pure and delicate features shoneout from their framework of golden hair with marvellous beauty, in spiteof the sorrow and fatigue which had left their impress upon her face. Her eyes, shaded by long dark lashes and dewy with tears, wereremarkably beautiful and expressive. The sunburn that disfigured hercharming face, her exquisitely formed hands and her tiny feet, whichwere scarcely larger than those of a child, extended no further. Uponthose portions of her body that were protected by her clothing, her skinwas white and delicate, and scarcely colored by the young blood thatcoursed through her veins. Such was this woman, and it would have beendifficult to divine her origin if the tambourine that hung at hergirdle, and the hieroglyphics embroidered upon her sleeves had notrevealed it beyond all question. 

Tiepoletta, for that was her name, belonged to one of those wanderingtribes that leave Spain or Hungary each spring to spend some months inSouthern France, advancing as far as Beaucaire, Avignon andArles--sleeping as fate wills, under the arches of bridges, intumbledown barns, or in the open air; living sometimes by theft, butoftener by their own exertions; the men dealing in mules and in rags;the women telling fortunes, captivating young peasants, extorting moneyfrom them, and selling glassware of their own manufacture--the childrenimploring charity. These people, scattered throughout Europe--thesepeople, whose manner of life is so mysterious and whose origin is moremysterious still--seem to be closely allied both to the Moors and to theHindoos, not only in appearance but in their phlegm, fanaticism andrapacity. Such of our readers as have travelled in Southern Europe musthave frequently encountered these Bohemians, who come from no one knowswhere only to disappear again like the swallows at the approach ofwinter. 

Their language is a mixture of the Spanish and the Sclavonic. Somejabber a little French. The men are generally athletic, very darkcomplexioned and have strong, energetic features, wavy hair and sonorousvoices. The women, when young, are remarkably beautiful; but like allwho lead an exposed and migratory life, they become hideous before theyare thirty. They live in families or tribes, each family consisting offifteen or twenty members, and obeying the orders of the oldest woman, who is dignified by the title of queen, and from whose decisions thereis no appeal, though she, in turn, owes allegiance to one great queen. These Bohemians are tolerated in the countries through which they pass;but people seldom enter into any closer relations with them than arenecessary to effect the purchase of a horse or mule, or to obtain aprediction concerning the future. They know the feeling of repulsionthey inspire, so they seldom approach thickly settled districts, andonly the women and children venture into the villages to solicit alms. 

It was to this race that Tiepoletta belonged; and though the color ofher hair, the delicacy of her features and the fairness of her skin didnot accord with her supposed origin, her memory hinted at nothing thatdid not harmonize with what had been told her concerning her parentage. It is not the aim of this story to investigate the truth or the falsityof this assertion. That Tiepoletta had Bohemian blood in her veins; thatshe had, as a child, been stolen from her friends; that she was thefruit of some mysterious love affair; all these hypotheses were equallyplausible, but there was nothing to prove that the first was not thetrue one, nor had her imagination ever engaged in a search for anyother; but the people of her tribe seemed to suspect that she was ofdifferent blood, for they evidently regarded her with aversion. Preserved from the pernicious counsels and examples of those around herby some secret instinct, she had remained pure. With the aid of a bookpicked up on the roadside, she had learned to read and to speak a fewFrench words. This was more than enough to convince her companions thatshe was haughty and proud. When she was a child, they beat herunmercifully because she refused to beg. As she grew older, she had amost cruel enemy in her beauty, which was the cause of much of hermisery. Subjected to temptations to which she saw young girls around heryield without a thought, she escaped only by a miracle, but it broughtdown upon her, anger, hatred and cruel vengeance. She increased these byrefusing to choose a husband from among the young men with whom she hadbeen reared. 

They resolved to compel her to marry one of her companions. She fled, but they succeeded in recapturing her without much difficulty. They thenshut her up, telling her that she should remain a prisoner until shepromised obedience. It was the most trying time of her whole life. Beseton every side, beaten, buffetted, tyrannized over, fed on food that wasonly fit for a dog, she would certainly have died in the struggle hadnot destiny sent her a protector in the person of Borachio, a young manabout twenty-five years of age, whose heart was touched by hermisfortunes. 

He was so bold, so strong and so terrible in his anger that the wholetribe stood in awe of him. He took compassion on their victim andcompelled her tormentors to cease their persecution. Tiepoletta was notungrateful, and she afterward married her preserver to the great disgustof the young girls of the tribe, with whom Borachio was a greatfavorite. 

According to custom, the queen solemnized the marriage without delay;and at nineteen Tiepoletta had a master whose coarse tenderness wassweet, indeed, in comparison with the harsh treatment to which she hadbeen subjected heretofore. But this happiness was destined to be ofshort duration. Borachio was found dead upon the roadside one morning, his breast pierced by eight dagger thrusts. Envious of his beauty, hisauthority and his lovely young wife, one of his comrades hadassassinated him and made Tiepoletta a widow some time before she was tobecome a mother. Six months went by, during which they seemed to respecther grief. Then, in a cave near the Pont du Gard, she gave birth to adaughter. The very next evening, while she was lying, half asleep, onsome straw on the floor of the cave, with her child beside her, sheoverheard a conversation that was going on outside. They were talking ofher. She listened eagerly. Picture her fear and horror when she heardthem scheming to deprive her of her infant and then drive her from theirmidst, thus ridding the tribe of a useless member and retainingBorachio's child. It was Corcovita, the mother of the poor heart-brokencreature, who was the strongest advocate of this shameful outrage. 

"We shall leave here to-morrow to go to Avignon, " said she. "We mustobtain possession of the child and then find an opportunity to abandonTiepoletta on the road. "

This plan gave general satisfaction, and Corcovita was charged with itsexecution. Tiepoletta had heard enough. Wild with terror she endeavoredto devise some means of escape from this new peril, and during the longwatches of the night she finally resolved to flee with her child. Thenext morning at day-break the little band was on its way. A seat in thecarriage was offered to Tiepoletta. She accepted it, knowing she mustsave all her strength if she would carry her plan into successfulexecution. 

After a long march, they paused at nightfall to encamp near Avignon. Tiepoletta, a prey to the most intense anxiety, had detected theinterchange of divers signs that convinced her they were only waitingfor her to fall asleep to steal her child from her. She watched. Ateight o'clock the men had gone to stroll around the suburbs of the city;the old women were dozing; the young people were laughing and teasingone another, and the children were sound asleep. Tiepoletta profited bya moment when no one was observing her to steal from the camp ontip-toe. She proceeded perhaps a hundred paces in this way, then, seizedwith sudden fright, she began to run, holding her child pressed close toher heart; fancying she heard her mother's voice behind her, she rushedwildly on, never pausing until she sank exhausted on the lonely road. 

She had pursued her flight for more than an hour without even askingherself where she was going, and with no thought save that of escapingfrom her persecutors. She was now beyond their reach. Still she couldnot dismiss her fears. Dreading pursuit, she soon resumed her journey, turning her steps in the direction of the Pont du Gard, in the hopethat her former companions would not think of looking for her there, andthat she might find in the cave they had just deserted a little strawupon which she could rest her weary limbs, and some fragments of foodthat would keep her alive until she had decided upon her future course. She walked all night. When she found herself near the Pont du Gard daywas breaking. 

The wind was still blowing; but the clouds had scattered before itsviolence like a flock of frightened sheep, and a pale light wasbeginning to shine upon the drenched fields. Gloomy and majestic in itscentury-old impassibility, the Pont du Gard--a colossus upheld by twomountains, and accustomed to defy alike the tempest and the ravages oftime--seemed to laugh at the gale which beat against its massive pillarsand rushed into its gigantic arches with a sound like thunder. Thesestrong yet graceful arches seem so many frames through which theastonished eyes of the traveller seize the landscape bit by bit: thequiet valley, watered by the Gardon, the luxuriant green of the willows, the clear waves dancing along over their sandy bed, the blue skyreflected there, the mountains that border the horizon. 

Nothing can be more wildly beautiful than this secluded spot, which isas silent and lonely as if it had never been trodden by the foot of man. Judging from the prodigality with which nature has lavished her richeshere, it would seem that she wishes the sole credit of this superbpanorama. The massive aqueduct alone attests the existence of man. Looming up in its mighty grandeur--the imperishable monument of adeparted civilization, and the only one of its kind--the beholder feelsthat it is no unworthy rival of the works of Deity. 

But the majestic scene made no impression upon Tiepoletta. That poorcreature, fainting with hunger and fatigue, did not even notice thegrandeur around her. With half-closed eyes, arms cramped by the weightof the precious burden upon which she now maintained her hold only by asuperhuman effort, and lips parched by the wind, she plodded on with ameasured, automatic step. She was hungry; she was thirsty; she wasshivering with the cold. Her feet were swollen; but her sufferings wereforgotten when she neared her journey's end. She passed under the Pontdu Gard. The path on the other side of the aqueduct winds along betweenthe base of the cliffs and the bed of the stream. Under one of thesecliffs nature has hewn out a grotto of such liberal dimensions that thepeople of the neighborhood assemble there on fête days to dance and makemerry. 

It was there the Bohemians had encamped a few days before; it was thereTiepoletta had given birth to the tiny creature whom she had justrescued from the heartless wretches who had conspired to despoil amother of her child. This comfortless cavern where she had suffered somuch seemed to her now a Paradise, in which she would be content todwell forever. 

She rushed into the cave. The sunlight illumined only a small portion ofthe grotto; the rest of it was veiled in shadow. Tiepoletta glancedaround her and uttered a cry of joy. In one dim corner she discerned alittle straw, enough, however, to serve as a bed. She laid her sleepinginfant upon it, covered the child with her mantle; then gathering up afew bits of bread and some half-picked bones which had been left uponthe floor of the cave, she proceeded to appease her hunger. When thiswas satisfied, she ran to the river, quenched her thirst, bathed hersore and bleeding feet, and then returned to the cave after walkingabout awhile in the sunlight to warm herself. Flinging herself down uponthe straw, she covered herself with her tattered garments as best shecould, and drawing her child to her gave it the breast. The little oneroused from its slumber uttered a moan and applied its pale lips to thebosom upon which it was dependent for sustenance; but it soon exhaustedthe supply of milk, whose abundance had been greatly diminished by thefatigues of the preceding night, and again fell asleep. 

Then, in the midst of this profound silence and solitude, Tiepoletta, providentially rescued from her persecutors, experienced an intense joythat made her entirely forget the hardships she had just undergone. There were undoubtedly new misfortunes in store for her. She must, without delay, find some way to earn her own living and that of herchild; but their wants were few. Birds and Bohemians are accustomed toscanty fare. She could work: she was accustomed to labor: she was inuredto fatigue. Besides, who would be so hard-hearted as to refuse her breadwhen she said: "I am willing to earn it. " This artless creature, whoseambition was so modest, consoled her troubled mind with these hopes, andtrembled only when she thought of those from whom she had just fled. Noone had ever told Tiepoletta that there was a God. She did not know howto pray; nevertheless, in the refuge she had found, her soul lifteditself up in fervent adoration to the unknown God whose power hadprotected her, though she was ignorant of His existence and of His name. It was in the midst of this feverish exaltation of spirit that sleepovercame her before she had even thought to ask herself what she shoulddo on awaking. 

For several hours she slumbered on undisturbed, but suddenly she woke. She fancied she heard in her sleep a frightful noise like the rumblingof heavy thunder, a noise which mingled with the shrieks of the wind andfinally drowned them entirely. At first she thought she must be thevictim of some terrible dream. But the sound grew louder and louder. This was no dream; it was reality. She sprang to her feet, seeking someloophole of escape from the unknown peril that threatened her. Above thetumult she could distinguish human cries. She thought these must comefrom her pursuers. But no; these distant voices were calling for succor. She caught up her child and ran from the cave. A grand but terriblesight met her gaze and riveted her to the spot in motionless horror. 

The Gardon had overflowed its banks. With the rapidity thatcharacterizes its sudden inundations and transforms this peaceful streaminto the most impetuous of torrents, the water had risen over the banksthat border it and flooded the fields, sweeping away everything thatstood in its path. This water now laved the feet of the young Bohemian;and as far as the eye could reach she could see nothing but a mass ofboiling, turbulent waves, bearing on their crests floating fragments ofhouses and furniture, as well as trees, animals and occasionally humanbodies. The cries she had heard came from some women who had beenovertaken by the torrent while engaged in washing their linen at theriver, and who had taken refuge upon a rock on the side of the nowinundated road. 

The river continued to rise. This immense volume of water was vainlyseeking an outlet through the narrow defile formed by the hills andwhich ordinarily sufficed for the bed of the Gardon; but, finding thepassage inadequate now, it dashed itself violently against the rocks andagainst the supports of the aqueduct which haughtily defied the furiousflood; then, converted into a mass of seething foam, it returned overthe same road it had just traversed until it met the new waves that werebeing constantly formed by the current. It was the shock of this meetingthat caused the noise which had roused Tiepoletta from her slumber. Astormy sea could not have appeared more angry, or formed more formidablebillows. One might have called it a fragmentary episode of the universaldeluge. 

Five minutes more than sufficed to give Tiepoletta an idea of the extentof the inundation. She stood with wild eyes and unbound hair, thepicture of terror and dismay. Suddenly an enormous wave broke not farfrom her with the roar of a wild beast, and the water dashed up to hervery feet. She pressed her child closer to her breast and recoiled. Another wave dashed up, blinding her with its spray. Would the waterinvade the cave? Her blood froze in her veins. Frenzy seized her. Thisnew misfortune, added to those she had suffered during the past threedays, was more than she could bear. From that moment she acted under theinfluence of actual madness caused by her terror. She must flee. But bywhat road? To reach either of the neighboring villages was impossible. The foaming waters covered the entire plain. 

Suddenly Tiepoletta recollected that on the summit of the hill above herthere was a château which the Bohemians had visited sometimes in pursuitof alms. She could reach it by means of a broad footpath thatintersected the road only a few yards from the grotto. It was there sheresolved to go for shelter. But to reach this path she must walk throughthe raging flood. She did not hesitate. Each moment of delay aggravatedher peril, and might place some insurmountable barrier between her andher only chance of salvation. She lifted her skirts, fastened her childupon her back and bravely waded into the torrent. 

What agony she endured during that short journey. The water was higherthan her waist; the ground was slippery; the current, rapid andcapricious. It required an indomitable will to sustain her--to keep herfrom yielding twenty times to the might of this unchained monster. Frequently she was obliged to pause in order to regain her breath. Thestruggle lasted only ten minutes, but those ten minutes seemed so manyages. At last she reached the path leading to the château. She wassaved!

She let fall her tattered skirts about her slender limbs, and, withoutwasting time in looking back upon the perilous road she had justtraversed, she hastened up the hill. A few moments later she reached thedoor of the château in a plight most pitiable to behold. It was time. Amoment more and her limbs trembling with excitement and exhaustion, would have refused to sustain her. She fell on her knees and depositedher burden upon some tufts of heather; then with a mighty effort sheseized and pulled a chain suspended at the side of the door. The soundof a bell was instantly heard. As if her strength had only waited untilthis moment to desert her, she fell to the ground unconscious at thevery instant the door opened. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE CHATEAU DE CHAMONDRIN. 

The man who appeared at the door was young, and, in spite of his swarthycomplexion and formidable moustache, his features and the expression ofhis eyes indicated frankness and benevolence. His garb was that of asoldier rather than a servant, but the arms of the Marquis deChamondrin, the owner of the château, were embroidered in silver uponit. On seeing the unconscious Tiepoletta and the child so quietlysleeping beside her, he could not repress a cry of astonishment anddismay. 

"What is it, Coursegol?" inquired a gentleman who had followed him. 

"Look, sir, " replied Coursegol, pointing to Tiepoletta. 

"Is she dead?" exclaimed the Marquis, springing forward; then, deeplyimpressed by the beauty of the unconscious girl, he knelt beside her andplaced his hand upon her heart. It still throbbed, but so feebly that hecould scarcely count its pulsations. The Marquis rose. 

"She lives, " said he, "but I do not know that we shall save her. Quick, Coursegol, have her and her child brought in and apply restoratives. "

"Oh, the child is doing very well, " replied the servitor. "All it needsis a little milk; for to-day, one of our goats must be its nurse. "

As he spoke Coursegol summoned a servant to whom he confided the infant;then, taking the mother in his strong arms, he carried her up-stairs andplaced her on a bed. 

Coursegol was thirty years of age. Born in the château, where his fatherand his grandfather before him had served the Marquis de Chamondrin, hehad shared the childish sports of the lad who afterwards became hismaster. He absolutely worshipped the Marquis, regarding him with averitable idolatry that was compounded of respect and of love. Outsideof the château and its occupants, there was nothing that could interestor attract this honest fellow. His heart, his intelligence and his lifewere consecrated to his master's service. In the neighboring villages heso lauded the name of Chamondrin that no one dared to let fall in hispresence any word that did not redound to the glory and honor ofCoursegol's idolized master. He had no particular office at the château, but he superintended everything, assuming the duties of lodge-keeper, gardener, major-domo and not unfrequently those of cook. It was he whoinstructed the son of the Marquis in the arts of horsemanship and offencing, for he had served two years in His Majesty's cavalry andthoroughly understood these accomplishments. He was also an adept in themanufacture of whistles from willow twigs, in the training of dogs, falcons and ferrets, in snaring birds, in the capture of butterflies andin skipping stones. 

He had already begun to teach Philip--his master's son, a bright boy offive--all these accomplishments. He had some knowledge of medicine also;and, as he had spent much of his life in the fields, he had becomeacquainted with the names and properties of many plants and herbs; andthis knowledge had often been called into requisition for the benefit ofmany of the people as well as the animals of the neighborhood. Never hadhis skill been needed more than now, for poor Tiepoletta had notrecovered consciousness, and her rigidity and the ghastly pallor whichhad overspread her features seemed to indicate that she had already beenstruck with death. 

Anxious to resuscitate her, Coursegol set energetically to work, but notwithout emotion. It was the first time he had ever exercised his skillon a woman, and this pure and lovely face had made a deep impression onhis heart. He would willingly have given a generous share of his ownblood to hear Tiepoletta speak, to see her smile upon him. 

"Look, sir, " said he, "how beautiful she is! She certainly cannot betwenty years old. Her skin is as fine as satin, and what hair! Couldanything be more lovely?"

While he spoke, Coursegol was endeavoring to unclose the teeth of thegypsy in order to introduce a few drops of warm, sweetened wine throughher pallid lips. Then he rubbed the feet of the unfortunate womanvigorously with hot flannels. 

"They are sore and swollen!" he added. "She must have come a longdistance!"

"Is she recovering?" asked the Marquis, who stood by, watchingCoursegol's efforts. 

"I do not know; but see, sir, it seemed to me that she moved. "

The Marquis came nearer. As he did so Tiepoletta opened her eyes. Shelooked anxiously about her, then faintly murmured a few words in astrange tongue. 

"She speaks, " said the Marquis, "but what does she say? She seemsfrightened and distressed. "

"She wishes to see her child, " exclaimed Coursegol, departing on therun. 

During his absence Tiepoletta regained her senses sufficiently torecollect what had happened; but she was so weak that she could scarcelyspeak. Still, when Coursegol appeared with the child in his arms, shesmiled and extended her hands. 

"Kiss her, but do not take her, " said the Marquis. "You are not strongenough for that yet. "

Tiepoletta understood and obeyed. Then she said gently in bad French:

"My Dolores. "

"Dolores! That is a pretty name!" remarked Coursegol, pleased to hearthe poor woman speak. 

"You will keep her, will you not?" said Tiepoletta, entreatingly. "Youwill not give her to those who will maltreat her? Make an honest girl ofher. Teach her not to scorn the poor gypsies. Tell her that her fatherand her mother belonged to that despised race. "

She uttered these phrases slowly, speaking, not without difficulty, French words that would clearly express her meaning. 

"Have no fears, " replied Coursegol. "The child shall want for nothing. Rest in peace. "

"Yes, " she repeated, "rest in death. "

"She talks of dying!" exclaimed the Marquis. The words had hardly lefthis lips when the woman rose and extended her arms. Her featurescontracted; her large eyes seemed to start from her head; she placed herhand upon her heart, uttered a shrill cry and fell back upon the bed. Itwas the work of an instant. Coursegol and the Marquis both sprangforward, lifted her, and endeavored to restore her, but in vain. Theunfortunate Tiepoletta was dead. Her heart had broken like a fragilevase, shattered by the successive misfortunes she had undergone. A greattear fell from the eyes of Coursegol. 

"Poor woman!" said he. 

"What shall we do with the child?" inquired the Marquis. "I would liketo keep her and rear her. Heaven has sent her here; but who will act asa mother to the poor little waif? The condition of the Marquise rendersit impossible for her to do so. "

As he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion. It was not only because hewas touched by the sight before him, but because the words he haduttered reminded him of his own misfortunes. 

"If Monsieur le Marquis would but grant my request, " said Coursegol, timidly. 

"What is your request?"

"I have no wife, no child. The little apartment that I occupy is verygloomy when M. Philip is not with me. If you will consent to it, Doloresshall be my daughter. "

"Your daughter, but who would take care of her?"

"Oh! I will attend to that. I know some very worthy people in Remoulins. The woman has a young child. She will have milk enough for this littlething too. I will entrust the child to her for a time. "

"Very well; I have no objection, Coursegol, " replied the Marquis. "Takethe child, if you wish. As for the mother, may her soul rest in peace!She probably had no faith in religion; but I am sure she was guilty ofno sin. I shall request the curé of Remoulins to allow her body torepose in his cemetery. I will now inform the authorities of what hasoccurred. "

With these words, the Marquis left the room; and Coursegol, aftercovering the face of the dead with reverent hands, knelt and prayed forher as well as for the orphan who had been confided to his care. 

The Château de Chamondrin was scarcely a century old. Erected on thesite of a feudal castle which had been demolished because it threatenedto fall into ruins, the present structure was destitute of the massivetowers, moats and drawbridges that characterize the ancient castle. Thebuilding was square and enclosed an immense court; it was only twostories high, and the upper story was surrounded by a veranda. Such hadbeen the very simple plan executed by the architect; and the result hadbeen an unpretentious abode, but one to which the color of the bricksused in its construction, the delicate columns that supported thewindows and doors and the graceful pavilions placed at each of the fourcorners lent an air of extreme elegance. 

The building occupied the entire plateau on the brow of the hill andcommanded a superb view of the Garden; while the park and farm-lands, vineyards and forests pertaining to the château covered the hill itself. This property was now the only possession of the house of Chamondrin, one of the oldest in Languedoc and Provence. It was not always thus. There had been a time when "As rich as a Chamondrin" was a proverb inthe region thereabout. In those days this illustrious family hadcountless vassals and unbounded wealth, and enjoyed an income thatenabled it for many successive generations to play a conspicuous rôle, first at the Court of Provence and later at the Court of France. Thegrandfather and father of the present Marquis lived to see the end ofthis proverbial opulence. They both led careers of extravagance anddissipation, taking part in all the gayeties and follies of the court. The grandfather was one of the favorite companions of Philipped'Orleans; and wine, cards and women killed him when he should have beenstill in the prime of life. 

His son did not learn wisdom from his father's example. He in his turnbecame the friend of the Regent, and to repair his shattered fortunes heengaged, at the advice of Lau, in those disastrous financial enterprisesthat paved the way for the Revolution. He failed completely in hisventures, left Paris insolvent, and took refuge in the Château deChamondrin, where he hoped to escape the wrath of his creditors. Butthey complained to the king, and brought such influence to bear upon himthat Louis XV. , the Well-beloved, who had just ascended the throne, informed the Marquis de Chamondrin that he would allow him three monthsin which to choose between the payment of his debts and incarceration inthe Bastile. The Marquis did not hesitate long. He sold all his propertywith the exception of this château and paid his debts. But when thisplebeian duty was accomplished, it left him in receipt of an extremelymodest income. Poverty had fallen upon this house at the very time thatthe favor of the king was withdrawn from it, and this two-foldmisfortune was quickly followed by the birth of a son and the loss ofhis wife. 

These afflictions completely prostrated this man who was whollyunprepared to meet them. He shut himself up in his château, and there, far from the pleasures for which he pined, far from the friends who hadforgotten him, cursing God and man for his misfortunes, he lapsed into amisanthropy that rendered him nervous and eccentric almost to madness. He lived twenty years in this way, apparently taking no pleasure orinterest in his son, whose youth was gloomy and whose education wasentrusted entirely to the curé of a neighboring village. He died in1765, in the middle of the eighteenth century, the first half of whichhad proved so fatal to the prosperity of his house. 

His son, Hector--the same who had sheltered Tiepoletta--found himself, when he became of age, the owner of a name famous in the courts ofEurope and upon many a field of battle, of an income of five thousandpounds and of the Château de Chamondrin. He was a gentle, serious youngman of very simple tastes. He quickly resigned himself to thesituation. After a close examination of the condition of affairs, heresolved to devote his life and all his efforts to the restoration ofthe glory of his name. He married, two years after the death of hisfather, the daughter of an impoverished Provençal nobleman, a lady whosedomestic virtues seemed likely to aid him in the execution of his plans. He brought his wife home the day after their marriage and then said toher:

"My dear Edmée, you have entered a family which for the past forty yearshas been subjected to reverses which can only be repaired by greatself-denial on our part. We cannot hope to enjoy the fruits of ourlabors ourselves, but our children, should God grant us any, may enjoythem, and it is for their sakes that we must endeavor to restore thehouse of Chamondrin to its former splendor and opulence; and since youhave consented to share my humble lot I hope that you will unite yourefforts with mine to lay aside each year a sum that will enable ouroldest son, when he arrives at the age of manhood, to make a respectableappearance at court where he will perhaps be fortunate enough to win theking's favor, our only hope. "

"You will ever find me ready to second you in your efforts, " replied theyoung wife. 

A son and a daughter were born to them during the two years thatfollowed. Nor were these their only blessings. The crops were abundantand their savings considerable. The life of the young couple was sereneand happy. The Marquis was hopeful; the Marquise, a charming and mostlovable creature, shared his hopes. Undoubtedly their life in thisisolated château was often lonely and monotonous. The winters were verylong; but the Marquis read a great deal, hunted and superintended hisfarms with the diligence of a peasant. The Marquise, too, was obliged tohave a finger in the pie, to use a common expression. She directed theaffairs of her household with as much care and economy as the plainestbourgeoise and seemed to live only to second the efforts of her husband. If resignation is the chief element of happiness, they were happy at theChâteau de Chamondrin. 

Four years passed in this way. Little Philip was growing finely; he hadpassed safely through the perils of teething and was beginning to talk. 

"We will make a fine gentleman of him, " said the Marquis. "He willcreate a sensation at court; the king will give him command of aregiment, and he will marry some rich heiress. As for this young lady, "he added, caressing his daughter who was named Martha, "if we cannotgive her a dowry we will obtain an appointment as lady abbess for her. "

The Marquise encouraged her dear Hector in these projects with hersweetest smile; but a terrible accident, followed by a catastrophe noless horrible, destroyed these delightful dreams and brought desolationto this happy home. 

Towards the close of the year 1769, Martha, the youngest child, began tolose her fine color and faded so rapidly that her parents becamealarmed. They passed long nights at the bedside of the little sufferer, who seemed to be a victim of a sort of nervous debility or exhaustion. One night the Marquise volunteered to watch while her husband slept, and, in administering some medicine to her child, mistook the vial andpoisoned her. Martha died and it was impossible to conceal the cause ofher death from the grief-stricken mother. Her despair was even morepoignant than that of her husband for with hers was mingled a frightfulremorse which all the tenderness of the Marquis could not assuage. Thisdespair caused an attack of fever from which she recovered, but whichleft her in a still more pitiable condition. A profound calm hadsucceeded the paroxysms of fever; and her sorrow no longer betrayeditself in sobs and lamentations, but only in silent tears andheart-breaking sighs. These alarming symptoms soon revealed the truth:reason had fled. For hours at a time poor Edmée rocked to and fro, witha bundle of rags clasped tightly to her breast, crooning over it thesame lullaby she had been wont to sing over her sleeping child. 

Physicians summoned from Avignon, Nîmes and Montpellier tried in vain toovercome this deep despondency, which was far more dangerous thanfrenzy. Their skill was powerless; they could not give the Marquis eventhe slightest ray of hope. It was not long before the Marquise becamefrightfully pale and emaciated, while her mind was more than ever underthe control of the monomania which saw her daughter in all the objectsthat surrounded her. She took, by turns, flowers, articles of clothingand of furniture, lavishing every mark of affection upon them andcalling them by the most endearing names until their insensibilitydispelled the illusion and she cast them aside with loathing to seekelsewhere the child for which she mourned. 

These afflictions, the rapidity with which they had followed one anotherand their magnitude impaired the health of the Marquis. He fell ill inhis turn, and for more than a month Coursegol thought the shadow ofdeath was hovering over his master. But the Marquis was young andstrong; and the thought that if he succumbed his son would be left anorphan produced a salutary reaction. He was soon on his feet again, and, though he was always sad, he accepted his misfortunes bravely andresolved to live for his son's sake. 

These events occurred about a year before Tiepoletta dragged herself tothe door of the château to die in Coursegol's arms, confiding herdaughter to his care. 

After he had prayed for the departed, Coursegol rose, took up littleDolores and went out into the court-yard, calling:

"Master Philip! Master Philip!"

The little fellow, who was playing in charge of one of theservant-maids, came running to answer the summons. He was now four yearsold. His pretty and rather delicate face was surrounded by a profusionof brown curls, and his large eyes revealed an intelligence andthoughtfulness unusual in a child of his age. He talked well enough tomake himself clearly understood, and understood all that was said to himin reply. 

"See this pretty baby!" said Coursegol, displaying Dolores. 

"A doll!" exclaimed Philip, clapping his hands in rapture. 

"Yes, in flesh and blood, " replied Coursegol; "a doll that cries, thatwill grow and talk to you and amuse you. "

"When?" demanded Philip. 

"When she grows up. "

"Then make her grow up immediately, " ordered the little autocrat. 

Then, seizing Coursegol's hand, he dragged him to the kitchen, for hewished to show every one his newfound treasure without delay. A crowd ofservants soon gathered around Philip and Coursegol. The latter wasexplaining how the infant had come into his possession, and every onewas marvelling at the strangeness of the adventure, when the Marquisesuddenly appeared. The poor creature was always closely followed by awoman who was ordered never to lose sight of her mistress. She wanderedabout the château, never noisy or troublesome, but recognizing no one, not even her husband or her own child. She now advanced towards thelittle group which respectfully divided to make way for her. One couldscarcely imagine a more pitiable sight than that presented by thisbeautiful young woman, whose haggard eyes, unbound hair and disorderedgarments revealed her insanity in spite of her attendant's efforts tokeep her neatly dressed. At that moment, she was holding a piece of woodtightly to her bosom, and was singing softly as she advanced withmeasured steps as if trying to lull this supposed child to sleep. Suddenly she paused, threw the fragment of wood far from her and burstinto tears. 

All the spectators of this scene stood motionless, overcome with pity, though they witnessed a similar spectacle each day and many times a day. Little Philip in his terror clung closely to Coursegol. The Marquisepassed, looked at him, and, shaking her head, murmured:

"That is not what I am looking for!" Suddenly she stopped as if rivetedto the spot. Her eyes had fallen upon the sleeping Dolores cradled inCoursegol's arms. There was such an intentness in her gaze, she wasregarding the child with so much persistence, that a strange thoughtflashed through the mind of the faithful servant. 

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, "might it be possible? Retire, " he said, hastily, addressing those around him; "take Master Philip away and callthe Marquis. "

They obeyed: all the servants vanished; the Marquise alone remained. Then Coursegol deposited the child upon a wide bench that stood againstthe wall, and, departing in his turn, ran to conceal himself behind awindow where he could see his mistress without being seen. It was therethe Marquis found him. 

"Ah! sir, " exclaimed Coursegol on beholding his master, "I believemadame is saved. Heaven has inspired me. But what if I am mistaken?" headded, anxiously. "What if she should kill the poor little thing?"

"What do you say? What have you done? Run and take the child from her. Have we not had misfortunes enough already? Go, I tell you!"

"It is too late!" replied Coursegol, terribly excited. "Look!"

After devouring Dolores with her eyes for several moments, the Marquisegently approached her with outstretched arms, her face strangely alteredby the emotion that filled her heart. Curiosity, surprise and fear wereimprinted upon her features. She leaned over the child and scrutinizedit anew; then, with an eager movement, seized it, pressed it to herbosom and started as if to run away with it. But when she had goneperhaps twenty paces, she paused and looked around as if to assureherself that no one was following her. The Marquis and Coursegol werestanding at the half-open window, not daring to breathe, so great wastheir anxiety. Suddenly they saw the Marquise press little Dolores stillcloser to her heart, and imprint frenzied kisses upon her brow, whilefor the first time for many a long month beneficent tears flowed fromher eyes. At the same time she exclaimed in a clear, strong voice:

"Hector, my daughter! I have found my daughter!"

The agitated Marquis sprang towards her. She saw him approaching andadvanced to meet him, laughing and crying and displaying the child;then, overcome by the violence of her emotion, she fell in his extendedarms, devoid of consciousness. 

"She is saved!"' said Coursegol, who had followed his master. 

"Ah, Coursegol, can it be true?" demanded the Marquis, who couldscarcely believe his own eyes. 

"Did she not recognize you? Did she not speak to you? Her madnessdisappeared as soon as her maternal instincts were re-awakened. "

They carried the Marquise to her chamber and laid her upon the bed. Inobedience to Coursegol's directions a cradle was placed in her room andthe infant deposited in it; then the devoted servant mounted a horse andstarted for Nîmes in quest of a physician. 

When he returned at the end of three hours, accompanied by the doctor, the Marquise had regained consciousness. They had shown her the sleepingDolores and, reassured by the sight of the child, she had fallen asleep. Occasionally she roused a little and those around her heard her murmur:

"My daughter! my daughter!"

Then, raising herself upon her elbow, she watched the babe in silentecstasy until overcome with exhaustion she again closed her eyes inslumber. 

"I can be of no service here, " said the physician. "Her reason hasreturned unquestionably; and her weakness will be overcome by good careand absolute quiet. "

It was in this way that the Marquise was restored to her right mind. From that day her hold upon life slowly but surely strengthened; sherecognized her husband and her son, and it was not long before theycould without danger reveal the circumstances attendant upon Dolores'arrival at the château. Three months later her recovery was complete. 

One morning the Marquis sent for Coursegol. 

"I gave you Dolores, " said he, abruptly; "will you not return her to me?Henceforth she shall be my daughter. "

"She is my daughter as well, " replied Coursegol, "but you may take her, sir. Though I relinquish her to you, I do not lose her since I shalllive near her, and we can both love her. "

The Marquis de Chamondrin offered his hand to Coursegol, thus consentingto the compact that gave Dolores two protectors; and so the daughter ofthe gypsy, though she had lost her parents, was not an orphan. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE CHILDHOOD OF DOLORES. 

Dolores passed a happy childhood in the Château de Chamondrin, where shewas loved, petted and caressed as if she had been the little Marthawhose loss had deprived the Marquise of reason for many dreary months. Nothing was left undone to render the illusion complete in the eyes ofthe members of the household and in her own. The first companion of herchildish play was Philip, who called her sister; and she pillowed herfair head on the bosom of the Marquise without a shadow of fear andfondly called her mother. The Marquise loved her as devotedly as she hadloved her own daughter; Coursegol regarded her with an affection whosefervor was mingled with the deference he owed to the children of hismaster. As for the servants, they treated Philip and Dolores with equalrespect; and there were no relatives or friends of the family who didnot take pleasure in exhibiting their fondness for the little creaturewhose presence had cured the Marquise of the most terrible of maladies. 

It is true that Dolores was such a lovely child no one could help lovingher. She promised to resemble her mother. She had the same luxuriantgolden hair, the same large, dark eyes, the same energy, the samesweetness of disposition and of voice. The Marquis and Coursegol, whohad seen the gypsy, and who still remembered her, were often struck bythe strong resemblance that seemed to make Tiepoletta live again inDolores. The child also possessed the same tender heart, vividimagination and honorable instincts. Her mind absorbed with marvellousfacility the instruction which she received from the Marquis and whichshe shared with his son. She had a wonderful memory, and what shelearned seemed to be indelibly imprinted upon her mind. She was lovingin disposition, docile and sweet-tempered, and had already won the loveof all who came in contact with her. 

Philip actually worshipped his little sister. He was five years hersenior, a large, noisy, almost coarse boy, rather vain of his birth andof the authority which enabled him to lord it over the little peasantswho sometimes played with him. But these faults, which were destined tobe greatly modified by time, concealed a thoroughly good heart anddisappeared entirely when he was with Dolores. 

It was amusing to see the tenderness and care with which he surroundedher. If they were walking together in the park, he removed all thestones which might hurt her tiny feet or cause her to stumble. If adainty morsel fell to his share at the table, he transferred it from hisplate to that of Dolores. If they dressed her in any new garment, he wasnever weary of admiring her, of telling her how beautiful she was, andof fondling her luxuriant golden curls. If it was necessary to punishPhilip, they had only to deprive him of the society of Dolores. Butunfortunately this punishment, the most severe that could be inflictedupon him, grieved his sister as much as it did him, so it was usedrarely and only in grave cases. One of the favorite amusements of thetwo children was to walk with Coursegol, and this was not a delight tothem alone, for that faithful fellow was never so happy as when rovingabout the fields with them. 

Often, during those lovely spring mornings that are so charming in thesouth, they descended the hill and strolled along the banks of theGarden. The delicately-tinted willows that grew on the banks droopedover the stream, caressing it with their flexible branches. Above thewillows, fig trees, olives and vineyards covered the base of the hillwith foliage of a darker hue, which in turn contrasted with the stilldeeper green of the cypress trees and pines that grew upon the rockysides of the cliff. This luxuriant vegetation, of tints as varied asthose of an artist's palette, mirrored itself in the clear waters belowtogether with the arches of the massive Pont du Gard, whose bold yetgraceful curves were festooned with a dense growth of creeping vines. 

Coursegol called the children's attention to the beauties of the scene, thus awakening in their young hearts appreciation of the countlesscharms of nature. They played in the sand; they fished for silver carp;hunted for birds' nests among the reeds. There were merry shouts oflaughter, continual surprises and numberless questions. In answeringthese, all Coursegol's rather primitive but trusty knowledge onscientific subjects was called into requisition. When they returnedhome they were obliged to pass the cave, and Dolores, who knew nothingof her history, often entered it in company with Philip if they found itunoccupied by the much-dreaded gypsies. 

At certain seasons of the year, early in the spring and late in thesummer, roving bands of Bohemians encamped on the banks of the Gardon, and Philip and Dolores took good care not to approach them, especiallyafter an evening when an old gypsy woman, struck perhaps by the child'sresemblance to Tiepoletta, pointed Dolores out to some of the tribe whowent into ecstasies over her beauty. One of the gypsies approached thechildren to beg, which so terrified them that they clung frantically toCoursegol, who found it difficult to reassure them. 

These pleasant rambles, the lessons which she recited to her adoptedfather, the religious instruction she received from the Marquise andlong hours of play with Philip made up the life of Dolores. Daysucceeded day without bringing anything to break the pleasant monotonyof their existence, for the capture of a mischievous fox, an encounterwith some harmless snake, or the periodical overflow of the Gardon couldscarcely be dignified by the name of an event: yet these, or similarincidents furnished the children with topics of conversation for weekstogether. 

They took little interest in the news that came from Paris, and thoughthey sometimes observed a cloud on the brow of the Marquis, or tears inthe eyes of his wife, they were ignorant of the cause. Nor was itpossible for them to understand the gravity of the political situationor the well-founded fears of the Royalists, which were frequentlymentioned in the letters received at the château. 

Thirteen serene and happy years passed after Dolores became the adopteddaughter of the Marquis de Chamondrin, before she made her firstacquaintance with real sorrow. She had grown rapidly and her mentalprogress had kept pace with her physical development. She promised to bean honor to her parents and to justify them in their determination tokeep her with them always. 

But the Marquis had not lost sight of the projects formed years beforein relation to his son's future. As we have previously stated, theMarquis, even before the birth of his son, dreamed of restoring in himand through him the glory of the house of Chamondrin--a glory which hadsuffered an eclipse for more than a quarter of a century. It was nowtime to carry these plans into execution. Philip was eighteen, avigorous youth, already a man in stature and in bearing, endowed withall the faults and virtues of his race, but possessed of more virtuesthan faults and especially of an incontestable courage and a profoundreverence for the name he bore. The Marquis had about decided that thetime to send him to Paris had come. He had been preparing for this eventfor some months and, thanks to the economy in which he had been soadmirably seconded by his wife, he had laid by a very considerableamount; enough to supply Philip's wants for five years at least--thatis, until he would be in a position to obtain some office at court or acommand in the army. 

But the Marquis had taken other measures to insure his son's success. Hehad appealed to family friends, and through the Chevalier de Florian, anoccasional guest at the château, he had received an assurance thatPhilip would find an earnest champion in the Duke de Penthieore. Fortuneseemed inclined to smile on the young man; nevertheless the Marquis wasbeset with doubts, for all this occurred in the year 1783, just as thehostility to the king was beginning to manifest itself in an alarmingmanner, and the Marquis asked himself again and again if this was apropitious moment to send so young a man, almost a boy, into a dividedand disaffected court--a court, too, that was subjected to the closestespionage on the part of a people already deeply incensed and irritatedby the scandal and debauchery of the nobility, and utterly insensible tothe king's well-meant efforts to institute a much-needed reform. 

But the birth of the Dauphin, which occurred that same year, dissipatedM. De Chamondrin's doubts. He was completely reassured by the enthusiasmof a nation, which, even in its dire extremity, broke into songs ofrejoicing over the new-born heir. Philip's departure was decided upon. 

The young people had been aware of their father's intentions for sometime. They knew the hour of separation was approaching, and the tearssprang to their eyes whenever any allusion to Philip's intendeddeparture was made in their presence; but, with the characteristiclight-heartedness of youth, they dismissed the unwelcome thought fromtheir minds, and in present joys forgot the sorrow the future held instore for them. But the flight of time is rapid, and that which causesus little anxiety because it was the future, that is, a possibility, becomes the present, in other words, reality. One day the Marquis, notwithout emotion, made known his plans to his wife and afterwards to hisson. Philip was to start for Paris at the close of autumn, or in abouttwo months, and Coursegol was to accompany him. This news carrieddespair to the heart of Dolores, for she loved Philip devotedly. Had henot been her brother, her protector, and the sharer of all her joyssince she was old enough to talk? Could it be she was about to lose him?

In spite of all their efforts to conceal the fact, the grief wasgeneral. The departure of Philip would be a sore trial to all theinmates of the château. Dolores was inconsolable. A dozen times a day, the Marquise, conquering her own sadness, endeavored to console Doloresby descanting on the advantages Philip would derive from this journey;but the poor girl could understand but one thing--that her brother wasto leave her for an indefinite time. For several days before hisdeparture she scarcely left his side. How many plans were made to becarried into execution on his return! How many bright hopes were mingledwith the sadness of those last hours! Philip, who had become grave andserious as befitted his new rôle, declared that he would never forgetDolores--that he should love her forever. The hours flew swiftly by andthe day appointed for the separation came all too quickly for those whowere awaiting and dreading it. 

The morning that Philip was to start his father sent for him. The youngman was in the court-yard, superintending the preparations fordeparture. The servants, superintended by Coursegol, were fastening thetrunks upon the carriage that was to convey the travellers and theirbaggage to Avignon, where places had been bespoken for them in the coachwhich was then the only mode of conveyance between Marseilles and Paris. 

Dolores was standing near Coursegol. Her red eyes, still moist withtears, and her pale face showed that her sorrow had made sleepimpossible during the previous night; but, in spite of this, she lookedso lovely that Philip was more deeply impressed by her beauty than hehad ever been before. He kissed her tenderly, as he tried to consoleher. 

"Ah! Philip, why do you leave us?" she exclaimed, reproachfully. 

"Because it is necessary both for your sake and mine, " he responded. "Doyou not know my father's plans? And if he commands me to go, must I notobey?"

"That is what I was just telling mademoiselle, " began Coursegol. "Iexplained to her that the Marquis, your father, was acting wisely insending you to court. You will soon make a fortune there, and then youwill return to us laden with laurels and with gold. Shall we not behappy then, mademoiselle?"

Even while speaking thus, Coursegol found it very difficult to concealhis own emotion, for though he was pleased to accompany Philip, it costhim a bitter pang to part with Dolores. Rescued by him, reared under hisvery eyes, he loved her as devotedly as he would have loved a child ofhis own, had the thought of any other family than that of his masterever occurred to him. 

But his words and Philip's caresses seemed to comfort Dolores. Her sobsceased and she dried her tears; but, as Philip was about to leave her inobedience to a summons from his father, she suddenly exclaimed:

"Will you not forget me in the midst of the splendor that will surroundyou? Will you not cease to love me?"

"Forget you! Cease to love you!" replied Philip, with a shudder, as ifsuch a fear expressed at such a moment was an evil omen. "I shall neverforget you! I shall never cease to love you!"

He was about to say still more when he saw his mother approaching. Heled Dolores gently to her, kissed them both, and hastened to join hisfather. 

The latter was pacing to and fro in his chamber, thoughtful and sad, forthe departure of his son made his heart heavy with grief. 

"You sent for me, father, " said Philip. 

"Yes, my son, " responded the Marquis, seating himself and motioning hisson to a chair beside him. "I wish to say a few words to you. You areabout to leave me, Philip. In a few hours you will be your own master. Ishall no longer be near you; nor will your mother be at hand to adviseyou. Moreover, you are deprived of our counsel and experience just whenyou most need them, at a time when your life must undergo a radicalchange and you are beset with difficulties. I have decided thatCoursegol shall accompany you, for his judgment may be of service to youin the absence of ours. You must regard his advice as that of a friendrather than of a servant; but do not accept his counsels or the counselsof any other person without reflection. There are cases, it is true, inwhich one must decide hastily. If you have not time to consult those inwhom you repose confidence, you must be guided by your own judgment; andin order that you may not err, engrave upon your heart the words I amabout to utter. "

The Marquis paused a moment, then resumed:

"'God, your country and the king'--this should be your motto. You areabout to go out into the world. You will meet many fanatics, atheistsand libertines. Shun their example; do not be led astray by theirsophistries, and before you speak or act, ask yourself if what you areabout to say or do does not conflict with the respect you owe to yourreligion, to France and to your king. "

This was the general tenor of the conversation, which lasted nearly anhour. His father, it is true, told him nothing he had not heard already. His advice was nothing more than a resumé of the lessons he had alwaystaught him; but Philip was deeply moved, and he promised with an emotionclosely akin to ardent enthusiasm that he would never depart from theline of conduct his father had marked out for him. 

Then the Marquis, with a sudden change of tone, said to his son:

"Since you are about to leave home, perhaps for several years, I willtell you a secret which I should no longer withhold. "

"What is it?" demanded Philip, in surprise. 

"Dolores is not your sister!"

"Dolores not my sister! Then--"

Philip paused. He dare not utter the thought that had suddenly enteredhis mind. On hearing the Marquis' words and learning the truth in regardto Dolores from his lips, he had experienced an emotion of joy. If hehad given expression to what was passing in his soul, his father wouldhave heard these words:

"Dolores not my sister! Then she shall be my wife!"

But he controlled himself and his father little suspected the emotioncaused by this revelation. The Marquis related the history of Dolores indetail, and Philip could scarcely believe his ears when he heard thatthe charming girl was the offspring of one of those Bohemians he hadfrequently seen by the roadside. 

"You must not love her the less, " said the Marquis in conclusion. "Shehas filled Martha's place in our hearts; we owe to her your mother'srestoration to reason. We should always love and cherish her. She has nosuspicion of the truth; and I wish her to remain in ignorance until Ithink proper to acquaint her with the facts. "

"Oh! I shall never cease to love her, " replied Philip, quickly, thusrepeating to his father the promise he had made to Dolores a few momentsbefore. 

Then, agitated by the news he had heard, he left the Marquis andrejoined Dolores. He wished to see her alone once more before hisdeparture. When he approached her, his heart throbbed wildly. 

"She is not my sister, " he said to himself, exultantly. 

She seemed to him an entirely different being. For the first time heobserved that she had exquisitely formed hands of marvellous whitenessfor the first time he shrank from the light of the dark eyes uplifted tohis. He wished that Dolores knew the secret of her birth, and that shecould hear him once again say:

"I love you!"

It was a new emotion to the pure and artless heart of an eighteen-yearold lad; and, yielding to its influence, Philip threw his arms aboutDolores, and, pressing her to his heart, said tenderly:

"I shall always love you--always--I swear it! Remember this promise. Some day you will understand it better. "

Dolores looked at him in astonishment. Though she was deeply moved shemade no reply, but throwing her arms around his neck she kissed himagain and again, thus unconsciously arousing a new passion in what hadbeen the soul of a child only a few moments before, but what hadsuddenly become the soul of a man. 

But the hour of departure had come. The char-a-banc drawn by two stronghorses was in waiting at the base of the hill. They were to walk downthe hill with Philip and bid him farewell there. Philip gave his arm tohis mother; Dolores walked between Coursegol and the Marquis, with anexpression of profound sorrow upon her features. 

An air of sadness and gloom pervaded everything. It was the close ofautumn; the air was full of withered leaves; they rustled beneath thetread at every step, and the wind moaned drearily through the pines. 

"Take care of your health, " said the Marquise. 

"Write to me, " pleaded Dolores. 

"Be brave and upright, " said the father; then all three, turning as ifwith one accord to Coursegol, placed Philip under his protection. 

Again they embraced their beloved; again they wept; then one moreembrace, one last kiss, and he was gone. The carriage that bore him awaywas hidden from their sight by clouds of dust, and the loving heartsleft behind sadly wondered if this cruel parting was not, after all, adream. 

Dolores, in spite of her earnest efforts to fill the void that had beenmade in her life, spent a month in tears. A deep despair seemed to havetaken possession of her heart. In vain her adopted parents endeavored todivert her mind; in vain they concealed their own grief to console her;in vain they lavished a wealth of tenderness upon her; she would not beconsoled and her silent sorrow revealed a soul peculiarly sensitive tosuffering. 

It was Philip who persuaded her to conquer this despondency; for he, even at a distance, exerted a much more powerful influence over herthan either the Marquis or his wife. His first letter, which arrivedabout a month after his departure, was more potent in its effects thanall the efforts of her adopted parents. It was to Dolores that Philiphad written. He described his journey to Paris; the cordial welcome hehad received from the Duke de Penthieore and the Princess de Lamballe, to whom he had been presented by the Chevalier de Florian; thecondescension this Princess had displayed in taking him to Versailles, and in commending him to the kindly notice of Marie Antoinette and LouisXVI. ; the promises made by their majesties, and lastly the promptitudewith which the Duke, as a proof of his interest, had attached him to hisown household. So Philip was on the highway to wealth and honor at last. The Princess de Lamballe had evinced a very decided interest in him; heenjoyed the friendship of the Chevalier de Florian and would soonaccompany the Duke de Penthieore to Brittany. Moreover, these kindfriends were only waiting until he should attain the age of twenty torequest the king to give him command of a company in one of hisregiments. 

This good news filled the heart of the Marquis with joy. He immediatelywrote to the Duke, thanking him for his kindness, and that gentleman inhis reply, manifested such an earnest desire to insure Philip's successthat the Marquis and his wife were consoled for their son's absence bythe thought of the brilliant career that seemed to be in store for him. As for Dolores, what comforted her was not so much her brother'ssuccess as the expressions of affection with which his letter wasfilled. All his happiness and all his good fortune were to be sharedwith her. It was for her sake he desired fame, in order that he mightmake her proud and happy. Thus Philip expressed the still confusedsentiments that filled his young heart, though he did not betray thesecret that his father had confided to him. 

This letter seemed to restore to Dolores the natural light-heartednessof youth. She no longer lamented her brother's absence, but spent mostof her time in writing to him, and in perusing and re-perusing hisletters. The months passed, but brought nothing to disturb thetranquillity of this monotonous existence. At the end of two yearsPhilip announced that he had been appointed to the command of a companyof dragoons. This appointment, which he owed entirely to the kindness ofthe Princess de Lamballe and the Duke de Penthieore, was only the firststep. The queen had promised not to forget him and to prove her interestin some conclusive manner. That he might not be obliged to leave hisyoung master, Coursegol asked and obtained permission to enlist in thesame regiment. 

Two more years passed. 

It would be a difficult task to describe Dolores as she appeared inthose days. The cleverest pen would be powerless to give an adequateconception of her charms. Her simple country life had made her as strongand vigorous as the sturdy young trees that adorned the landscape everbeneath her eyes. In health and strength she was a true daughter of theBohemians, a race whose vigor has never been impaired by the luxuriesand restraints of civilization. She had not the olive complexion andfiery temper of her father, but she had inherited from her mother thatdelicate beauty and that refinement of manner which made it almostimpossible for one to believe that Tiepoletta was the daughter ofCorcovita. 

Dolores was as energetic as her father and as lovely as her mother. Herbrilliant dark eyes betrayed an ardent temperament and unusual power ofwill. She was no fragile creature, but a healthy, spirited, beautifulyoung girl, the robust scion of a hardy and fruitful tree. Had she beenreared among the gypsies, she might have been coarsely handsome; buteducation had softened her charms while it developed her intellect, andthough but seventeen she was already one of those dazzling beauties whodefy description and who eclipse all rivals whenever they appear. Thesoul was worthy of the casket that enshrined it; and the reader whofollows this narrative to its close cannot fail to acknowledge theinherent nobility of this young girl, who was destined to play a rôle asheroic as it was humble in the great drama of the Revolution, and whosedevotion, purity, unselfishness and indomitable courage elevated herhigh above the plane of poor, erring humanity. 

Had it not been for Philip's prolonged absence, Dolores would have beenperfectly happy at this period of her life. Separated from their son, the Marquis and his wife seemed to regard her with redoubledtenderness. Her wishes were their law. To amuse her, they took her toNîmes, to Montpellier and to Avignon; and she was everywhere welcomed asthe daughter of the great house of Chamondrin, whose glory had beenveiled in obscurity for a quarter of a century, only to emerge againmore radiant than ever. Dolores was really happy. She was lookingforward to a speedy meeting with her beloved Philip; and he shared thishope, for had he not written in a recent letter: "I expect to see youall soon and to spend several weeks at Chamondrin, as free from care andas happy as in days gone by?" In a still later letter Philip said: "I ameager to start for home, but sometimes the journey seems to be attendedby many difficulties. Should it prove an impossibility, I shall expectto see you all in Paris. "

So either in Chamondrin, or in Paris, Dolores would soon embrace herbrother. This thought intoxicated her with happiness, and her impatienceled her to interrogate the Marquis. 

"Why does Philip speak of his return as impossible?" she asked again andagain. "What does he fear?"

"There may be circumstances that will detain him at his post near theking, " replied the Marquis, sadly, but evasively. 

In the letters which he, himself, received from his son, the latterspoke freely of the danger that menaced the throne. There was, indeed, abundant cause of alarm to all thoughtful and observant minds, andespecially to men who were living like the Marquis in the heart of theprovinces, and who were consequently able to judge understandingly ofthe imminence of the peril. Of course, no person could then foresee thecatastrophes which were to succeed one another so rapidly for severalyears; but a very general and undeniable discontent prevailed throughoutthe entire kingdom, a discontent that could not fail to engendermisfortunes without number. 

The year 1788 had just opened under the most unfavorable auspices. Marepas, Turgot, Necker and Calonne had held the reins of power in turn, without being able to restore the country to peace and prosperity. Theirefforts proving powerless from divers causes they had been dismissed indisgrace; some through the intrigues of the court; some by reason oftheir own incapacity. Brienne was now in office; but he was no morefortunate than his predecessors. Instead of subsiding, the discord wascontinually on the increase. 

The convention of leading men, upon which Calonne had based suchflattering hopes, adjourned without arriving at any satisfactory result. The treasury was empty; and, as the payment of government obligationswas consequently suspended, the murmurs of the people became long andloud. Parliament refused to notice the royal edicts, and the army showedopen hostility to the court. In the provinces, poverty everywhereprevailed; and the dissatisfaction was steadily increasing. 

The condition of affairs in Southern France was extremely ominous. AtNîmes, the religious factions, which were as bitterly at variance asthey had been at the time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes hadarrayed themselves in open warfare one against the other. Avignon, eagerto shake off the pontifical yoke and annex itself to France, was thescene of daily outbreaks. As the Château de Chamondrin was situatedbetween these two cities, its inmates could not fail to be aware ofthese dissensions. 

Conventions were held in most of the large towns, and the situation ofthe country was discussed with much heat and bitterness. The nobilityand clergy, who trembled for their threatened privileges, and thepeople, who had suffered so long and so uncomplainingly, took part inthese discussions; and their utterances betrayed great intolerance onthe one side and excessive irritation on the other. The discontent hadreached a class which, up to that date, had been allowed no voice in themanagement of affairs; but now, the peasants, oppressed by taxes asexorbitant as they were unjust, began to cast angry and envious glancesat the nobility. The hovel was menacing the castle; and France seemed tobe on the watch for some great event. 

In the midst of this general perturbation, the king, anxious andundecided, was running from one adviser to another, listening to allkinds of counsel, consenting to all sorts of intrigues and making athousand resolutions without possessing the requisite firmness to carryany good one into execution. 

The Marquis de Chamondrin was a witness to some of these facts. Theletters of his son revealed others. He was extremely anxious in regardto the future, and more than once Dolores and his wife saw his browovercast and his eyes gloomy. 

A letter received from Philip early in May, 1788, increased hisdisquietude. It was written on the day following the arrest ofEsprémenil. Philip had witnessed the disturbance; had seen the peopleapplaud the officers of the municipal government, and insult therepresentatives of royal authority. He described the scene in his letterto his father. The Marquis, at the solicitation of Dolores, read herPhilip's letter and made her the confidante of his fears. She understoodnow why Philip's return had been postponed. After this, she took a deepinterest in the progress of events not so much on account of theirgravity, which she did not comprehend as clearly as her adopted parents, but because Philip was a witness of them, and because his returndepended upon a peaceful solution of the difficulty. She could notforesee that an event, as sorrowful as it was unexpected, would soonrecall him to Chamondrin. 

CHAPTER IV. 

PERTAINING TO LOVE MATTERS. 

A fortnight later, Philip, who was stationed at Versailles with hiscommand, received the following letter from Dolores:

 "It is my sad duty, my dear Philip, to inform you of the irreparable misfortune which has just befallen us. Summon all your fortitude, my dear brother. Your mother died yesterday. The blow was so sudden, the progress of the malady so rapid, that we could not warn you in time to give you the supreme consolation of embracing for the last time her whom we mourn, and who departed with the name of her son upon her lips. 

 "Only four days ago she was in our midst, full of life, of strength and of hope. She was talking of your speedy return, and we rejoiced with her. One evening she returned from her accustomed walk a trifle feverish and complaining of the cold. It was a slight indisposition which was, unfortunately, destined to become an alarming illness by the following day. All our efforts to check the disease were unavailing; and we could only weep and bow in submission to the hand that had smitten us. 

 "Weep then, my dear Philip, but do not rebel against the will of God. Be resigned. You will have strength, if you will but remember the immortal life in which we shall be united forever. It is this blessed hope that has given me strength to overcome my own sorrow, to write to you, and to bestow upon your father the consolation of which he stands so sorely in need. Still, I shall be unable to assuage his grief if his son does not come to my assistance. You must lose no time, Philip. The Marquis needs you. In his terrible affliction, he calls for you. Do not delay. 

 "Now to you, whom I called my brother only yesterday, I owe an avowal. Perhaps you have already learned my secret. I know the truth in regard to my birth. Before her death, the Marquise told me the details of that strange adventure which threw me, an orphan and a beggar, upon the mercy of your parents. Just as she breathed her last sigh, your father threw himself in my arms, weeping and moaning. He called me by the tenderest names, as if wishing to find solace for his grief in the caresses of his child. I fell at his feet. 

 "'I know all, sir, ' I cried. 

 "'What! She has told you!' he exclaimed. 'Ah, well! Would you refuse me your affection at a moment like this?'

 "'Never!' I cried, clasping my arms about his neck. 

 "'I shall never leave him, Philip. I will do my best to make his old age happy and serene, and since I continue to be his daughter, it is for you to decide whether or not I shall still be your sister. "DOLORES. "

A few hours after the receipt of this letter, which carried desolationto his heart, Philip, accompanied by Coursegol, left Versailles forChamondrin. In spite of the ever increasing gravity of the politicalsituation it had not been difficult for him to obtain leave of absencefor an indefinite time on account of the bereavement that summoned himto his father's side and might detain him there. He made the journey ina post-chaise, stopping only to change horses. 

Dolores was little more than a child when they parted and they had beenseparated more than four years, but absence had not diminished the lovethat was first revealed to him on the day he left the paternal roof, andthe thought of meeting her again made his pulses quicken theirthrobbing. Time and change of scene had proved powerless against thedeep love and devotion that filled his heart, and he was more than everdetermined to wed the companion of his youth; and now that she was nolonger ignorant of the truth concerning her birth, he could press hissuit as a lover. As the decisive moment approached, the moment whenDolores' answer would make or mar the happiness of his life, heexperienced a profound emotion which was increased by the host ofmemories that crowd in upon a man when he returns to his childhood'shome after a long absence to find some one of those he loved departednever to return. 

Philip thought of the mother he would never see again, of his father, heart-broken and desolate, of Dolores, whose grief he understood. Hissadness increased in proportion as he approached the Pont du Gard. Yetthe road was well-known to him; the trees seemed to smile upon their oldcompanion as if in greeting, and the sun shone with more than its usualbrightness as if to honor his return. How many times he had journeyedfrom Avignon to Chamondrin on such a day as this! Every object along theroadside awakened some pleasant recollection; but the joy of againbeholding his beloved home and these familiar scenes was clouded byregret, doubts and uncertainty; and Philip was far from happy. Duringtheir journey, Coursegol had done his best to cheer his young master, but as they neared Chamondrin he, too, became a victim to the melancholyhe had endeavored to dissipate. 

At last the post-chaise rolled noisily under one of the arches of thePont du Gard, and a few moments later the horses, panting and coveredwith foam after climbing the steep ascent, entered the court-yard of thechâteau. 

The Marquis and Dolores, who were waiting for supper to be served, hadseated themselves on the terrace overlooking the park. The sound ofcarriage wheels drew them into the court-yard just as Philip andCoursegol were alighting. There was a cry of joy, and then the longseparated friends embraced one another. It would be impossible todescribe this meeting and the rapture of this return. 

It was Dolores whom Philip saw first. Her wonderful beauty actuallystartled him. Four years had transformed the child into an exquisitelyand lovely young girl. Her delicate features, her golden hair, herlustrous dark eyes, her vermillion lips, her musical yet penetratingvoice, her willowy figure and her beautifully shaped hands arousedPhilip's intense admiration. A pure and noble love had filled his heartduring his absence, and had exerted a powerful and restraining influenceover his actions, his thoughts, his hopes and his language. He hadendowed his idol with beauty in his fancy, but, beautiful as he hadpictured her, he was obliged to confess on beholding her that thereality surpassed his dreams, and he loved her still more ardently. 

The Marquis led his son to the drawing-room. He, too, wished to observethe changes that time had wrought in Philip. He scrutinized him closelyby the light of the candles, embraced him, and then looked at him againadmiringly. His son was, indeed, the noble heir of an illustrious race. 

They talked of the past and of the dead. They wept, but these were notthe same bitter tears the Marquis had shed after his bereavement. Thejoy of seeing his son consoled him in a measure, and death seemed to himless cruel because, when he was surrounded by his children, his faithand his hope gathered new strength. 

The first evening flew by on wings. Philip, to divert his father, described the stirring events and the countless intrigues of which thecourt had been the theatre; and together they talked of the hopes andthe fears of the country. Philip spoke in the most enthusiastic terms ofthe kind-hearted Duke de Penthieore who had aided him so much in life, of the Chevalier de Florian, and of the charming Princess de Lamballewho had become the favorite friend of the queen. Dolores did not lose aword of the conversation, and gave her love and homage unquestioninglyto those Philip praised even though they were strangers to her. Sheadmired the soundness of judgment her adopted brother displayed in hisestimate of people and of things, and the eloquence with which heexpressed his opinions. 

Coursegol was present. Often by a word he completed or rectified thestatements of his young master, and Dolores loved him for the devotiontestified by his every word. As for him, notwithstanding the familiaritywhich had formerly characterized his daily relations with the girl, hefelt rather intimidated by her presence, though his affection for herwas undiminished. 

About eleven o'clock the Marquis rose and, addressing his son, said:

"Do you not feel the need of rest?"

"I am so happy to see you all again that I am not sensible of theslightest fatigue, " replied Philip, "and I have so many things to telland to ask Dolores that I am not at all sleepy. "

"Ah, well, my dear children, talk at your ease. As for me, I willretire. "

And the Marquis, after tenderly embracing them, quitted the room, followed by Coursegol. Philip and Dolores were left alone together. There was a long silence. Seated beside an open window, Dolores, toconceal her embarrassment, fixed her eyes upon the park and the fieldsthat lay quiet and peaceful in the bright moonlight of the clear andbalmy summer evening. Philip, even more agitated, paced nervously to andfro, seeking an opportunity to utter the avowal that was eager to leavehis lips. At last, he summoned the necessary courage, and, seatinghimself opposite Dolores, he said:

"You wrote me a long letter. You asked me to bring you the response. Here it is. "

Dolores looked up and perceived that he was greatly agitated. Thisdiscovery increased her own embarrassment, and she could not find a wordto say in reply. Philip resumed:

"But, first, explain the cause of the coldness betrayed by that letter. Why did you address me so formally? Why did you not call me your brotheras you had been accustomed to do in the past?"

"How was I to know that you would not regard me as a stranger, as anintruder?" responded Dolores, gently. 

"An intruder! You!" exclaimed Philip, springing up. "I have known thetruth for more than four years and never have I loved you so fondly!What am I saying? I mean that from the day I first knew the truth I haveloved you with a far greater and entirely different love!"

Dolores dare not reply. How could she confess that she, too, since shelearned she was not his sister, had experienced a similar change offeeling? Philip continued:

"You asked me if I would consent to still regard you as a sister. Mysister, no! Not, as my sister, but as my wife, if you will but consent!"

"Your wife!" exclaimed Dolores, looking up at him with eyes radiant withjoy. 

Then, as if fearing he would read too much there, she hastily coveredthem with her trembling hands. The next instant Philip was on his kneesbefore her, saying, eagerly:

"I have cherished this hope ever since the day that my father made meacquainted with your history. I told myself that we would never part, that I should always have by my side the loved one I had so long calledsister, the gentle girl who had restored my mother's reason, who hadcheered her life, consoled her last moments, and comforted my desolatefather in his bereavement! Dolores, do not refuse me; it would break myheart!"

She could not believe her ears. She listened to Philip's pleading as ifin a dream, and he, alarmed by her silence, added:

"If my mother were here, she would entreat you to make me happy. "

Suddenly Dolores remembered the projects which had been confided to herby the Marquis, who had often made her his confidante--those projects inwhich Philip's marriage with a rich heiress of illustrious birth playedsuch an important part. And yet, in the presence of the profound loveshe had inspired and which she shared, she had not courage to makePhilip wretched by an immediate refusal, or to renounce the hope thathad just been aroused in her heart. 

"In pity, say no more!" she exclaimed, hastily. "We are mad!"

"Why is it madness to love you?" demanded Philip. 

"Listen, " she replied. "I cannot answer you now. Wait a little--I musthave time to think--to consult my conscience and my heart. You also musthave time for reflection. "

"I have reflected for four years. "

"But I have never before thought of the new life you are offering me. "

"Do you not love me?"

"As a sister loves a brother, yes; but whether the love I bear you is ofa different character I do not yet know. Go now, my dear Philip, " sheadded, endeavoring by calming herself to calm him; "give me time tobecome accustomed to the new ideas you have awakened in my mind. Theywill develop there, and then you shall know my answer. Until that timecomes, I entreat you to have pity on my weakness, respect my silence andwait. "

Philip instantly rose and said:

"The best proof of love that I can give you is obedience. I will wait, Dolores, I will wait, but I shall hope. "

Having said this he retired, leaving her oppressed by a vague sorrowthat sleep only partially dispelled. 

During the days that followed this conversation, Philip, faithful to hispromise, made no allusion to the scene we have just described. For fouryears he had buried his secret so deeply in his own heart that evenCoursegol had not suspected it, so he did not find it difficult tocontinue this rôle under the eyes of his father; and, though the burdenhe imposed upon himself had become much heavier by reason of thepresence of Dolores, his hopes supplied him with strength to endure it. 

For his hopes were great! Youthful hearts have no fear. He was notignorant of his father's plans; but he told himself that his fatherloved him too much to cause him sorrow, and that he would probably beglad to sacrifice his ambitious dreams if he could ensure the happinessof both his children. Philip was sure of this. If he invoked the memoryof his mother and the love she bore Dolores, the Marquis could notrefuse his consent. He confidently believed that before six mouths hadelapsed he should be married and enjoying a felicity so perfect as toleave nothing more to be desired. Cheered by this hope, he impatientlyawaited the decision of Dolores, happy, however, in living near her, inseeing her every day, in listening to her voice and in accompanying heron her walks. He watched himself so carefully that no word revealed thereal condition of his mind, and not even the closest observer of hislanguage and actions could have divined the existence of the sentimentsupon which he was, at that very moment, basing his future happiness. 

Dolores was grateful to him for his delicacy and for the faithfulnesswith which he kept his promise. She appreciated Philip's sacrifice themore because she was obliged to impose an equally powerful restraintupon herself in order to preserve her own secret. She loved him. Allthe aspirations of an ardent and lofty soul, all the dreams of a purefelicity based upon a noble affection were hers; and Philip's avowal, closely following the revelations of the dying Marquise, had convincedher that her happiness depended upon a marriage in accordance with thedictates of her heart, and that the one being destined from all eternityto crown her life with bliss unspeakable was Philip. Reared together, they thoroughly understood and esteemed each other; they had shared thesame joys and the same impressions. There was a bond between them whichnothing could break, and which made their souls one indissolubly. In hereyes, Philip was the handsomest, the most honorable, the most noble andthe most perfect of men. Was not this love? Why then did Dolores persistin her silence when her lover was anxiously waiting to learn his fate?Simply because she feared to displease the Marquis. She owed everythingto his generosity. She had no fortune. If she became Philip's wife, shecould confer upon the house of Chamondrin none of those advantages whichthe Marquis hoped to gain from a grand alliance, and for the sake ofwhich he had condemned himself to a life of obscurity and privation. Would he ever consent to a marriage that so ruthlessly destroyed hisambitious dreams? And if he did not consent, how terrible would be herposition when compelled to choose between the love of the son and thewrath of the father! And, even if he consented, would it not cost himthe most terrible of sacrifices? Shattered already by the untimely deathof his wife, would he survive this blow to his long-cherished hopes?Such were the sorrowful thoughts that presented themselves to the mindof Dolores and deprived her of the power to speak. She dare not makePhilip a confidant of her fears; and to declare that she did not lovehim was beyond her strength. Even when the impossibility of thismarriage became clearly apparent to her, she had not courage to lie toher lover and to trample her own heart underfoot. One alternativeremained: to reveal the truth to the Marquis. But this would imperilall. A secret presentiment warned her if she, herself, disclosed thetruth, that it would be to her that the Marquis would appeal in order tocompel Philip to renounce his hopes, since it was in her power todestroy them by a single word. Day followed day, and Dolores, besetalternately by hopes and fears, was waiting for fate to solve thequestion upon which her future happiness depended. 

Two mouths later, the Marquis was summoned to Marseilles by a cousin, who was lying at the point of death. He departed immediately, accompanied by Philip. This cousin was the Count de Mirandol. The masterof a large fortune which he had accumulated in the colonies, a widowerof long standing and the father of but one child, a girl of eighteen, who would inherit all his wealth, he had returned to France, intendingto take up his permanent abode there. He had been afflicted for years bya chronic malady, contracted during his long sea voyages, and hereturned to his native land with the hope that he should find thererelief from his sufferings. But he had scarcely landed at Marseilleswhen he was attacked by his old malady in an aggravated form. He couldlive but a few days, and realizing his condition, and desiring to find aprotector for his daughter, his thoughts turned to his cousin, theMarquis de Chamondrin. Although he had scarcely seen the Marquis forthirty years, he knew him sufficiently well not to hesitate to entrusthis daughter to his cousin's care. 

The Marquis did not fail him. He accepted the charge that his relativeconfided to him, closed the eyes of the dying man, and a few daysafterwards he and Philip returned to the château, accompanied by a younggirl clad in mourning. The stranger was Mademoiselle Antoinette deMirandol. 

Endowed with a refined and singularly expressive face, Antoinette, without possessing any of those charms which imparted such anincomparable splendor to the beauty of Dolores, was very attractive. Shewas a brunette, rather frail in appearance and small of stature; butthere was such a gentle, winning light in her eyes that when she liftedthem to yours you were somehow penetrated and held captive by them; inother words, you were compelled to love her. 

"I bring you a sister, " the Marquis said to Dolores, as he presentedAntoinette. "She needs your love and sympathy. "

The two girls tenderly embraced each other. Dolores led her guest to theroom which they were to share, and lavished comforting words andcaresses upon her, and from that moment they loved each other as fondlyas if they had been friends all their lives. 

Cruelly tried by the loss of her benefactress and by her mentalconflicts on the subject of Philip, Dolores forgot her own sorrows anddevoted herself entirely to the task of consoling Antoinette. It was notlong before the latter became more cheerful. This was the work ofDolores. They talked of their past, and Dolores concealed nothing fromher new friend. She confessed, without any false shame or false modesty, that she had entered the house of the Marquis as a beggar. Antoinette, in her turn, spoke of herself. She knew nothing of France. Her childhoodhad been spent in Louisiana; and she talked enthusiastically of thelovely country she had left. Dolores, to divert her companion's thoughtsfrom grief, made Philip tell her what he knew about Paris Versailles andthe court, and the Marquis, not without design probably, did his best toplace in the most favorable light those attributes of mind and of heartthat made Philip the most attractive of men. Like another Desdemonacharmed by the eloquence of Othello, it was while listening to Philipthat Antoinette first began to love him. 

After a month's sojourn at Chamondrin, she came to the conclusion thatPhilip was kind, good, irresistible in short; and she was by no meansunwilling to become the Marquise de Chamondrin. Nor did she concealthese feelings from Dolores, little suspecting, how she was torturingher friend by these revelations. It was then that the absoluteimpossibility of a marriage with Philip first became clearly apparentto Dolores. Antoinette's confession was like the flash of lightningwhich suddenly discloses a yawning precipice to the traveller on a darkand lonely road. She saw the insurmountable barrier between them moredistinctly than ever before. Could she compete with Antoinette? Yes; ifher love and that of Philip were to be considered. No; if rank, wealth, all the advantages that Antoinette possessed, and which the Marquisrequired in his son's bride, were to be taken into consideration. 

What a terrible night Dolores spent after Antoinette's confession! Howshe wept! What anguish she endured! The young girls occupied the sameroom and if one was unconscious of the sufferings of her companion, itwas only because Dolores stifled her sobs. She was unwilling to letAntoinette see what she termed "her weakness. " She felt neither hatrednor envy towards her friend, for she knew that Antoinette was not toblame. She wept, not from anger or jealousy, but from despair. 

Since she had been aware of Philip's affection for her, she hadcherished a secret hope in spite of the numerous obstacles that stood inthe way of their happiness. Time wrought so many changes! The bride whomthe Marquis was seeking for his son had not yet been found. She hadcomforted herself by reflections like these. Now, these illusions hadvanished. The struggle was terrible. One voice whispered: "You love; youare beloved. Fight for your rights, struggle, entreat--second Philip'sefforts, work with him for the triumph of your love. Resist hisfather's will, and, though you may not conquer at once, your labors willeventually be crowned with success. " But another voice said: "TheMarquis was your benefactor, the Marquise filled your mother's place. Had it not been for them you would have been reared in shame, inignorance and in depravity. You would never have known parentaltenderness, the happiness of a home or the comforts and luxuries thathave surrounded you from your childhood. Is it too much to ask that youshould silence the pleadings of your heart in order not to destroy theirhopes?" The first voice retorted: "Philip will be wretched if you deserthim. He will regret you, he will curse you and you will spend your lifein tears, blaming yourself for having sacrificed his happiness and yoursto exaggerated scruples. " But the second voice responded: "Antoinettewill console Philip. If he curses you at first, he will bless you laterwhen he learns the cause of your refusal. As for you, though you mayweep bitterly, you will be consoled by the thought that you have doneyour duty. " Such were the conflicts through which Dolores passed; butbefore morning came she had resolved to silence her imagination and thepleadings of her heart. Resigned to her voluntary defeat, she decidednot to combat this growing passion on the part of Antoinette, but toencourage it. She believed that Philip would not long remain insensibleto the charms of her friend, and in that case she could venture todeceive him and to declare that she did not love him. 

Three months passed in this way; then Philip, weary of waiting for thereply that was to decide his fate, but not daring to break his promiseand interrogate Dolores directly, concluded to at least make an attemptto obtain through Antoinette the decision that would put an end to hisintolerable suspense. Knowing how fondly these young girls loved eachother, and how perfect was their mutual confidence, he felt sure thatAntoinette would not refuse to intercede for him. 

This project once formed, he began operations by endeavoring toingratiate himself into the good graces of Mademoiselle de Mirandol. Upto this time, he had treated her rather coolly, but he now changed histactics and showed her many of those little attentions which he hadhitherto reserved for his adopted sister. It was just as Antoinette wasbecoming too much interested in Philip for her own peace of mind thatshe noticed his change of manner. She misunderstood him. Who would nothave been deceived? During their rambles, Philip seemed to take pleasurein walking by her side. Every morning she found beside her plate abouquet which he had culled. He never went to Avignon or to Nîmeswithout bringing some little souvenir for her. What interpretation couldshe place upon these frequent marks of interest? Her own love made hercredulous. After receiving many such attentions from him, she fanciedshe comprehended his motive. 

"He loves me, " she said one evening to Dolores. 

The latter thought her bereft of her senses. Could it be possible thatPhilip had forgotten his former love so soon? Was he deceiving her whenhe pressed his suit with such ardor? Impossible! How could she supposeit even for a moment? Still Dolores could not even imagine such apossibility without a shudder. After the struggle between her conscienceand her heart, she had secretly resolved that Philip should cease tolove her, that she would sacrifice herself to Mademoiselle de Mirandol, to whose charms he could not long remain insensible and whom he wouldeventually marry. Yes; she was ready to see her own misery consummatedwithout a murmur; but to be thus forgotten in a few weeks seemedterrible. 

"If this is really so, " she thought, "Philip is as unworthy ofAntionette as he is of me. But it cannot be. She is mistaken. "

Was Antoinette deceiving herself? To set her mind at rest upon thispoint, Dolores questioned her friend in regard to the acts and wordswhich she had interpreted as proofs of Philip's love for her. Mademoiselle de Mirandol revealed them to her friend; and Dolores wasreassured. The attentions that had been bestowed upon the ward of theMarquis de Chamondrin by that gentleman's son did not assume in the eyesof Dolores that importance which had been attributed to them by her moreromantic and enthusiastic companion; nevertheless, she was careful notto disturb a conviction that caused Antoinette so much happiness. 

The following day, as Mademoiselle de Mirandol was leaving her room, sheencountered Philip in the hall. 

"I wish to speak with you, " he said, rapidly and in low tones as hepassed her. "I will wait for you in the park near the Buissieres. "

His pleasant voice rung in Antoinette's ears long after he haddisappeared, leaving her in a state of mingled ecstasy and confusion. Her cheeks were flushed and her heart throbbed violently. She hurriedaway to conceal her embarrassment from Dolores, who was following her, and soon went to join Philip at the Buissieres. This was the name theyhad bestowed upon a hedge of tall bushes to the left of the park, andwhich enclosed as if by two high thick walls a quiet path where thesun's rays seldom or never found their way. It was to this spot thatAntoinette directed her steps, reproaching herself all the while for thereadiness with which she obeyed Philip, and looking back every now andthen to see if any one was observing her. 

She soon arrived at the Buissieres; Philip was awaiting her. On seeingher approach, he came forward to meet her. She noticed that his mannerwas perfectly composed, that his features betrayed no emotion, and thathe was smiling as if to assure her that what he desired to tell her wasneither solemn nor frightful in its nature. Antoinette was somewhatdisappointed. She had expected to find him pale and nervous, and withhis hair disordered like the lovers described in the two or threeinnocent romances that had chanced to fall into her hands. 

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, for troubling you, " began Philip, without theslightest hesitation; "but the service you can render me is of suchimportance to me, and the happiness of my whole life is so dependentupon it, that I have not scrupled to appeal to your generosity. "

"In what way can I serve you?" inquired Mademoiselle de Mirandol, whoseemotion had been suddenly calmed by this preamble, so utterly unlikeanything she had expected to hear. 

"I am in love!" began Philip. 

She trembled, her embarrassment returned and her eyes dropped. Philipcontinued:

"She whom I love is charming, beautiful and good, like yourself. Yousurely will not contradict me, for it is Dolores whom I love!"

Why Antoinette did not betray her secret, she, herself, could notunderstand when she afterwards recalled the circumstances of thisinterview. She did, however, utter a stifled cry which Philip failed tohear. She felt that she turned very pale, but her change of color wasnot discernible in the shadow. It was with intense disappointment thatshe listened to Philip's confession. He told her that he had lovedDolores for more than four years, but that she had known it only a fewmonths, and that she hod made no response to his declaration of love. Hehad waited patiently for her answer, but he could endure this state ofcruel uncertainty no longer, and he entreated Mademoiselle de Mirandolto intercede for him, and to persuade Dolores to make known her decisionto her adorer. Antoinette promised to fulfil his request. She promised, scarcely knowing what she said, so terrible was the anguish that filledher heart. She desired only one thing--to make her escape that she mightbe at liberty to weep. How wretched he was! Coming to this rendezvouswith a heart full of implicit confidence, she had met, instead of thefelicity she expected, the utter ruin of her hopes. This revulsion offeeling proved too much for a young girl who was entirely unaccustomedto violent emotions of any kind. She blamed herself bitterly, reproaching herself for her love as if it had been a crime, and regardedher disappointment as a judgment upon her for having allowed herself tothink of Philip so soon, after her father's death. 

At last Philip left her, and she could then give vent to her sorrow. Soon jealously took possession of her heart. Incensed at Dolores, whohad received her confidence without once telling her that Philip's lovehad long since been given to her, Antoinette hastened to her rival toreproach her for her duplicity. 

"Antoinette, what has happened?" exclaimed Dolores, seeing her friendenter pale and in tears. 

"I have discovered my mistake. It is not I who am beloved, it is you;and he has been entreating me to plead his cause and to persuade you togive him an answer that accords with his wishes! What irony could bemore bitter than that displayed by fate in making me the advocate towhom Philip has applied for aid in winning you? Ah! how deeply I amwounded! How terrible is my shame and humiliation! You would have sparedme this degradation if you had frankly told me that Philip loved youwhen I first confided my silly fancies to you. Why did you not confessthe truth? It was cruel, Dolores, and I believed you my friend, mysister!"

Sobs choked her utterance and she could say no more. Dolores, who hadsuffered and who was still suffering the most poignant anguish, nevertheless felt the deepest sympathy for her unhappy friend. Sheapproached her, gently wiped away her tears and said:

"It is true that Philip loves me, that he quite recently avowed his loveand that I refused to engage myself to him until I had had time forreflection; but it is equally true that after an examination of my heartI cannot consent to look upon him as other than a brother. I shall neverbe his wife; and if I have postponed the announcement of my decision, itwas only because I dislike to pain him by destroying the hopes to whichhe still seemed to cling. "

"What! he loves you and you will not marry him?" cried Antoinette, amazed at such an avowal. 

"I shall not marry him, " replied Dolores. "And now will you listen to myconfession? On seeing you arrive at the château, I said to myself: 'Hereis one who will be a suitable wife for Philip; and if my refusal rendershim unhappy, the love of Antionette will console him!'"

"You thought that!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, throwing herarms around her friend's neck. "And I have so cruelly misjudged you!Dolores, can you ever forgive me?"

A brave smile, accompanied by a kiss, was the response of Dolores; thenshe added:

"I not only forgive you, but I will do my best to insure yourhappiness. Philip shall love you. "

"Alas!" said Antoinette, "how can he love me when his heart is full ofyou, when his eyes follow you unceasingly? You are unconsciously a mostformidable rival, for Philip will never love me while you are by my sideand while he can compare me with you. "

"I will go away if necessary. "

"What, leave your home! Do you think I would consent to that? Never!"cried Antoinette. 

"But I can return to it the very day your happiness is assured. When youare Philip's wife you will go to Paris with him, and I can then returnto my place beside the Marquis. "

"Dolores! How good you are, and how much I love you!" exclaimedMademoiselle de Mirandol, clasping her friend in her arms. 

The words of Dolores had reassured her, had revived her hopes and driedher tears. When left alone, Dolores, exhausted by the ordeal throughwhich she had just passed, could at first form no plans for the future. She comprehended but one thing--she was still beloved. Philip'sfaithfulness and the intensity of the love which had just been revealedto her rendered the sacrifice still more difficult. It seemed to her shewould never have strength to accomplish it. 

"It must be done, " she said to herself, finally. 

And shaking off her weakness, she went in search of the Marquis. Theyhad a long conversation together. Dolores told him the whole truth. Itwas through her that the Marquis learned that she was loved by Philip, and that she loved him in return, but, being unwilling to place anyobstacle in the way of the plans long since formed with a view to therestoration of the glory of the house of Chamondrin, she had renouncedher hopes and yielded her place and her rights to Antoinette. TheMarquis had not the courage to refuse the proffered sacrifice, though hefully realized the extent of it. His dearest wishes were about to berealized. While he lamented the fate to which Dolores had condemnedherself, he was grateful for a decision that spared him theunpleasantness of a contest with his son, and which insured that son'smarriage to a rich heiress. Still, when Dolores told him that she haddecided to leave Chamondrin not to return until after Philip's marriage, he refused at first to consent to a separation. 

"But it is necessary, " replied Dolores. "So long as Philip sees me here, he will not relinquish his hopes. I am certain that he will not consentto renounce me unless he believes there is an impassable barrier betweenus, unless he believes me dead to the world and to love. Besides, youwould surely not require me to live near one whom I wish to forget. Ishall spend two years in a convent, and then I will return to you. "

M. De Chamondrin, touched by this heroism whose grandeur Dolores, in hersimplicity, did not seem to comprehend, pressed her to his heart in along embrace, covering her face with kisses and murmuring words oftenderness and gratitude in her ears. When they separated, he was notthe least moved of the two. Dolores next went in search of Philip. Shefound him at the Buissieres, the same place where he had entreatedAntoinette to intercede for him a few hours before. 

He saw her approaching. 

"She is coming to pronounce my sentence, " he thought. 

She was very calm. The sadness imprinted on her face did not mar itsserenity. 

"Antoinette has spoken to me, " she said, firmly, but quietly. "The fearof making you unhappy has until now deterred me from giving you theanswer for which you have been waiting; but after the events of thismorning, I must speak frankly. "

This introduction left Philip no longer in doubt. He uttered a groan, aswith bowed head he awaited the remainder of his sentence. 

"Courage, Philip, " Dolores continued: "Do not add to my sorrow by makingme a witness of yours. Since the day you opened your heart that I mightread there the feelings that burdened it, I have been carefullyexamining mine. I wished to find there signs of a love equal to yours; Ihave sought for them in vain. I love you enough to give you my blood andmy happiness, my entire life. I have always loved you thus--loved youwith that sisterly devotion that is capable of any sacrifice. But isthis the love you feel? Is this the love you would bestow upon me? No;and, as you see, my heart has remained obstinately closed against thepassion which I have inspired in you, and it would ever remain closedeven if I consented to unite myself with you more closely by the bondsof marriage. If I was weak enough to listen to you and to yield to yourwishes, I should only bring misery upon both of us. "

"Alas!" murmured Philip, "I cannot understand this. "

"How can I forget that for eighteen long years I have regarded you as abrother?" said Dolores, vainly endeavoring to console him. "Moreover, such a marriage would be impossible! Would it not be contrary to thewishes of your father? Would it not detract from the glory of the nameyou bear?"

"And what do the glory of my name and the wishes of my father matter tome?" exclaimed Philip, impetuously. "Was I brought into the world to bemade a victim to such absurd prejudices? For four years I have livedupon this hope. It has been destroyed to-day. What have I to lookforward to now? There is nothing to bind me to life, for, if yourdecision is irrevocable, I shall never be consoled. "

"Do not forget those who love you. "

"Those who love me! Where are they? I seek for them in vain. Do you meanmy father, who has reared me with a view to the gratification of his ownselfish ambition? Is it you, Dolores, who seem to take pleasure in mysufferings? My mother, the only human being who would have understood, sustained and consoled me, she is no longer here to plead my cause. "

Wild with grief and despair, he was about to continue his reproaches, but Dolores, whose powers of endurance were nearly exhausted, summonedall her courage and said coldly, almost sternly:

"You forget yourself, Philip! You are ungrateful to your father and tome; but even if you doubt our affection, can you say the same ofAntoinette?"

"Antoinette!"

"She loves you with the tenderest, most devoted affection. She has saidas much to me, and now that you know it, will you still try to convinceyourself that there are only unfeeling hearts around you?"

Philip, astonished by this revelation, became suddenly silent. Herecollected that he had confided his hopes and fears to Mademoiselle deMirandol that very morning; and when he thought of the trying positionin which he had placed her, and of what she must have suffered, his pitywas aroused. 

"If her sorrow equals mine, she is, indeed, to be pitied, " he said, sadly. 

"Why do you not try to assuage your own sorrow by consoling her?" askedDolores, gently. 

These words kindled Philip's anger afresh. 

"What power have I to annihilate the memory of that which at once charmsand tortures me?" he exclaimed. "Can I tear your image from its shrinein my heart and put that of Antoinette in its place? Do you think thatyour words will suffice to destroy the hopes I have cherished so long?Undeceive yourself, Dolores. I am deeply disappointed, but I will notgive you up. I will compel you to love me, if it be only through thepity which my despair will inspire in your heart. "

These frenzied words caused Dolores the most poignant anguish withoutweakening her determination in the least. She felt that she must destroythe hope to which Philip had just alluded--that this was the only meansof compelling him lo accept the love of Antoinette; so she said, gravely:

"I love you too much, Philip, to desire to foster illusions which willcertainly never be realized. My decision is irrevocable; and if youstill doubt the truth of my words, I will frankly tell you all. I ampromised----"

"Promised!" exclaimed Philip, with a menacing gesture for the unknownman who had dared to become his rival. "Promised!" he repeated. "Towhom?"

"To God!" responded Dolores, gently. "I have just informed your fatherof my determination to enter a convent!"

Philip recoiled in horror and astonishment; then covering his face withhis hands he fled through the lonely park, repeating again and again thename of her whom he so fondly loved but who would soon be lost to himforever. For some moments, Dolores remained motionless on the spot whereshe had just renounced her last hope of earthly happiness. Her eyesfollowed Philip in his frenzied flight, and, when he disappeared, shestretched out her hands with a gesture of mingled longing and despair. But the weakness that had made this courageous soul falter for aninstant soon vanished. She lifted her eyes toward Heaven as if imploringstrength from on high and then walked slowly in the direction of thechâteau. Suddenly, at a turn in the path, she met Coursegol. She had nottime to conceal her face and he saw her tears. The memory of the pastand the affection that filled his heart emboldened him to question onewhom he regarded in some degree, at least, as his own child. 

"Why do you weep, my dear Mademoiselle?" he asked, with anxioussolicitude. 

This question did not wound Dolores; on the contrary it consoled her. She had found some one in whom she could confide. There are hours whenthe heart longs to pour out its sorrows to another heart thatunderstands and sympathizes with its woes. Coursegol made his appearanceat a propitious moment. Dolores regarded him with something very likefilial affection; she had loved him devotedly even when she supposedherself the daughter of the Marquis de Chamondrin, and now that she knewher origin she regarded the son of a peasant as equal in every respectto a descendent of the gypsies, so she did not hesitate to open her soulto him. She told him of the conflicts through which she had passed andthe suffering they had caused her. She acknowledged the ardent love thathad given her courage and strength to sacrifice her own happiness; andshe wept before the friend of her childhood as unrestrainedly as shewould have wept before her own father. 

"I have been expecting this, " said Coursegol, sadly. "Poor children, thetruth was revealed too soon. You should have been left in ignoranceuntil one of you was married. Then you would not have thought ofuniting your destinies. Your mutual friendship would not have beentransformed into an unfortunate passion and all this misery would havebeen avoided. "

"It would have been far better, " replied Dolores. 

"And now what do you intend to do?" inquired Coursegol. 

"I shall enter a convent and remain there until Philip marries. "

"You in a convent! You, who are so gay, so full of life and health andexuberant spirits, immure yourself in a cloister! Impossible!"

"There is no alternative, " said Dolores, repeating to Coursegol what shehad already said to the Marquis. 

"I see that you must leave this house, but why do you select a cloisterfor your retreat?"

"Where else could I, alone and unprotected, find a refuge?"

"Do you not know that Coursegol is your friend, and that he is ready toleave everything and follow you? Where do you wish to go? I willaccompany you; I will serve and defend you. I have some little propertyand it is entirely at your disposal. "

He made this offer very simply, but in a tone that left no possibledoubt of his sincerity. Though she was touched by his devotion, Doloresfirmly refused. She explained that his place was at the château, andthat, as she expected to return there herself after Philip's marriage, aconvent would be the safest and most dignified retreat she could enter. 

"So be it, then, " responded Coursegol; "but should you ever change yourplans, remember that my life, my little fortune and my devotion areyours, to use as you see fit. "

His emotion, as he spoke, was even greater than hers. 

Early in the year 1789 Dolores entered the convent of the Carmelites inArles, not as a postulant--for she did not wish to devote herself to areligious life--but as a boarder, which placed a barrier between her andPhilip for the time being, but left her free to decide upon her future. 

Her departure filled Philip with despair. The death of Dolores could nothave caused him more intense sorrow. For was she not dead to him? Shehad carefully concealed the fact that her sojourn at the convent wouldnot be permanent. He supposed she had buried herself there forever. Hemourned for her as we weep for those that death wrests from us, destroying their lives and our happiness at a single blow; but the veryviolence of his grief convinced his father that he was not inconsolable. There are sorrows that kill; but, if they do not kill when they firstfall upon us, we recover; and this would be the case with Philip. Thecertainty that Dolores would never belong to another, that she hadrefused him only to give herself to God, was of all circumstances theone most likely to console him. The presence of Antoinette--who honestlybelieved all Dolores had said concerning the state of her heart and thepurely sisterly affection she felt for her adopted brother--and thetimid, shrinking love of the young girl also aided not a little inassuaging his grief. However ardent your passion may be, you becomereconciled to disappointment when the object of your love refuses youraffection only to consecrate herself to God, and when she leaves withyou as a comforter a companion who is her equal in gentleness and ingoodness, if not in energy and nobility of character. Without enteringinto other details, this sufficiently explains how Philip's passionategrief came to abate in violence. 

He wished to leave Chamondrin the very next day after the departure ofDolores, and to return to Versailles where his regiment was stillstationed; but his father's entreaties induced him to abandon thisproject. The Marquis assured him that he could not live abandoned byboth Dolores and his son, so Philip remained. This was one advantagegained for the Marquis. The causes previously referred to andAntoinette's charms accomplished the rest. Philip began to regard theirmarriage without aversion; but he would not consent to abruptly cast offone love for another. Time was needed for the transition. Even as hewould have mourned for Dolores dead, he wished to mourn the Dolores hehad lost, and to wait until his wounded heart was healed. He gave hisfather and also Mademoiselle de Mirandol to understand that, while hedid not reject the idea of this union which seemed so pleasing to them, he must be allowed to fix the date of it. His will was law with both;the Marquis wisely concealed his impatience; Antoinette displayed greatdiscretion, and matters were moving along smoothly when political eventswhich had become more and more grave in character suddenly complicatedthe situation. 

CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH HISTORY IS MINGLED WITH ROMANCE. 

The real awaking of the country, the real beginning of the Revolutiondates from the year 1789. What France had endured for half a centuryevery one knows. Every one also knows that, becoming weary of poverty, of the tyranny of the powerful, of the weakness of the king, of thesquandering of her treasure and of the intrigues of those in authority, and compelled to find a remedy within herself, the country demanded theconvocation of the États Généraux. The government at last decided toaccede to the entreaties that were heard on every side; and it wasduring the early part of the year 1789 that France was called upon toelect her representatives; while, from one end of the kingdom to theother, there was a general desire for a great and much needed reform. 

The south did not take a less active part in this movement than the restof the country. Provence and Languedoc were shaken to their centres. Inall the region round about the Gardon--at Nîmes, in Beaucaire in Arles, in Remoulins--political clubs were formed. The condition of thepeasantry, who had previously been condemned to a sort of slavery, suddenly changed. The weak became the strong; the timid became theaudacious; the humble became the proud; and from the mouth of anoppressed people issued a voice demanding liberty. This movement hadbeen ripe for some time among the lower classes, but it suddenly burstforth and revealed itself in all its mighty power in the convocation ofthe États Généraux. 

In Nîmes and the surrounding country, the agitation caused by this greatevent was increased by the remembrance of the religious warfare that hadbeen waged there between the Protestants and Catholics for more than acentury. This enmity blazed out afresh, greatly aggravating thebitterness naturally caused by the elections. Were not these last a merepretext invented by one sect to conceal their evil designs against theother? Was it only a conflict between the champions of the old and ofthe new régime, or were these excited men eager to take up arms oneagainst the other, mere fanatics ready to condemn others to martyrdomand to accept it themselves? History has not yet decided this importantquestion; and sectarian passion has not yet allowed an impartial criticto be heard. Still, it is a well-known fact that throughout the provinceof Languedoc, and notably in Nîmes, the political excitement was of themost virulent character. Blood flowed there even sooner than in Paris. The massacres at Nîmes preceded the celebrated massacres of September bymore than two years; and in Avignon, though this city was as yet Frenchonly in its situation and in the language of its inhabitants, the reignof terror was at its height in the mouth of October, 1791. 

In 1789, while the elections were in progress, signs of these comingevents began to manifest themselves. In Nîmes the Catholics andProtestants were bitterly denouncing one another, quarrelling over thelocal offices, and striving in every possible way to gain theascendancy. The Marquis de Chamondrin was a Catholic, but he was verytolerant and liberal in his opinions. One of his ancestors, at theimminent risk of exile, had boldly opposed the revocation of the Edictof Nantes. The Marquis shared the opinions of his ancestor; despotismfound no champion in him. He had read the philosophers of his time, andhe was convinced that equality in rights if not in fortunes could beestablished between men. He recognized the necessity of reform, but hedetested violence; and he exerted all his influence to securemoderation, to reconcile opponents and to draw men together. Thus atNîmes, on more than one occasion, he had prevented the effusion ofblood. But the passions were so strongly excited in that locality atthat time that his efforts as a moderator gained him but one thing, isolation. He drew down upon himself the hatred of those whom he wishedto calm; he did not even win the friendship of those whom he desired toprotect, and who, unless their peril was extreme, boldly declared thatthey were able to protect themselves. His popularity, cleverlyundermined by his enemies, soon became impaired, and, weary of thedissensions in which he was embroiled in spite of all his efforts, heshut himself up in his château, resolving to keep a philosophical watchover events, but to take no part in them. 

A few days later, the États Généraux assembled at Versailles; but theirtime was spent in bickerings and in sterile discussions while oppressedand panting France vainly awaited the salutary reforms they wereexpected to effect. From May, the date of their meeting, to the immortalnight of the Fourth of August, when the nation entered upon an era thatwas to atone for so many disasters, one event succeeded another withbewildering rapidity. The victorious resistance of the Third Estate tothe pretensions of the nobility and clergy; the proclamation of theking; the movement of the French Guards; their imprisonment; theirdeliverance by the people; the intrigues of the Orleans party; thetaking of the Bastile; the death of Foulon and of Berthier came oneafter another to accelerate the progress of the revolutionary movementwhich was already advancing rapidly. 

In 1790, famine was at the gates of Paris and threatened to spread overall France. Armed brigands, taking advantage of the general disorder, began to lay waste the provinces. In many parts of the country, thepeasants joined them; in others, they resisted them. These brigandsattacked the châteaux, they burned several and pillaged others. Finally, dread of a foreign foe was added to all these fears, and the peopleaccused the nobility of calling a foreign nation to their assistance. 

These are some of the many events that served to distract Philip deChamondrin's mind from his disappointment and delay his marriage toAntoinette de Mirandol. Anxious as the Marquis was to hasten thisunion, he shared the general apprehension too strongly to urge his sonto marry at such a time. The inmates of the château were troubled anddepressed. Gloomy news from the outer world reached them daily. Theking's life was believed to be in danger. A dozen times Philip hadalmost decided to start for Versailles to die, if need be, in theservice of his sovereign; but Coursegol succeeded in convincing him thathis presence was a necessity at Chamondrin, and that he could not goaway without leaving the Marquis and Antoinette exposed to the gravestperil. Coursegol had several reasons for dissuading his young masterfrom his purpose, the chief of which was that he did not wish to gohimself. In case of actual danger, he could be of great service to theMarquis. Thanks to his plebeian origin, to his many acquaintances and tohis reputation as a good fellow in Nîmes and in Beaucaire, he couldmingle with the crowd, converse with the peasantry, question theartisans and discover their temper and plans. In case the château wasattacked, he would also be able to make many friends for the Marquis andcall quite a number of defenders to his aid. Then, too, he could notendure the thought of going so far from Arles while Dolores was there, alone and defenceless, and might need his protection at any moment. 

So Philip did not go, but together with his father and Coursegol hebegan to make arrangements for the defence of the château. Theyaugmented their force by the addition of three or four men upon whosefidelity they could implicitly rely. Coursegol was also promised theservices of several peasants. The Marquis frequently visited the littletown of Remoulins, that lay a few miles from the château on the otherside of the Gardon, and he still had a few warm friends there, some ofwhom had desired to send him to the États Généraux. They, too, promisedto come to his assistance in case of an attack on the castle. If theformer masters of Chamondrin had been tyrants this was now forgotten. The large possessions which would have endowed them with feudal rightswere theirs no longer. For several years Dolores and the Marquise deChamondrin had endeavored to obliterate the memory of the past byvisiting the poor and the sick around them, and Antoinette de Mirandolhad perpetuated the memory of their good deeds by imitating theirexample. 

Hence they had nothing to apprehend from those in their immediateneighborhood; but they had every reason to fear the many lawless bandsthat were now scouring that region of country, ostensibly attractedthere by the fair that was to be held at Beaucaire in the month ofJuly--bands of armed and desperate men, who plundered and pillaged andlived by rapine. The Bohemians, too, who passed the Pont du Gard eachspring and autumn, inspired the inmates of the château with no slightdread, as it seemed more than likely they would take advantage of thegeneral disorder that prevailed to commit depredations upon any isolateddwellings that tempted their cupidity. Moreover, north of Nîmes therewere several villages whose fanatical and intensely excited inhabitantswere strongly urged by their leaders to make an attack upon theCatholics, who were accused of opposition to the reform movement. It wasrumored that these people intended to march upon Nîmes, burn the cityand put its population to the sword. Was there not good reason to fearthat these men, if they succeeded in this undertaking, would take itinto their heads to spread death and destruction beyond the walls ofNîmes. No apprehension was ridiculous, no prudence was exaggerated at atime when all France trembled. 

Such were the causes that had induced the Marquis and his son to preparefor an attack on the castle. In spite of their precautions, they couldnot conceal these preparations from Antoinette. She courageouslyassisted them, almost thankful for the perils that menaced their safety, since they detained Philip at the château. She loved him even moredevotedly than ever, and, if she shuddered sometimes at the thought thata life so precious to her might be endangered at any moment, shecomforted herself by thinking she would at least have the consolation ofdying with him. 

But the Marquis was beset by many scruples. He felt that he did wrong toexpose Antoinette to such danger, since she did not yet belong to hisfamily and since he had promised her dying father to protect her and herfortune until the day of her marriage. He finally decided to send her toEngland, which she would find a safer retreat than the Château deChamondrin. He confided this project to Antoinette, but he had scarcelybroached the subject when, the girl interrupted him with these words:

"If you love me, do not separate me from Philip!"

The Marquis could not resist this entreaty. Antoinette remained. 

While these events were taking place at the château, Dolores, immured inthe convent at Arles, was patiently awaiting the termination of theimprisonment she had voluntarily imposed upon herself. After a sojournof several months in this saintly house, she experienced a great relief. Solitude had calmed her sorrow. She still suffered, she would alwayssuffer, but she gathered from her faith and from noble resolutionsbravely accomplished that peace and resignation which a merciful Heavenbestows upon all sad hearts that appeal to it of aid. 

Dolores, as we have said before, entered the convent not as a novice, but as a boarder. From the founding of the institution, that is to say, from the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Carmelite nuns ofArles, in obedience to the wishes of their foundress, to whoseliberality they owed the building and grounds which they occupied, hadoffered an asylum to all gentlewomen who, from one cause or another, desired to dwell in the shelter of those sacred walls without obeyingthe rules of the order. Disconsolate widows, mothers mourning the lossof their children, and orphans affrighted by the world found a peacefulhome there and a quiet life which was not unfrequently a step towardsthe cloister. 

When Dolores went to live at the convent, the boarders were seven innumber, all older than herself. They accorded a cordial welcome to theyoung girl, who was soon at ease in their midst. Their life was verysimple. They lived in the convent, but not within the cloister. Risingat six in the morning, they attended service in the chapel with the nunsfrom whom they were separated by a grating. Between the hours of morningand evening service they were at liberty to spend their time in whateverway they chose. They all ate at the same table. Dolores spent her timein working for the needy and for the institution. She made clothing forpoor children; she embroidered altar cloths for the chapel; she visitedthe sick and destitute. Thus her life was peacefully devoted to prayerand good works. She frequently received tidings from the château, sometimes through letters written by the Marquis, sometimes throughCoursegol, who came to see her every month. She took a lively interestin all that pertained to those whom she had left only to give them a newproof of her affection and devotion. When Coursegol visited her, sheinvariably spoke of her longing to return to Chamondrin. She hoped thatPhilip and Antoinette would soon be married, and that she would be ableto go back to the loved home in which her happy childhood had beenspent. These hopes were never to be realized; that beloved home she wasdestined never to behold again. 

Early in June, Coursegol, in accordance with his usual habit, left thechâteau to pass a few days in Arles. He reached the city on thefourteenth, and, after visiting Dolores, left for home on the morning ofthe sixteenth. 

He made the journey on foot. The sky was slightly veiled by fleecy, white clouds that tempered the heat of the sun. The road between Arlesand Nîmes is charming, and Coursegol walked blithely along, inhalingwith delight the fresh morning breeze that came to him laden with thevivifying fragrance of the olive and cypress. As he approachedBeaucaire, a pretty village on the bank of the Rhone, he noticed that anunusual animation pervaded the place. Groups of peasants stood here andthere, engaged in excited conversation; every face wore an expression ofanxiety. He thought at first that these people must be going orreturning from some funeral; but he soon noticed that many were armed, some with guns, some with scythes. On reaching the centre of the town, he found the market-place full of soldiers; officers were giving excitedorders. It looked as if the town were arming to defend itself. 

"What does all this mean?" inquired Coursegol, addressing a little groupof townspeople. 

"Why, do you not know what has happened?" one man replied, in evidentastonishment. 

"I have heard nothing. I have just arrived from Arles. "

"Nîmes has been pillaged. The peasantry from the Cevennes have descendedupon the city and massacred three hundred people--laborers, bourgeois, priests and nuns. They are now masters of the place, and it is fearedthat a detachment of them is coming in this direction. We are makingready to receive them. "

"What! Have they advanced beyond Nîmes?" inquired Coursegol, appalled bythis news. 

"Some of them advanced last night as far as the Pont du Gard. Therethey sacked and burned the Château de Chamondrin!"

A ghastly pallor overspread Coursegol's features; he uttered a cry ofhorror. 

"What is the matter?" asked the man who had just apprised him of thisterrible calamity. 

"My masters!--where are my masters?" cried poor Coursegol. 

Then, without waiting for the response which no one could give, hedarted off like a madman in the direction of the Pont du Gard. 

Although the events that took place in Nîmes early in 1790 have neverbeen clearly explained by an impartial historian, we have reason tosuppose that the public sentiment prevailing there at the time wasunfavorable to the Revolution. The Catholics of the south becameindignant when they learned that the Assembly wished to reform theCatholic Church without consulting the Pope. From that day, they werethe enemies of the Revolution. Their protests were energetic, and fromprotests they passed to acts. The Catholics took up arms ostensibly todefend themselves against the Protestants, but chiefly to defend theirmenaced religion. The Protestants, who were in communication with theirreligious brethren in Paris and Montauban, were also ready to take thefield at any moment. A regiment was quartered in the city. Thesympathies of the officers were with the Catholics, who represented thearistocracy in their eyes; the soldiers seemed to favor theProtestants--the patriots. This division brought a new element ofdiscord into the civil war. This condition of affairs lasted severalmonths. A conflict between some of the National Guards--Catholics--and acompany of dragoons was the signal for a struggle that had becomeinevitable. The Protestants of Nîmes sided with the dragoons; theCatholics espoused the cause of the National Guards. Several of theselast were killed. This happened on the 13th of June. The following day, bands of peasants, summoned to the aid of the Protestants from thecountry north of Nîmes, descended upon the city. They entered it in anorderly manner, as if animated by peaceful intentions; but many of themen were either half-crazed fanatics or wretches who were actuated by adesire for plunder. They ran through the streets, becoming more and moreexcited until their fury suddenly burst forth and they rushed wildlyabout the city, carrying death and devastation in their track. There wasa Capuchin monastery at Nîmes. They invaded this first, slaying thepriests at the foot of the altar in the church that still retains theineffaceable stain of their blood. The assassins then hastened to themonastery of the Carmelites. The monks had fled. They sacked the church, and then plundered a number of private houses. The bandits showed nomercy. They opened a vigorous cannonade upon the tower of Froment wheremany had taken refuge. In three days three hundred persons perished. 

At the news of these massacres a cry of rage and terror rose from theCatholic villages on the banks of the Rhone and the Gardon. The cry wasthis:

"They are slaughtering our brothers at Nîmes!"

The influential men immediately assembled and counselled the frightenedand indignant populace to take up arms in their own defence. The tocsinwas sounded, and in a few hours several hundred men had assembled nearthe Pont du Gard, ready to march upon Nîmes and punish the wretches whohad slain the innocent and defenceless. By unanimous consent the Marquisde Chamondrin was made one of the leaders of this hastily improvisedarmy. He accepted the command with a few eloquent words, urging his mento do their duty, and the army took up its line of march. Some gypsies, who chanced to be near the Pont du Gard at the time, brought up therear, hoping that the fortunes of war would gain them an entrance intothe city of Nîmes that they might pillage and steal without restraint. 

This manifestation of wrath on the part of the inhabitants of thesurrounding country terrified the assassins, and most of them took toflight; but those who lived in Nîmes and who were alarmed for their ownsafety and that of their families resolved to avert the blow thatmenaced them. 

There are traitors in every party, men ready to sell or to be sold; menfor whom treason and infamy are pathways to wealth. There were some ofthese men in the Catholic ranks, and promises of gold induced them to goout and meet the approaching army and assure its leaders that order wasre-established at Nîmes and that their entrance into the city would onlyoccasion a fresh outbreak. These emissaries accomplished their mission;and that same evening all these men who had left home that morningthirsting for vengeance returned quietly to their firesides. 

But, unfortunately, the Marquis de Chamondrin had taken such an activepart in this demonstration that he had deeply incensed the assassins;and the more ferocious of them resolved to wreak vengeance upon him bypillaging and burning his château. A conspiracy was organized, and thefollowing night about forty men of both parties, or rather the scum andrefuse of both, started for Chamondrin. They knew the castle had but asmall number of defenders, and that Coursegol, the most formidable ofthese, was absent at the time. They also knew that the isolatedsituation of the château afforded its inmates little chance of succor, and that, if they could succeed in surprising it, they could accomplishtheir work of destruction before the inhabitants of Remoulins and thesurrounding villages could come to the aid of the Marquis and hishousehold. The plan was decided upon in a few hours; and the disorderthat prevailed throughout the country, the inertness of the authoritiesand the want of harmony among the soldiery, all favored its execution. 

About nine o'clock in the evening, the bandits stole quietly out ofNîmes. They reached the Pont du Gard a little before midnight and haltedthere to receive their final instructions before ascending the hill uponthe summit of which stood the Château de Chamondrin. 

Here, they were joined by a dozen or more Bohemians who were encampednear by, the same men who had accompanied the Catholics on theirexpedition that same morning. They approached the bandits in the hopethat a new army was in process of organization for an attack upon thecity, and that they might accompany it. When they saw the band proceedin the direction of the château, they straggled along in the rear. Likehungry vultures, they seemed to scent a battle from which they mightderive some profit. 

The household at Chamondrin chanced to be astir late that evening. TheMarquis, Philip, Antoinette, the curé of Remoulins and two or threelanded proprietors living in the vicinity were in the drawing-room. After such a day of excitement, no one could think of sleep. They werediscussing the events that had occurred at Nîmes, and deploring thedeath of the victims. They were anxiously asking if the blood that hadbeen shed would be the last, and were endeavoring to find means toprevent the repetition of such a calamity. When the clock struck thehour of midnight, the curé of Remoulins, an energetic old man namedPeretty, rose to return to the village. The other visitors, whose homeslay in the same direction and whose carriages were waiting in thecourt-yard, followed his example. Suddenly a frightened cry broke thesilence of the night. Followed by the others present, Philip rushed tothe door. The cry had come from the man who guarded the gate. 

"We are attacked!" exclaimed this man on seeing Philip. 

At a glance the latter understood the extent and the imminence of theirdanger. The bright moonlight revealed a terrible sight. The besiegershad found only one opening through which they could effect an entranceinto the château; but even there a heavy gate composed of strong ironbars opposed their passage. This gate was very high, and the bars weresecurely fastened to each other, while the top was surmounted by sharppickets. Still, the bandits were not discouraged. Half-crazed with furyand with wine, they climbed this formidable barrier with the hope ofleaping over it. It seemed to bend beneath their weight. The massivebolts trembled, the ponderous hinges creaked, as fifty or morerepulsive-looking wretches, the majority of them clad in rags, hurledthemselves against the gate, uttering shrieks of baffled rage. One wouldhave supposed them wild beasts trying to break from their cage. 

"To arms!" cried Philip. 

He ran to the lower hall, which was used as an armory. His father, thevisitors and the servants, who were all devoted to the Chamondrinfamily, followed him, while Antoinette stood watching in alarm thisformidable horde of invaders. 

The Abbé Peretty advanced towards the intruders. 

"What do you desire, my friends?" he asked, calmly. 

"Open the gates!" responded the less excited among the crowd. 

"We want Chamondrin's head!" exclaimed others. 

"Have you any just cause of complaint against the Marquis?" persistedthe abbé, striving to calm the furious throng. 

"Death to the aristocrats!" the crowd responded with one voice. 

One man went so far as to point his gun at the venerable priest, who, without once losing his sang-froid, recrossed the court-yard, keepinghis face turned towards the excited band outside, and rejoined hiscompanions, who under the leadership of the Marquis and Philip were justemerging from the hall, armed to the teeth. 

"They will not listen to reason, " said the Abbé Peretty, calmly!

"Then we will defend ourselves, and woe be unto them!"

As he uttered these words, the Marquis turned to Mademoiselle deMirandol, around whom the women of the château were crowding, half-crazed with terror. 

"Go into the house; your place is not here, " said he. 

"My place is by your side!" replied Antoinette. 

"No, my dear Antoinette; it is madness to expose yourself unnecessarily. I know you are courageous, but you can be of far greater service to usby quieting these poor, shrieking creatures. "

While this conversation was going on, Philip advanced to the gate. Itstill resisted the efforts of the assailants, some of whom wereendeavoring to climb over the roofs of the pavilions that stood oneither side of the entrance to the château. 

"I command you to retire!" cried Philip. 

Angry threats of "Death" resounded afresh. 

"Then I hold you responsible for any disasters that may occur!" Philipreplied. 

At the same moment the impetuous youth raised his gun and fired, wounding one of the men who had climbed the gate and was preparing toleap down into the court-yard. Imprecations broke forth anew and thecombat began. Nothing could be heard but a vigorous fusillade, accompanied by the shouts of the besiegers and the besieged. These lastwere so few in number that they dare not dispatch one of their littlecompany to Remoulins for aid. Besides, they were not sure that the bandnow assailing them would not be followed by others that would waylaytheir messenger; but they hoped that their shouts and the sound of thefiring would arouse the inhabitants of the sleeping town. The Marquisfought with the desperation of a man who is defending his outragedfireside, and Philip struggled with the energy of despair. He wasfighting for his father and for Antoinette. He shuddered when he thoughtof the horrible fate that awaited the young girl if these brutes, moreformidable than any wild beasts, were victorious. Even the Abbé Perettyhad armed himself. The servants and the friends of the house conductedthemselves like heroes, but, unfortunately, Coursegol was far fromChamondrin, and the defenders of the château sadly missed his valiantarm. 

The assailants were still crowding against the gate, uttering howls offury. They were poorly armed. Only a few had guns, the others brandishedhatchets and pickaxes, crying:

"Tear down the gate!"

But, when the firing began, they left this dangerous position andretired perhaps twenty feet, where they hid behind the trees, firing atrandom, sometimes trying to advance, but always driven back with loss. Five or six of them were already stretched upon the grass, but thedefenders of the castle were unhurt. The gypsies had retreated to asafe distance, where they stood impatiently awaiting the conclusion ofthe struggle, ready to fall upon the vanquished as soon as they becameunable to defend themselves. 

Meanwhile Antoinette, surrounded by four or five women, was upon herknees in the drawing-room, praying fervently, her heart sick withanguish and fear. How ardently she wished herself a man that she mightfight by Philip's side! The firing suddenly ceased. Philip entered theroom. His face was pale, but stained here and there by smoke and powder;his head was bare; his clothing disordered. Grief and despair wereimprinted upon his countenance. 

"We must fly!" he exclaimed. 

And taking Antoinette by the hand he led her through the long corridoropening into the park. The frightened women followed them. In the parkthey met the defenders of the château, carrying a wounded man in theirarms. 

Antoinette uttered a cry of consternation. 

"Ah! I would have fought until death!" exclaimed Philip, despairingly, "but we were overpowered; the gate was torn down; my father was wounded. He must be saved from the hands of the bandits at any cost, so we wereforced to retreat. "

Antoinette walked on like one in a frightful dream. If Philip had notsupported her she would have fallen again and again. They walked besidethe Marquis, who was still conscious, though mortally wounded in thebreast. When he saw his son and Antoinette beside him, he looked at themwith sorrowful tenderness, and even attempted to smile as if toconvince them that he was not suffering. 

The little band proceeded with all possible speed to a smallsummer-house concealed in the pines and shrubbery. Nothing could be moremournful than this little procession of gloomy-visaged men and weepingwomen, fleeing through the darkness to escape the assassins who were nowmasters of the castle, destroying everything around them and makingnight hideous with their ferocious yells. At last they reached thesummer-house. The Marquis was deposited upon a hastily improvised bed;the Abbé Peretty, assisted by Philip and Antoinette, attempted to dresshis wound; and two men started in the hope of reaching Remoulins by acircuitous route, in order to bring a physician and call upon theinhabitants of the village for aid. 

An hour went by; it seemed a century. In the gloomy room where theseunfortunates had taken refuge no sound broke the stillness save themoans of the Marquis and the voice of the Abbé Peretty, as he utteredoccasional words of consolation and encouragement to assuage the muteanguish of Philip and the despair of the weeping Antoinette. Then allwas still again. 

Philip's agony was terrible. His father dying; his home in the hands ofvandals, who were ruthlessly destroying the loved and cherished objectsthat had surrounded him from infancy, Antoinette, crushed by thedisasters of this most wretched night, this was the terrible picturethat rose before him. To this torture was added the despair caused by asense of his utter powerlessness. Gladly would he have rushed back tothe château to die there, struggling with his enemies, but he wasprevented by the thought of Antoinette, who was now dependent upon himfor protection. He was engrossed in these gloomy thoughts when a strangecrackling sound attracted his attention, and at the same moment a man, who had ventured out into the park to watch the proceedings of the enemyrushed back, exclaiming:

"They are burning the château!"

The tidings of this new misfortune overpowered Philip and almost berefthim of reason. He ran to the door. A tall column of flame and smoke wasmounting to the sky; the trees were tinged with a crimson light, and thecrackling of the fire could be distinctly heard above the hooting andyelling of the infuriated crowd. His eyes filled with tears, but he wasdashing them away preparatory to returning to his father when the AbbéPeretty joined him. 

"Courage, my poor boy!" said the good priest. 

"I will be brave, sir. I can cheerfully submit to the loss of ourpossessions, but to the death of my father, I----"

He could not complete the sentence. The abbé, who had lost all hope, wassilent for a moment; then he said:

"There is something I must no longer conceal from you. After the châteauis destroyed, I fear these wretches will search the park in order todiscover our retreat. I do not fear for myself. I shall remain with theMarquis. They will respect a dying man and a white-haired priest; butyou, Philip, must remain here no longer. Make your escape withMademoiselle de Mirandol without delay. "

"I cannot abandon my father, " replied Philip. "If our hiding-place isdiscovered, we will defend ourselves--we will fight until death!"

The priest said no more, and they both returned to the bedside of theMarquis. On seeing them, the latter, addressing his son, inquired:

"The château is on fire, is it not?"

Philip's reply seemed to cause the Marquis intense anguish; but, after amoment, he motioned to his son to come nearer; then he said. 

"Listen, Philip. You must leave France. This unhappy country is about toenter upon a series of misfortunes which neither you nor I can foresee, and of which you will certainly be a victim if you remain here. You mustdepart, Philip. Think, my son, you will be the sole heir of the house ofChamondrin. "

"You will recover, father. "

"No; death is close at hand. It is so near that I cannot deceive myself;so, Philip, I wish you to grant one of my dearest wishes. I wish, beforeI die, to feel assured that the family of Chamondrin will beperpetuated. Consent to marry Antoinette. "

Philip, as we have said before, had already tacitly consented to thismarriage. Since he had lost all hope of winning Dolores, the thought ofwedding another was no longer revolting to him. 

"I am ready to obey you, father, " he replied, "but will you allow me toremind you that Mademoiselle de Mirandol is rich and that I havenothing. "

The Marquis checked him and, calling Antoinette, said in a voice thatwas becoming weaker and weaker:

"Antoinette, Philip is poor; his position is gone; the favor of the kingwill avail him nothing in the future, and the power has passed into thehands of our enemies; nevertheless, will you consent to marry him?"

"If he desires it, " exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, "and never was Iso grateful for my wealth!"

Philip pressed the hand of the noble girl, and the face of the Marquiswas transfigured with joy in spite of his agony. Then M. De Chamondrinresumed:

"You must leave the country, my children, and marry as soon ascircumstances will permit. You must stay in foreign lands until Francerecovers her reason. Promise to obey me. "

They promised in voices choked with sobs. 

"Abbé, " continued the Marquis, "bless these children!"

Without exchanging another word, Philip and Antoinette, in obedience tothe wishes of the dying man, knelt before the priest. The latter, employing the solemn formula which makes bride and bridegroomindissolubly one, asked Mademoiselle de Mirandol if she would acceptPhilip as her husband, and Philip if he would take Antoinette for hiswife, and when they had answered in the affirmative, he added:

"I cannot here, and under such circumstances, unite you by the bonds ofmarriage; but until the vows you have just exchanged can be consecratedby the church, I, as the witness of this covenant, shall pray God tobless you. "

"I am satisfied, " said the Marquis, faintly. "Father, grant meabsolution. "

Antoinette and Philip remained upon their knees. A quarter of an hourlater the Marquis expired. Just as he breathed his last, the same manwho discovered the firing of the château, and who had again returned tothe park to watch the movements of the enemy, burst into the room. 

"They are searching the park! They are coming this way!" he cried, breathlessly. 

The curé, who had been engaged in prayer, rose. 

"Fly!" he exclaimed. 

"My place is here!" replied Philip. 

Antoinette gave him a look of approval. 

"In the name of the Father, who has commanded you to love, I order youto fly!"

And, as he spoke, the priest pointed to the door. 

"But who will give him burial?" exclaimed Philip. 

"I will; go!" replied the abbé. 

Antoinette and Philip were compelled to obey. 

The priest was left alone with the lifeless body of M. De Chamondrin. Heknelt, and, as calmly as if he were in his own presbytery, recited theprayers the church addresses to Heaven for the souls of the dead. Theflickering light of a nearly consumed candle dimly illumined the room. The world without was bathed in a flood of clear moonlight. Themarauders ran about the park, shouting at the top of their voices, uprooting plants and shrubbery, breaking the statuary and the marblevases, and expending upon inanimate objects the fury they were unable tovent upon the living. 

Suddenly, one of them discovered the summer-house. The door was open; heentered. Some of his comrades followed him. A priest with white, flowinglocks rose at their entrance, and, pointing to the couch upon which thedead body of the Marquis was reposing, said:

"Death has passed this way! Retire--"

He was not allowed to complete his sentence. A violent blow from an axefelled him to the ground, his skull, fractured. They trampled his bodyunder foot, then one of the assassins applied a burning torch to thefloor. The flames rose, licking each portion of the building with theirfiery tongues. Then the shameless crowd departed to continue their workof destruction. The sacking of the château occupied three hours. Thepillagers had not retired when the approach of the National Guard ofRemoulins, coming too late to the assistance of the Marquis, wasdiscovered by one of the ruffians, and they fled in every direction toescape the punishment they merited. 

When Coursegol, wild with anxiety, reached the château on the day thatfollowed this frightful scene, only the walls remained standing. Of theimposing edifice in which he was born there was left only bare andcrumbling walls. The farm-house and the summer-house had shared the samefate; and in the park, thickly strewn with prostrate trees and debris, acrowd of gypsies and beggars were searching for valuables spared by thefire. Coursegol could not repress a cry of rage and despair at thesight; but how greatly his sorrow was augmented when he learned that twodead bodies, those of the Marquis and of the Abbé Peretty had beendiscovered half-consumed in the still smoking ruins. 

Were Philip and Antoinette also dead? No one knew. 

One person declared that he saw them making their escape. Thisuncertainty was more horrible to Coursegol than the poignant realitybefore his eyes. He flung himself down upon the seared turf, and there, gloomy, motionless, a prey to the most frightful despair, he weptbitterly. 

CHAPTER VI. 

PARIS IN 1792. 

On the third of September, 1792, about eleven o'clock in the morning, atall, stalwart man, with an energetic face and sunburned hands, andaccompanied by a young woman, might have been seen approaching theBarriere du Trone. Both were clad in the garb worn by the peasantry ofsouthern France. The young woman wore the costume of a Provençalepeasant girl, and carried upon her arm a short, dark cloak, which sheused as a protection against the cool night air, but which she did notrequire now in the heat of the day. The man wore a suit of blackfustian, a foxskin cap, blue stockings and heavy shoes. The expressionof weariness imprinted upon their features and the dust that coveredtheir garments proved that their journey had been long. As they nearedthe gateway, the man, who was carrying a heavy valise in his hand, paused to take breath. His companion followed his example, and, as theyseated themselves by the roadside, she cast an anxious glance at thecity. 

"Do you think they will allow us to pass?" she murmured, frightenedalready at the thought of being subjected to the examination of thesoldiers who guarded the gate. 

"Are not our passports all right?" demanded her companion. "If wewished to leave Paris it would be quite another matter; but as we merelydesire to enter the city, there will be no difficulty. Have no fears, Mademoiselle; they will not detain us long at the gate. "

"Coursegol, stop calling me Mademoiselle. Call me your daughter. If youdo not acquire the habit of doing so, you will forget some day and thenall will be discovered. "

"I know my rôle, and I shall play it to perfection when we are beforestrangers, but, when we are alone, I cannot forget that I am only yourservant. "

"Not my servant; but my friend, my father. Have you not always felt forme the same affection and solicitude you would have entertained for yourown daughter?"

Coursegol responded only by a look; but this look proved that Doloreshad spoken the truth and that the paternal love, of which he had givenabundant proofs in the early part of this history, had suffered nodiminution. 

"If you had only been willing to listen to me, " he remarked, after a fewmoment's silence, "we should have remained in the village where thecoach stopped. There we could have awaited a more propitious opportunityto reach our journey's end. "

"I was too eager to reach the city. It seems to me that, in approachingParis, I am nearing Philip and Antoinette. If they are still living, weshall certainly find them in Paris. "

"Oh! they are living; I am sure of it; but is it not likely that theyhave emigrated? In that case, why should we remain in a city that is sofull of danger for us?"

"We can lead a quiet and retired life there! No one will know us and weshall have better facilities for obtaining news in Paris than in avillage. My heart tells me that we are not far from our friends. "

"God grant it, my child, " responded Coursegol; "and if, as I hope, Bridoul has not forgotten his friend of former days, we shall soon besafe in his house. "

"Are you not sure of his friendship?" inquired Dolores, anxiously. 

"Can we place implicit confidence in any one as times are now?" returnedCoursegol. "Bridoul was my comrade in the army. He loved me, and he wasdevoted to Monsieur Philip, our captain. But to-day the remembrance ofsuch a friendship is a crime. It must be forgotten; and fear sometimesrenders the bravest hearts cowardly and timorous. Still, I do notbelieve Bridoul has changed. But we shall soon know. Now, let us go on, my dear daughter, and show no anxiety if they question us at the gate. "

"Have no fear, father, " replied Dolores, with a smile. 

Coursegol picked up his valise, and boldly approached the gate. Doloresfollowed him, striving to quiet the throbbings of her heart; she wasmore troubled in mind now than she had been during the whole of the longjourney. As they were passing through the gateway, a sentinel stoppedthem and made them enter a small house occupied by the detachment of theNational Guard, which was deputized to watch over the safety of Parisfrom this point. The post was commanded by a young lieutenant, a mereboy with a beardless face. On seeing a beautiful girl enter, followed byan aged man, he rose, and turning to his soldiers:

"What is the meaning of this?" he inquired. 

"I wish to enter the city, lieutenant, " volunteered Coursegol, withoutwaiting to be questioned. 

"Enter Paris! You have chosen a nice time! There are many people in itwho would be only too glad to make their escape. Who is this citoyenne?"added the officer, pointing to Dolores. 

"That is my daughter. "

"Be seated, citoyenne, " said the lieutenant, politely offering Doloreshis own chair. 

She accepted it, and the examination continued. 

"From whence do you come?"

"From Beaucaire. "

"Afoot?"

"No, citizen; we left the coach at Montgeron. The driver had no otherpassengers, and, when he heard of the troubles in Paris, he declared hewould wait there until they were over. His coach was loaded withmerchandise, and he feared it would be taken from him. "

"Does he take patriots for bandits?" exclaimed the officer, angrily. "IfI am on guard here when his coach enters the city, he will receive thelesson he deserves. You said you had passports, I think?"

"Here they are!"

The officer took the papers that Coursegol handed him and examined themcarefully. 

"These papers were drawn up two years ago, " said he. "Where have youspent these years?"

"My daughter has been ill and we were obliged to stop at numerous placeson the way. We made long sojourns at Dijon and at Montereau; but youwill notice, citizen, the passports bear the endorsement of theauthorities of those towns. "

"So I perceive. Very well, you will be taken before the Commissionersand if your papers prove all right, as I believe they are, you will beallowed to remain in the city. "

The young lieutenant turned away to give an order to one of hissoldiers; then suddenly he approached Coursegol and said kindly, in alow voice:

"You seem to be worthy people, and I should be very sorry if anymisfortune happened to you. Paris is not a safe abode just now. Yesterday they began to put the prisoners to death, and, perhaps, youand your daughter would do well to wait until the fury of the populaceis appeased. "

"But we belong to the people, " replied Coursegol. "We have nothing tofear; moreover, I know a good patriot who will be responsible for us ifnecessary: Citizen Bridoul, who keeps a wine-shop on the Rue Antoine. "

"At the sign of the Bonnet Rouge?" cried the officer. 

"The very same, " replied Coursegol, boldly, though until now he had beenignorant of the sign which distinguished his friend Bridoul'sestablishment. 

"Bridoul is a true patriot. Thanks to him, you will incur no risk! Youwill now be conducted to the Commissioners. "

"Many thanks for your kindness, lieutenant, " said Coursegol. 

And taking Dolores' arm in his, he followed the soldier who was toconduct them to the municipal authorities. There, they underwent a freshexamination, and Coursegol responded as before. As people who desired toenter Paris at such a time could hardly be regarded with suspicion, Coursegol and Dolores were walking freely about the streets of the citya few moments later, surprised and alarmed at the sights that met theireyes at every turn. The last witnesses of the grand revolutionary dramaare disappearing every day. Age has bowed their heads, blanched theirlocks and enfeebled their memories. Soon there will remain none of thosewhose testimony might aid the historian of that stormy time in hissearch after truth; but among the few who still survive and who in theyear 1792 were old enough to see and understand and remember, there arenone upon whom the recollection of those terrible days in September isnot indelibly imprinted. Since the tenth of August, Paris had beendelivered up to frenzy and bloodshed. The arrest of the royal family, the rivalry between the Commune and the Convention, the bitter debatesat the clubs and the uprising of the volunteers were more than enough tothrow the great city into a state of excitement, disorder and terror. Business was paralyzed; the stores were for the most part closed; thearistocratic portions of the city deserted; emigration had deprivedFrance of thousands of her citizens; the streets were filled with afierce, ragged crowd; the luxury upon which the artisan depended for alivelihood was proscribed; famine was knocking at the gates; gold haddisappeared; places of amusement were broken up; the gardens and thegalleries of the Palais-Royal alone remained--the only rendezvousaccessible to those who, even while looking forward to death, frantically desired to enjoy the little of life that remained. Such wasthe aspect of affairs in Paris. 

With the last days of August came the news of the capture of Longwy bythe Prussians, the siege of Terdun, and the warlike preparations ofRussia and Germany. This was more than enough to excite the terror ofthe Parisians and to arouse their anger against those whom they calledaristocrats and whom they accused of complicity with the enemies of thenation. 

On the 29th of August, by the order of the Commune, the gates wereclosed. It was impossible to enter Paris without a passport endorsed byexaminers appointed for the purpose. No one was allowed to leave thecity on any pretext whatever. The Parisians were virtually prisoners. Every house, every apartment was visited by inspectors. Rich and poorwere alike compelled to submit. Every suspicious article was seized, andthe man in whose dwelling it was discovered was arrested. The inspectorsperformed their tasks with unnecessary harshness, ruthlessly destroyingany valuable object upon which they could lay their hands. They rappedupon the walls to see if they contained any secret hiding-place; theypierced the mattresses with their swords and poignards. After thesevisits thousands of citizens were arrested and conducted to the Hotelde Ville, where many were detained for thirty hours without food, awaiting their turn to appear before the members of the Commune. Aftertheir examination some were released; others were thrown into theprisons, which were soon crowded to such a degree that there was notroom for a single newcomer by the first of September. If room could notbe found, room must be made; and the following day, the second ofSeptember, twenty-four prisoners, chiefly priests, were led before themayor, adjudged guilty of treason, crowded into fiacres and taken to theAbbaye, where they were executed immediately on their arrival. 

After this, their first taste of blood, the executioners hastened to theChâtelet and to the Conciergerie, where they wrought horrors that thepen refuses to describe, sentencing to death the innocent and the guiltywithout giving them any opportunity to defend themselves. Night did notappease the fury of the butchers. On the third of September they killedagain at the Abbaye, at the Force and at the Bernardins prisons; and onthe fourth they continued their work of death at La Salpêtriere andBicêtre. 

For three days the tocsin sounded. Bands of sans-culottes andtricoteuses, thirsting for blood, traversed the streets, uttering criesof death; and no one seemed to think of checking their sanguinary fury. A prey to a truly remarkable panic, when we consider the relativelysmall number of assassins, the terrified citizens remained shut up intheir houses. The National Assembly seemed powerless to arrest thehorrors of these tragical hours; the Commune seemed to favor them. 

Of all those days that inspire us with such horror, even now, after thelapse of nearly a century, the darkest was that which witnessed theexecution of the Princesse de Lamballe, who perished for no other crimethan that of love for the queen. Beheaded, and thrown at first upon apile of corpses, her body was afterwards despoiled of its clothing andexposed to the view of an infamous mob. One of the bandits dared toseparate from this poor body, defiled with mud, and later by the handsof its murderers, the lovely head that had surmounted it; others, dividing it with a brutality that nothing could soften, quarrelled overthe bleeding fragments. Then began a frightful massacre. Like wildbeasts, bearing these spoils of the head as trophies of victory, theband of assassins rushed down the Rue de Sicile to carry terror to theheart of Paris. 

It was nearly noon when Coursegol and Dolores, having passed theBastile, entered the Rue Saint Antoine to find a dense crowd of men, women and ragged children yelling at one another and singing coarsesongs. Some of the National Guard were among the throng; and they werestopped every few moments by the people to shout: "Vive la Nation!" thepatriotic cry that lent courage to the hearts of the soldiers of theRepublic nobly fighting for the defence of our frontiers, but which hadbeen caught up and was incessantly vociferated by the ruffians whoinaugurated the Reign of Terror. All carriages that attempted to passthrough this moving crowd were stopped, and their occupants were obligedto prove their patriotism by mingling their acclamations with those ofthe mob. The audacity and brutality of the sans-culottes knew no bounds. Woe to him who allowed his face to betray his sentiments, even for amoment! Terror, pity, sadness, these were crimes to be cruelly expiated. 

Coursegol had hesitated to enter the Rue Saint Antoine. He feared tocome in contact with this excited multitude, but the more alarming thegreat city which she saw for the first time appeared to Dolores, themore anxious she was to find shelter at Bridoul's house. But Bridoul'shouse was in the Rue Saint Antoine; and, to reach it, it was absolutelynecessary to make their way through the crowd, or to wait until it haddispersed. But when would it disperse? Was it not dangerous to remainmuch longer without an asylum and a protector? This thought terrifiedDolores, and, longing to reach her place of destination, she urgedCoursegol to proceed. 

At first, they advanced without much difficulty, following the throngthat seemed to be wending its way in the same direction as themselves;but when they had passed the Palais-Royal, they were obliged to slackentheir pace, and soon to stop entirely. The crowd formed an impassablebarrier against which they were pressed so closely by those behind thatDolores was nearly suffocated, and Coursegol, to protect her, placed herbefore him, extending his arms to keep off the excited throng. 

In the midst of the tumult which we have attempted to describe, Coursegol was troubled, not so much by the impatience of Dolores as bythe doubts that beset him when he thought of Bridoul. He had not seenthe latter for three years. He only knew that his comrade, on quittingthe army, had purchased a wine merchant's establishment; but, on hearingthat his former friend sold his merchandise at the sign of the BonnetRouge, he asked himself in alarm if he would not find, instead of afriend, a rabid patriot who would refuse to come to the aid of theex-servant of a Marquis. These reflections had made him silent andanxious until now; but, finding his progress checked by the crowd, thethought of inquiring the cause of this excitement occurred to him. Addressing a man who was standing a few steps from him, and who, judgingfrom his impassive features, seemed not to share the emotions of whichhe was a witness, Coursegol inquired:

"What is going on, my friend?"

"What is going on!" replied the stranger, not without bitterness. "Theyare carrying the head of the Princesse de Lamballe through the streetsof Paris!"

Coursegol could not repress a movement of horror and of pity. On severaloccasions, when he had accompanied Philip to the house of the Duke dePenthieore, he had seen the Princess who had befriended his youngmaster. At the same time, the thought that Dolores might be obliged towitness such a horrible exhibition frightened him, and he resolved tofind some way to spare the girl the shameful spectacle that the eagercrowd was awaiting. Suddenly Dolores, who had been standing on the samespot for some time, discovered that the soil beneath her feet had becomewet and slippery, and, turning to Coursegol, she said:

"I am standing in water. "

Coursegol drew back and forced the crowd to give way a trifle, soDolores could have a little more standing-room. Thanks to his exertions, she could breathe once more; but, chancing to look down upon the ground, she uttered an exclamation of consternation. 

"Blood! It is blood!" she exclaimed, in horror. 

Coursegol's eyes followed hers. She was not mistaken. She was standingin a pool of blood, and not far off lay a body that the crowd hadtrampled upon only a few moments before. 

"But where are we?" murmured the terrified Coursegol. 

The man to whom he had previously spoken drew a little nearer and said:

"You are, perhaps, a hundred paces from the prison where they executedthe prisoners scarcely an hour ago. "

Then, drawing still nearer, so that no one save Coursegol could hearhim, he added:

"Advise that young girl not to cry out again as she did just now. Ifsome of these fanatics had heard her, she would have fared badly!"

At that very moment, the crowd resumed its march. The man disappeared. When Coursegol, agitated by these horrors which were so new to him, turned again to speak to Dolores, he saw that she had fainted in hisarms. The poor man glanced despairingly about him. Suddenly his eyesfell upon a sign hanging over a shop on the opposite side of the street. This sign represented a red Phrygian cap upon a white ground, and aboveit was written in large red letters: "Le Bonnet Rouge. " For a quarter ofan hour he had been standing directly opposite Bridoul's establishment. He uttered a cry of joy, lifted Dolores in his strong arms, and, in astentorian voice, exclaimed:

"Make way! Make way, good citizens! My daughter has fainted!"

The Provençale costume worn by Dolores deceived the persons who wouldotherwise have impeded Coursegol's progress. 

"He is from Marseilles, " some one cried. 

Just at that time the Marseillais were heroes in the eyes of all goodpatriots. The unusual height of Coursegol strengthened the illusion. 

"Yes, " remarked another, "he is one of the Marseillais who have come tothe aid of the Parisians. "

The crowd opened before him. He soon reached the shop over which hungthe sign of the "Bonnet Rouge" and entered it. There were but fewcustomers in the large saloon. He placed Dolores in a chair, ran to thecounter, seized a glass of water, returned to the girl and bathed herforehead and temples. In a moment she opened her eyes. 

"My dear child, are you better?" he asked. 

"Yes, yes, my good Coursegol, " replied Dolores. Then she added: "Yes, father, but I was terribly frightened. "

"The citoyenne was crushed in the crowd!" said a voice behind Coursegol. He turned and saw a woman who was still young. Suddenly he recollectedthat Bridoul was married. 

"Are you not Citoyenne Bridoul?" he asked. 

"Certainly, Cornelia Bridoul. "

"Where is your husband?"

"Here he is. "

Bridoul appeared. He had followed his wife in order to see the youngProvençale who had been brought into his shop. 

"Do you know me?" inquired Coursegol. 

"Can it be Coursegol?"

"Yes; I am your brother-in-law; this young girl is your niece. We havejust arrived from Beaucaire. I will explain everything by and by. "

Bridoul cast a hasty glance around him. No one was observing them. Thefew who had been sitting at the table had risen and gone to the door, attracted there by the increasing tumult without. 

"Take the young lady into the back room, " Bridoul whispered to his wife. "There will be a crowd here in a moment. "

The latter made haste to obey. It was time. In another moment Doloreswould have been obliged to witness an even more horrible spectacle thanthat upon which her eyes had rested a short while before. The shop wassuddenly taken by storm. Several men with repulsive faces, long hairand cruel eyes, and whose clothing was thickly spattered with blood, entered the saloon, followed by a yelling crowd. People mounted onchairs and tables to obtain a look at them. They were the cityexecutioners. They ordered wine which Bridoul hastened to place beforethem. One carried in his hand the newly decapitated head of a woman, whose fair hair was twined round his bare arm. Before drinking his winehe placed the head upon the counter. Coursegol closed his eyes to shutout the ghastly sight. He had recognized the features of the Princessede Lamballe. When the men had finished their wine, one said:

"Now we will have the hair of this citoyenne dressed so that MarieAntoinette will recognize her. "

And addressing Bridoul, he added:

"Is there any hair-dresser in this neighborhood?"

"About a hundred paces from here, on the Place de la Bastille, " repliedBridoul. 

"On! on!" shouted the executioners. 

And taking the head of the unfortunate Princess they departed, accompanied by the crowd that had followed them from the prison. A fewmoments later the saloon was empty. Bridoul hastened into the back room. Coursegol followed him. Fortunately the two women had not seen what hadoccurred, and, thanks to Cornelia Bridoul's friendly offices, Doloreshad regained her composure. 

"First of all, are you classed among the suspected characters?" the winemerchant inquired of Coursegol. "Are you trying to escape from yourpursuers? Must I conceal you?"

"No, " replied Coursegol "We have come to Paris in the hope of findingMonsieur Philip. "

"Our old captain?"

"The same, " answered Coursegol, at once recounting the events with whichthe reader is already familiar. When the recital was ended, Bridoulspoke in his turn. 

"I am willing to swear that the captain is not in Paris. If he were, he, like all the rest of the nobles, would have been in great danger; and inperil, he would certainly have thought of his old soldier, Bridoul, forhe knows he can rely upon my devotion. "

"Ah! you have not changed!" cried Coursegol, pressing his friend's hand. 

"No, I have not changed. As you knew me so will you find me. But, mygood friend, we must be prudent. You did well to come to my house. Youand your daughter must remain here. You are relatives of mine; that isunderstood. Later, we can make other arrangements; but this evening Ishall take you to the political club to which I belong. I will introduceyou as my brother-in-law, a brave patriot from the south. "

"But what the devil shall I do at the club?" inquired Coursegol. 

"What shall you do there? Why, you will howl with the wolves; that isthe only way to save yourself from being eaten by them!"

But Coursegol demurred. 

"M. Bridoul is right, " urged Dolores, timidly. 

"Niece, you are wise to take your uncle's part, " remarked Bridoul; "butyou must take care not to call me monsieur. That is more than enough tosend you to prison as times are now. "

"Is everything a crime then?" cried Coursegol. 

"Everything, " answered Bridoul, "and the greatest crime of all would beto remain at home while all good patriots are listening to the friendsof the people in the political meetings. You will be closely watched, for we are surrounded by spies; and if any act of yours arouses theslightest suspicion we shall all go to sleep on the straw in theConciergerie or the Abbaye, until we are sent to the block!"

Coursegol uttered a groan. 

"Why do you sigh?" asked Bridoul. "All this does not prevent me fromdoing a service to such as deserve it. On the contrary, I should be richif the number of thousand louis I possess equalled the number of lives Ihave saved since the tenth of August!"

"Hush, husband!" said Madame Bridoul, quickly. "What if some one shouldhear you!"

"Yes, yes, Cornelia, I will be prudent. Here we are all good patriots, worthy sans-culottes, ever ready to cry: 'Vive la Nation!'"

As he spoke Bridoul returned to his shop, for several customers werecoming in. 

The former dragoon was over forty years of age. He was small of stature, and in no way resembled one's ideal of a brave cavalier. His shortlimbs, his protruding stomach, his enormous arms and his fat hands gavehim, when he was not moving about, the appearance of a penguin inrepose. The large head covered with bushy gray hair, that surmountedhis short body imparted to him really an almost grotesque look; but somuch kindness shone in his eyes, and his voice was so rich and genialthat one instantly divined a brave man beneath this unattractiveexterior and was irresistibly attracted to him. Twenty-five years of hisexistence had been spent in the service of the king. He had cheerfullyshed his blood and risked his life, and, thanks to the shrewdness he haddisplayed in his dealings with recruiting officers, he was now thepossessor of several thousand francs. This little fortune enabled him toleave the army and to marry. A pretty shop-girl on the Faubourg duRoule, whose beautiful eyes, as he, himself, expressed it, had piercedhis heart from end to end, consented, though she was much his junior, toa union of their destinies. In 1789 the newly married couple purchasedthe stock of a wine-shop, over the door of which, after the 10th ofAugust, they prudently hung the sign of the "Bonnet Rouge. "

At heart, Bridoul and his wife were still ardent royalists. Theybitterly deplored the imprisonment of Louis XVI. And his family, butthey were governed by a feeling which soon became general, and under theempire of which most of the events of this bloody period wereaccomplished. They were afraid. It would not do for them to be classedwith suspected persons, so they did not hesitate to violate theirconscience and their heart by openly professing doctrines which theysecretly abhorred, but which gave them the reputation of irreproachablepatriots. Hence the "Bonnet Rouge" soon became the rendezvous of theRevolutionists of that quarter; and through them Bridoul acquiredinformation with regard to their plans that enabled him to save thelives of many citizens. Fear had made him cautious but not cowardly; andhe was fortunate enough to find in his wife a valuable auxiliary whoseresolution, courage and coolness were never failing. After thisexplanation, not one will be surprised at the welcome this worthy coupleaccorded Dolores and Coursegol. They were ever ready to do good and tosuccor the distressed. 

The evening after her arrival, Dolores was installed in a chamber overthe shop. Coursegol occupied a small room adjoining this chamber. Theycould reach their apartments without passing through the saloon; soDolores and Coursegol were not compelled to mingle against their willwith the crowd of customers that filled the wine-shop during the day. Itwas decided that they should all take their meals at a common table, which was to be served in the back shop where Bridoul and his wifeslept. It was also decided that Dolores should lay aside the Provençalecostume which she had worn on her arrival in Paris, and dress like adaughter of the people. Everything that would be likely to attractattention must be scrupulously avoided, for the beauty of Dolores hadalready awakened too much interest on the part of curious customers. 

The following Sunday morning, Dolores, who felt certain that CorneliaBridoul was a devout Christian, said to her:

"At what hour do you go to church? I would like to accompany you?"

"To church! For what?" asked Cornelia, evidently surprised. 

"To hear mass. "

"Would you listen to a mass celebrated by a perjured priest?"

And, as Dolores looked at her in astonishment, Cornelia added:

"The sacred offices are now celebrated only by renegade priests, whohave forsaken the tenets of the church to render allegiance to theconstitution. "

But that same evening after supper, as Dolores was about retiring to herchamber, Cornelia, who was sitting with her guest in the room in therear of the shop, while Bridoul and Coursegol were closing the saloon, said to her:

"This morning you were regretting that you could not attend church. Ihave been informed that an aged saint, who has found shelter with someworthy people in the neighborhood, will celebrate mass this evening. "

"Oh! let us go!" cried Dolores. 

"Very well, you shall go; Coursegol will accompany us; Bridoul willremain at home and take care of the house. "

A few moments later, Dolores, Cornelia and Coursegol, provided with thepass that all good patriots were obliged to carry if they were in thestreets of Paris after ten o'clock at night, stole out of the wine-shopand turned their steps toward the Place Royale. The streets which theytraversed, looking back anxiously now and then to make sure that theywere not followed, were dark and almost deserted. It was onlyoccasionally that they met little groups of two or three persons, whopassed rapidly, as if they distrusted the other passers-by. A policemanstopped our friends. They displayed their passes, and he allowed them topursue their way without further questions. At last, they reached thePlace Royale, and turned into a side street. At a half-open door stood aman clad in a blouse, and wearing a red cap. Cornelia said a few wordsto him in a low tone. 

"Pass in, " was his response. 

He stepped aside. Dolores and Cornelia hastily entered, but Coursegol, who was to watch in the street, remained outside. The two women ascendedto the fifth floor, and at last reached a door which was guarded as theone below had been. Cornelia gave the password and they entered. Theytraversed several rooms and finally found themselves in a spaciousapartment dimly lighted by two candles. There were no windows, and theonly means of lighting and ventilating the room was a sky-light; butthis was now covered with heavy linen, undoubtedly for the purpose ofconcealing what was passing within from any spy who might be seized witha fancy for a promenade on the roof. At one end of the room, andseparated from it by a thick curtain, was an alcove. There were abouttwenty people, mostly women, in the room. Every one stood silent andmotionless, as if awaiting some mysterious event. When the clock struckeleven, a voice from behind the curtain said: "Close the doors. "

The man on guard obeyed and came and took his place with the others, whowith one accord fell upon their knees. At the same instant, the curtainsparted, revealing the interior of the alcove in which stood a lightedaltar surmounted by a cross of dark wood. At the foot of the altar stoodan old white-haired priest, arrayed in sacerdotal robes, and assisted bytwo young men who acted as a choir. The service began. Dolores could notrestrain her tears. After a few moments she became calmer and began topray. She prayed fervently for Philip, for Antoinette, for all whom sheloved and for herself. The ceremony was short. The priest addressed abrief exhortation to his audience. The time of pomp and of long sermonshad gone by. At any moment they might be surprised, and the life ofevery one present would have been in danger had they been arrested inthat modest room which had become for the nonce the only asylum of theproscribed Romish Church. 

When the service was concluded, the curtains were again drawn and theworshippers withdrew, not without depositing in a box an offering forthe venerable priest who had officiated. Just as Dolores and Corneliawere leaving the room, the brave old man passed them. He was arrayed inthe garb of a worthy patriot, and was so effectually disguised that theywould not have recognized him if he had not addressed them. As for thealtar, it had disappeared as if by enchantment. 

So, either in this house or in some other, Dolores regularly attendedthe offices of her church. Not a Sunday passed that Cornelia did notconduct her to some mysterious retreat, where a little band ofbrave-hearted Christians met to worship together. She was in this waymade familiar with heroic deeds which gave her courage to brave thedangers that threatened every one in those trying days, and she was thusinitiated into a sort of league, formed without previous intent, for thepurpose of providing a means of escape for those who were in danger ofbecoming the victims of the dread and merciless Committee of PublicSafety. It was in this way that she was led to accompany Cornelia oneevening when the latter went to carry food to a nobleman whose life wasin danger, and who was concealed in the neighborhood of the Invalides, and, on another occasion, to aid in the escape of an old man who hadbeen condemned to die. The enthusiasm of Dolores was so great that sheoften exposed herself to danger imprudently and unnecessarily. She wasproud and happy to assist the Bridouls in their efforts, and sheconceived for them an admiration and an affection which inspired herwith the desire to equal them in their noble work to which they had sobravely consecrated themselves. 

But Coursegol, ignorant of most of the dangers to which Dolores exposedherself, or who knew of them only when it was too late to blame her forher temerity, had not lost sight of the motives which had induced himto accompany the girl on her expedition to Paris. 

What they had aimed to do, as the reader doubtless recollects, was tofind Philip de Chamondrin and Antoinette de Mirandol, who had both beenmissing since the death of the Marquis and the destruction of thechâteau. Though Bridoul persisted in declaring that his former captainwas not in Paris, Coursegol was not discouraged. For three months hepursued an unremitting search. He found several men who, like himself, had formed a part of M. De Chamondrin's company. He succeeded ineffecting an entrance to the houses of some of the friends whom hismaster had visited during his sojourn in Paris. He frequented publicplaces. He might have been seen, by turn, in the Jacobin Club, in thegalleries of the Convention, at the Palais Égalité, in every place wherehe would be likely to find any trace of Philip; but nowhere could hediscover the slightest clew to his whereabouts. Every evening on hisreturn home, after a day of laborious search, he was obliged to admithis want of success to Dolores. She listened sadly, then shook her headand said:

"Bridoul is right. Philip and Antoinette have left the country; we shallnever see them again. After all, it is, perhaps, for the best, sincethey are in safety. "

But, even while she thus attempted to console herself, Dolores could notconceal the intense sorrow and disappointment that filled her heart, and which were caused, not so much by the absence of her friends as bythe mystery that enshrouded their fate. If it be misery to be separatedfrom those we love, how much greater is that misery when we know nothingconcerning their fate, and do not even know whether they are dead oralive! Dolores loved Antoinette with all a sister's tenderness, andPhilip, with a much deeper and far more absorbing passion, although shehad voluntarily sacrificed her hopes and forced herself to see in himonly a brother. She had paid for the satisfaction of knowing that he washappy and prosperous with all that made life desirable; and thisuncertainty was hard to bear. 

"Come, come, my child, do not weep, " Coursegol would say at times likethese. "We shall soon discover what has become of them. "

"They are in England or in Germany, " added Bridoul, "probably quite asmuch distressed about you as you are about them. You will see them againsome day. Until then, have patience. "

More than four months had passed when it was suddenly announced that theking, who had been a prisoner in the Temple for some time, was to bebrought to trial. It was also rumored that a number of noblemen hadeluded the vigilance of the authorities and had entered Paris resolvedupon a desperate attempt to save him at the very last moment. 

Coursegol's hope revived. He felt certain that Philip would not hesitateto hazard his life in such an enterprise if he were still alive; and itwas in the hope of meeting him that he attended the trial of theunfortunate monarch, and that, on the twentieth day of January, heaccompanied Bridoul to the very steps of the guillotine. The king wasbeheaded; no attempt was made to rescue him. Then Coursegol decided upona step which he had been contemplating for some little time. 

It will be remembered that Philip on his first arrival in Paris, hadbeen attached to the household of the Duke de Penthieore, into which hehad been introduced by the efforts of the Chevalier de Florian. The dukewas the only member of the royal family who had remained in Franceunmolested. He owed this fortunate exemption of which the history ofthat epoch offers no similar example, to his many virtues and especiallyto his well known benevolence. Since the death of his daughter-in-law, the Princess de Lamballe, whom he had been unable to save from the handsof the executioners, he had lived with his daughter, the Duchess ofOrleans at the Château de Bisy, in Vernon. He was living there, not as aproscribed man but as a prince, ill, broken-hearted at the death of hisrelatives, almost dying, surrounded by his friends and protected fromthe fury of the Revolutionists by the veneration of the inhabitants ofVernon, who had displayed their reverence by planting with great pomp, in front of the good duke's château, a tree of liberty crowned with thisinscription: "A Tribute to Virtue;" and who evinced it still morestrongly a little later by sending a deputation to his death-bed toimplore him before his departure from earth, to bless the humblevillage in which his last days had been spent. 

One morning, Coursegol, having obtained a passport through Bridoul, started for Vernon. This village is situated a few leagues from Paris onthe road to Normandy. Coursegol, who in his double rôle of peasant andsoldier was accustomed to walking, made the journey afoot, which enabledhim to see with his own eyes the misery that was then prevailing in theprovinces as well as in Paris. It was horrible. On every side he sawonly barren and devastated fields, and ragged, starving villagers, trembling with fear. The revolution which had promised these poorwretches deliverance and comfort, had as yet brought them onlymisfortunes. 

Coursegol reached Vernon that evening, spent the night at an inn, andthe next morning at sunrise, repaired to the duke's château. That goodold man had long been in the habit of receiving all who desired to speakwith him, so it was easy for Coursegol to obtain an interview. He wasushered into a hall where several persons were already waiting, andthrough which the duke was obliged to pass on his way to attend morningservices in the chapel. 

At ten o'clock, the duke appeared. Coursegol, who had not seen him forseveral years, found him greatly changed. But the face surrounded bywhite floating locks had not lost the benign expression which had alwayscharacterized it; and he displayed the same simplicity of manner thathad always endeared him to the poor and humble. When he entered thehall, the people who had been waiting for him, advanced to meet him. They were mostly noblemen who owed their lives to his influence, andwho, thanks to him, were allowed to remain in France unmolested. Helistened to them with an abstracted air, glancing to the right and leftwhile they offered him their homage. Suddenly he perceived Coursegol whowas standing at a little distance awaiting his turn. He stepped towardhim and said:

"What do you desire, my friend?"

Coursegol bowed profoundly. 

"Monseigneur, " he replied, "I am the servant of the Marquis Philip deChamondrin, who once had the honor to belong to your household. "

"Chamondrin! I remember him perfectly; a brave young man for whom mypoor Lamballe obtained a commission as captain of dragoons. I had newsof him quite recently. "

"News of him!" exclaimed Coursegol, joyfully. "Ah! Monseigneur, where ishe? How is he?"

"Are you anxious to know?" inquired the duke. 

"Your highness shall judge. "

And Coursegol briefly recounted the events that had separated him fromPhilip, and told the duke how Dolores and himself had come to Paris inthe hope of finding him. His recital must have been both eloquent andpathetic, for when it was concluded tears stood in the eyes of thelisteners. 

"Ah! What anxiety the young girl must have suffered!" exclaimed theprince; "but I can reassure her. Yes; I recently received a letter fromthe Marquis de Chamondrin. It shall be given to you and you shall carryit to his sister. She will be indebted to me for a few hours ofhappiness. My dear Miromesnil, " added the duke, addressing an old manwho was standing near, "will you look in my correspondence of the monthof October for a letter bearing the signature of Chamondrin? When youfind it, give it to this worthy man. "

Coursegol began to stammer out his thanks, but, without heeding them, the duke came still nearer and said, in a low voice:

"Does Mademoiselle de Chamondrin require aid of any sort?"

"No, monseigneur, " replied Coursegol. 

"Do not forget that I am ready to come to her assistance whenever it isnecessary; and assure her of my sincere sympathy. "

Having uttered these words, the kind-hearted prince passed on, leaningupon the arm of a nobleman connected with his household. Coursegol, elated by the certainty that Philip was alive, could scarcely restrainhis impatience; but he waited for the promised letter, which would proveto Dolores that those she loved were still on earth. In a few moments M. De Miromesnil returned. He held the precious letter in his hand and gaveit to Coursegol, who hastily perused it. It was dated in London, and hadbeen addressed to the duke soon after the death of Madame de Lamballe. It contained no allusion to Mademoiselle de Mirandol, and Philip saidbut little about himself; still was it not an unspeakable relief to himto feel that he was alive and to know in what country he was sojourning. 

Eager to place this letter in the hands of Dolores, Coursegol startedfor home immediately; but, instead of returning as he came, he tookpassage in the diligence that plied between Rouen and Paris; and thatsame evening, after so many months of dreary waiting, he was able torelieve the anxiety that Dolores had felt regarding her brother's fate. The girl's joy was intense, and she devoutly thanked God who had revivedher faith and hope just as she was beginning to despair. If Coursegolhad listened to her, they would have started for London without delay, so eager was she to rejoin Philip and Antoinette whom she supposedmarried. But Coursegol convinced her of the absolute impossibility ofthis journey. They could reach the sea only by passing through thegreatest dangers. 

"Besides, " added Coursegol, "what does this letter prove? That M. Philipis safe and well, of course; but it does not prove that he is still inLondon. "

"Coursegol is right!" remarked Bridoul. "Before you think of starting, you must write to M. Philip. "

"But can letters pass the frontier more easily than persons?" askedDolores. 

"Oh, I will take care of all that. If you wish to write, I know agentleman who is going to England and who will take charge of yourletter. "

"Then I will write, " said Dolores, with a sigh. "I would have preferredto go myself, but since that is impossible----"

She paused, resolved to wait in patience. 

Coursegol breathed freely again. He feared she would persist in herdetermination to go, and that he would be obliged to tell her that theirresources were nearly exhausted and would not suffice to meet the costsof such a long and difficult journey, every step of which would demand alavish expenditure of money. 

Since the destruction of Chamondrin, Dolores had been entirely dependentupon Coursegol's bounty. The latter had possessed quite a snug littlefortune, inherited from his parents; but a sojourn of fifteen months atBeaucaire and more than a year's income expended on the journey to Parishad made great inroads in his little capital. Fortunately, on arrivingin Paris, the generous hospitality of the Bridouls had spared him thenecessity of drawing upon the remnant of his fortune. This amounted nowto about twelve hundred francs. Still, he felt that he could not remainmuch longer under the roof of these worthy people without trespassingupon their kindness and generosity, for they firmly refused to acceptany remuneration; and Coursegol was anxiously wondering how he couldsupport Dolores when this money was exhausted. He confided his anxietyto Bridoul; but the latter, instead of sharing it, showed him that sucha sum was equivalent to a fortune in times like those. 

"Twelve hundred francs!" said he. "Why that is more than enough for theestablishment of a lucrative business or for speculation in assignatswhich, with prudence, would yield you a fortune. "

It was good advice. Gold and silver were becoming scarce; and assignatswere subject to daily fluctuations that afforded one an excellentopportunity to realize handsome profits, if one had a little money onhand and knew how to employ it to advantage. 

CHAPTER VII. 

CITIZEN JEAN VAUQUELAS. 

In April, 1793, about eight months after his arrival in Paris, Coursegolwent one evening to the Palais Égalité. The establishment, which hadformerly been known as the Palais Royal, had at that epoch a splendorand an importance of which its present appearance gives but a faintconception. One should read in the journals of those days thedescription of the galleries ever filled with an eager, bustling throngattracted by the excitement and the unwholesome amusements always to befound there. Mercier, in sharp, almost indignant language, gives us avivid picture of the famous resort. Gambling-dens, dance-halls, shopsdevoted to the sale of the most reckless and infamous productions, restaurants and wine-shops were to be seen on every side. The spirit ofspeculation and gambling raged with inconceivable violence. Vice satenthroned there, and when evening came the immense establishment wasdensely crowded by a throng of people thirsting for pleasure, andcircling round and round in the brilliantly-lighted galleries to thesound of the violins that mounted to the ears of the promenaders fromthe dance-halls in the basement below. 

Coursegol frequently visited the Palais Égalité. At the instance ofBridoul he had speculated a little in assignats which were constantlyfluctuating in value. It was the only negotiation in which Coursegolwould consent to embark. He might have trafficked in the estates of theÉmigres which the Republic was selling at a merely nominal price; but hehad no desire to become the owner of what he considered stolen property. After a few evenings spent in the Palais Égalité, Coursegol becameacquainted with most of the brokers who transacted business there. Theywere stout, well-fed, jovial men, whose self-satisfied and flourishingappearance seemed a stinging irony hurled in the face of the poorwretches who were perishing of hunger in the Faubourgs of Paris. Theycould be seen rushing about the garden and through the galleries, givingorders to their subordinates whose duty it was to find new clients, andto allure unsophisticated provincials, that they might rob them of theirmoney to cast it into the gulf in which the fortunes of so many had beenswallowed up. 

These unprincipled persons resorted to the basest means to dupe thosewho trusted them. They called wine and reckless women to their aid, andthus disarmed the unsuspecting men who came to the money market with thehope of doubling their capital. In the Palais Égalité, conspiracies wereformed not only against the Republic but against the fortunes, theplace, and even the lives of its citizens. Still even the dreadCommittee of Public Safety were powerless to discover the formidableenemies that concealed themselves there. That Coursegol was notirretrievably lost the instant he crossed the threshold of thismysterious and dangerous cavern was due entirely to Bridoul, who hadvolunteered to act as his guide and protector. Bridoul possessed a veryconsiderable amount of influence. He presented his comrade to some ofthe fortunate speculators, and recommended him to them to such purposethat several of them took Coursegol under their protection. Quick-witted, endowed with remarkable energy and tact, and inspired byan ardent desire to acquire wealth for the sake of Dolores, he renderedthem important services on more than one occasion by lending his obscureand modest name to conceal operations in which a well-known personagecould not have embarked without peril. 

Coursegol was only a peasant; but he had served in the army a long time, and contact with others had sharpened his wits, while the excellentjudgment of his old master, the Marquis de Chamondrin, had not failed toexert a most beneficial effect upon his intellectual development. Hence, though it was not without hesitation that he entered upon a career soentirely new to him, he at least brought with him not only honesty, prudence and tact, but a coolness which could not but contribute notablyto his success in those perturbed times. 

On the evening to which we have alluded he went to the Palais Égalité asusual. It was after nightfall, and the restaurants were filled tooverflowing with crowds of excited people glad to forget in thedistractions of play, of speculation and of good cheer the woes of thecountry and their own degradation. Some were eagerly buying tickets thatwould entitle them to seats in the Théâtre de la République, only ahundred paces distant; others were buying the daily papers. Some werepromenading with that careless gayety that never deserts the French evenin their darkest days, while they insolently eyed the shameless women, who, with bold gaze and naked shoulders, stood there endeavoring toattract the attention of the passers-by. Others rushed to the gamblingsaloons, already dreaming of the stroke of good fortune that wouldenlarge the rolls of assignats with which their pockets were filled. 

Some promenaders approached each other with mysterious proposals, andafterwards repaired to the garden where they could converse undisturbed. It was there that many confidential interviews were held, it was therethat the most diverse hopes had birth; it was there that the Royalists, the friends and the relatives of the Émigrés or of suspected personsincarcerated in prison plotted for the return of the Bourbons or for thedeliverance of the poor wretches whose lives hung upon a thread. There, too, the spies in the employ of the Committee of Public Safety, or ofthe Commune, flitted about, trying to discover any secret that might behostile to the Republic. Sometimes gloomy visaged men or women with paleand anxious looks were seen hurrying through the crowd; some man whohad been vainly seeking bread for his children; some woman whose husbandwas in the Luxembourg or in the Abbaye prisons, awaiting the dread fiatof the Revolutionary Tribunal. 

These livid and despairing faces were the only blemishes upon theexuberant gayety that prevailed; but no one saw them and the poorwretches disappeared without exciting either anger or pity. 

The eyes of Coursegol were accustomed to this spectacle, so he walkedcoolly through the galleries heedless of the tumult around him andpaused only when he met a group of acquaintances who were discussing thenews of the day. Suddenly some one tapped him on the shoulder. Heturned. 

"Is that you, Citizen Vauquelas?"

"I wish to speak to you, Coursegol. "

At the same time the man who had just interrupted Coursegol's promenadetook him by the arm and led him toward the garden. He was clad in blackand enveloped in a large cloak that would have made him look like apriest had it not been for the high hat, ornamented with the nationalcockade, which proved him a patriot of the middle class. His thin, emaciated face, deeply furrowed with wrinkles indicated that he had longsince passed his sixtieth birthday; but there was nothing else in hisappearance that betokened old age. His form was so erect, his eye soclear, his step so firm, that one, not seeing his face, would havethought him still in the prime of life. 

On entering the garden, Vauquelas glanced around, but, seeing no placewhich he deemed sufficiently retired, he seemed to change his plan. 

"I fear that these trees have ears, " said he, "and what I wish to say toyou must not be overheard. "

And without saying more, he led the way to the Café Corazza. Theyentered it. The saloon was filled with people, eating and drinking whilethey read the papers or indulged in heated political discussions. Oneman had mounted a table and was delivering a long discourse. He wasendeavoring to convince his listeners that France was being betrayed bythe secret agents sent to Paris by the Émigrés. His was no new theme;buy the orator displayed so much energy that his audience was politeenough to seem pleased with his efforts. Vauquelas, who appeared to beperfectly at home, crossed the room to whisper a word in the ear of theman who was standing at the cashier's desk. This man, who proved to bethe proprietor of the establishment, at once conducted Vauquelas to aprivate room. Coursegol followed, and, the proprietor having taken hisdeparture, the two men found themselves alone. 

"I have been contemplating the proposition I am about to make you forseveral months, " Vauquelas then began. "The very first time I saw you, Imade up my mind that you were the man to aid me in the projects I hadlong since formed, but which had not been carried into execution forwant of an assistant in whom I could implicitly confide. But before Itrusted you with my plans, I wished to know you; so I have studied youclosely while you were unconscious of my scrutiny. I have admired theprudence you have displayed in all your business transactions. You suitme; and if you see fit to accede to the proposition I am about to offerfor your consideration, our fortunes are made. "

"I am listening, Citizen Vauquelas, " replied Coursegol, "but I may aswell tell you that it will be useless to confide your plans to me ifthey are not perfectly honest. "

"You shall judge, " rejoined Vauquelas, not appearing in the leastwounded by Coursegol's remark. "Last month the Republic passed a decreeagainst the Émigrés, ordering the confiscation of their property for thebenefit of the nation. This measure has been carried into execution, andthe government is now the possessor of a large amount of such property. These lands will be sold at public auction, and will fall into all sortsof hands. They will be divided and parceled out, and the rightful ownerswhen they return to France will have no power to take possession of theproperty that once belonged to them. Very well--now I have wondered ifthe purchase of a portion of this property would not be both profitableand a praiseworthy action. "

"And why?" inquired Coursegol, who had been listening attentively. 

"The reason is plain, " replied Vauquelas. "Will it not be for theinterest of the exiled owners that their estates should be bought on themost favorable possible terms, and properly cared for. The brigands whoare now in power will fall some day; and then the Émigrés will return. Will they not be glad to find their property in good and careful hands, and to be able to regain possession of it by paying the trifling sumwhich the government received for it?"

Coursegol did not reply at once, he was reflecting. 

"The transactions would be honest enough, " he said at last; "but if youpurchase the lands of the government to-day and sell them later to theirowners at the same price you paid for them, where would your profit comein?"

"I would pay for them in assignats; their owners would pay me in gold. "

Vauquelas uttered these last words with an air of triumph; then, as iffearing Coursegol's objections, he made haste to develop his scheme. 

"The assignats have already undergone a very considerable depreciation. With fifty thousand francs in gold one can, to-day, purchase at leasttwo hundred thousand francs in assignats; and the depreciation willbecome much greater. There is a piece of property in the FaubourgSaint-Germain which will be ostensibly sold for two millions by theRepublic, but which will really cost the purchaser only two hundredthousand francs; and, by and by, the owner will have no difficulty indisposing of it again for the ostensible price he paid for it, and itwill be only natural and right that he should demand gold in payment. "

"And in what way could I be of service to you?" Coursegol timidlyinquired. 

"By lending me your name. We will buy sometimes in your name, sometimesin mine, so we shall not arouse suspicion. "

"But where shall we find the money?"

Vauquelas arose and, without the slightest hesitation, replied:

"Since I have begun to give you my confidence, I will hide nothing. Comewith me. "

Vauquelas, as we have said before, had arrived at the trying age ofthree-score and ten, which, for the majority of men, is the age ofdecrepitude, that sinister forerunner of death; but time had neitherbowed his head nor enfeebled his intellect. The clearness of his mindand the vigor of his limbs indicated that he was likely to be one ofthose centenarians who carry their years so lightly that they make usthink with regret of that golden age in which the gods could conferimmortality upon man. His eye still flashed with all the ardor of youth;and in his breast glowed a fire which age was powerless to quench. Vauquelas had formerly been a magistrate in Arras. A widower, without achild for whose fate he was compelled to tremble, he had seen theapproach of the Revolution and the Reign of Terror without the slightestdismay; and the tenth of August found him in Paris, drawn there by thedesire to increase his by no means contemptible fortune, and to win thefavor of those who were then in power. 

He had taken up his abode in a modest mansion at the extremity of theFaubourg du Roule. The house stood in the centre of a garden, which wasprotected from the gaze of the curious by high walls that surrounded iton every side. Served by an old woman whom he had brought from Arras, heapparently lived the life of a recluse who desires to remain a strangerto the changes and emotions of the moment, and to end his days in peaceand quietness. He received no visitors; and the people in theneighborhood thought him a poor man who had lost his family andsquandered his money in unfortunate speculations. He never left thehouse until evening and always returned very late at night. Asans-culotte, who lived near by and whose suspicions had been aroused, followed him one evening. He fancied him a conspirator, he saw him enterthe Palais Égalité, speak to several persons who seemed to listen to himwith extreme deference, and afterwards repair to the house of one of themost influential members of the Committee of Public Safety, where heremained until two o'clock in the morning, and then returned home. Theself-constituted spy concluded that he had to deal with one of theCommittee's secret agents; and he was inspired with such wholesome awethat he decided to push his investigations no further. 

In reality, Vauquelas was nothing more nor less than a man tormented byan unappeasable thirst for wealth. He had only one passion: a passionfor gold. It was this that urged him--in spite of a fortune that wouldhave satisfied his modest wants ten times over--into all kinds offinancial ventures. It was this that had suggested to him the idea ofingratiating himself with the men who were in power, and thus gain theirfriendship, their influences and protection. In all the acts of thegovernment, in the great events that succeeded one another day afterday, he saw only an opportunity for speculation. Whether peace or warprevailed; whether the people obeyed the Commune or Convention; whetherthey worshipped the Supreme Being or the Goddess of Reason; whether themen condemned to death were innocent or guilty mattered little to him. These things interested him only by the effect they might produce on themoney-market. So he had allied himself in turn with the Girondists andwith the Jacobins. He had loaned money to Mirabeau; he had speculatedwith Barras and with Tallien, always placing himself at the service ofthose who held the power or seemed likely to hold it in the future. 

Such was the man whose confidence Coursegol had won by his honesty andsagacity. He appeared in the pathway of Vauquelas just as the latter hadarrived at the conclusion that further speculation in assignats would beextremely hazardous, and just as he was looking about him for somereliable man who would join him in enterprises of a different and muchsafer nature. In those perilous times it was hard to find a person inwhom one could implicitly confide. Denunciation, that fatal weapon thatlay within the reach of every hand, was frequently made the instrumentof personal vengeance. No one was beyond its reach; and Vauquelas wasnot disposed to reveal his plans to a man who would be likely to betraythem or him. 

It was about eight o'clock when the two men left the Café and thePalais Égalité, and entered one of the cabriolets that stood before thetheatre, a few steps below. 

In about twenty minutes, the carriage stopped not far from theFolies-Bergères. When the driver had been paid and dismissed, Vauquelasand Coursegol traversed the unoccupied ground that lay between the Ruedu Roule and the Champs-Élysées. The place was dark and deserted. A fewhouses, surrounded by gardens, skirted the street. Superb residenceshave since been erected there and Boulevards have been opened; but atthe time of which we write this Faubourg resembled a street in a quietcountry village. It was here that Vauquelas lived. As the two men wereapproaching the house by a path shaded with lindens, pruned into thesame uniformity as those at Versailles, an enormous dog sprang out uponthem, barking ferociously. With a word, Vauquelas quieted him; then, turning to Coursegol, he said, smiling:

"This is the guardian of my dwelling. If need be, he can hold a band ofrobbers at bay. "

They reached the house and were admitted by the old servant, whoconducted them to the drawing-room. 

"Give me a lantern and then go to bed, my good woman, " said Vauquelas. 

She disappeared, but soon returned, bearing in one hand a doublecandlestick which she placed upon a table, and in the other the lanternfor which her master had called. 

"Follow me, " said Coursegol's host. 

Coursegol obeyed. They left the drawing-room, passed through severalsmall and shabbily furnished apartments, and at last entered a smallpassage. Vauquelas opened a door and Coursegol saw a narrow stairwaywinding down into the cellar. 

"This is my wine-cellar and it is well stocked, " said Vauquelas, with asmile. 

He spoke only the simple truth. Countless casks ranged along the walland long shelves filled with dusty bottles attracted Coursegol'sattention; but he could scarcely understand why Vauquelas had broughthim there if he had nothing else to show him. Suddenly the latterexclaimed:

"You asked me just now if I had money enough for the enterprise Iproposed to you. You shall judge for yourself, for I am going to revealmy secret. "

As he spoke he seized a spade that stood near by, removed a few shovelsfull of earth and disclosed a large white stone slab, in the centre ofwhich was an iron ring which enabled him to lift it. 

"Look!" said he. 

Coursegol bent over the opening and looked in. He saw a large iron boxburied in the earth and filled with sacks of gold. The bright metalgleamed through the meshes of the coarse bags, dazzling the eye of thebeholder with its golden glory. Vauquelas seemed to enjoy Coursegol'ssurprise; but it was in vain that he tried to discover the slightestvestige of envy or avarice in the face of his visitor. Coursegol wasastonished, and perhaps dazzled by the sight of so much wealth, but noevil thought entered his mind. Vauquelas breathed more freely. He hadjust subjected the man upon whom he had bestowed his confidence to adecisive test, and he had emerged from it victorious. 

"There are two millions here, " he remarked. 

"Two millions! Do they belong to you?"

"They belong to me. "

"And you are not satisfied! You wish to acquire more!"

"Oh! it is a question of health to me. If I stopped work I should soondie; and I wish to live--life is good!"

There was a moment's silence, and Vauquelas looked tenderly at histreasure. 

"Moreover, as I have told you, we shall not only make money, but performa most commendable action, " he remarked after a little. "We willpurchase some of those fine houses on the Faubourg Saint-Germain, whichhave been confiscated by the government in their masters' absence. Wewill take good care of them. In some hands, they would soon fall toruin; but in ours they will increase in value, and when their formerowners return, they will find their homes in the same condition as whenthey left them. They will buy them from us, and they will be evergrateful to us. Come, my boy, make up your mind. Will you become mypartner in this enterprise?"

"I accept your offer, " replied Coursegol. He saw his fortune assured ina few years, and Dolores forever out of the reach of want. 

"Do you know how to write?" Vauquelas inquired. 

"Not very well. "

"That is bad. We must keep an account of our business operations; itwill not do to take any one else into our confidence, and I cannot dothe work myself. My eyesight is not very good. "

"I will do my best, " replied Coursegol, mentally cursing his ignorance. 

Suddenly another plan flashed through his brain. 

"Ah! now I have it, " he exclaimed, eagerly. "This work that you cannotdo and that I should do so badly can be entrusted to my daughter. "

"Your daughter! You have a daughter! You have never told me that youwere a married man. "

Coursegol was silent for a moment; he seemed to hesitate. 

"I will return confidence for confidence, " he said finally. 

Then he related the history of Dolores, and his own. When it was ended, Vauquelas rubbed his hands joyfully. 

"She will not betray us, " said he. "Ah well! Everything is for thebest. "

He covered the box in which his gold was concealed with earth, and thenthe two men returned to the drawing-room. They remained in earnestconversation for some time, Vauquelas disclosing his plans for thefuture, the other listening and proffering occasional but judicioussuggestions. It was after midnight when they separated. 

Coursegol walked home. Twice he was stopped by the patrols, but, thanksto the credentials he carried with him, he was allowed to pursue hisway unmolested. A week later, Dolores and Coursegol left Bridoul's houseto take up their abode in that of Vauquelas. The parting was a sad one. Cornelia Bridoul loved Dolores as fondly as the latter loved her; stillthey would have frequent opportunities to see each other, and thisthought greatly alleviated their sorrow. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

AN EPISODE OF THE EMIGRATION. 

On the first Sunday in the month of September, 1793, about ten o'clockin the morning, a young girl clad in mourning emerged from the doorwayof a pretty cottage in the suburbs of London. She slowly descended thebroad and handsome steps that led up to the dwelling, passed through thegarden, and having opened the gate, gazed anxiously in the direction ofthe city. 

She was a brunette, rather fragile in appearance, and petite in stature;and though she was not really beautiful, hers was a sympathetic andaltogether charming face. The air of elegance that characterized herperson and her attire, the whiteness of her hands, and her delicate andrefined features, all indicated that she was a person of gentle birth. She did not appear to be more than twenty years of age. By the anxietywith which her large blue eyes scanned the horizon, it was easy todivine that she was expecting some loved one; but it was also evidentthat he did not come quickly enough to suit her desires, for she seemedrestless and impatient. 

"What if he should not come?" she murmured. As if these words had beenheard, a voice responded:

"Do not be impatient, dear Antoinette. M. Philip said he would be hereto-day, but did not mention the hour; and the day has scarcely begun. You will see him, never fear. "

The lady who had just spoken had used the English language. She was akind, motherly looking person, past middle age. Understanding the younggirl's anxiety, she had joined her with the desire to appease it. Antoinette replied, not without some bitterness:

"I am quite sure that we shall see him, dear Mrs. Reed; but have I not aright to be impatient? Has it not been three weeks since he was here?"

"You do not know what important interests may have detained him inLondon. "

Antoinette shook her head; then, after casting another glance at thedeserted road, she sadly returned to the house. Mrs. Reed followed her, trying to divert her mind and make her forget the sorrow and anxietycaused by Philip's long absence. The two ladies entered a small, butprettily furnished parlor and seated themselves at a round table, uponwhich a servant had just deposited a smoking tea-urn, some empty cupsand some bread and butter. Just then, a very stout man entered the room. It was Mr. Reed, the master of the house. He strongly resembled hiswife; there was the same age, the same corpulence, the same kind andbenevolent expression of countenance. 

"Ah, well! mademoiselle, " he remarked to the young girl, pouring out acup of tea, "this is a fête day, is it not? You are expecting MonsieurPhilip?"

Antoinette made no response. Mrs. Reed answered for her. 

"Mademoiselle Antoinette is afraid her cousin will not keep his word. "

"She is wrong then, " quietly remarked Mr. Reed, who was now standing bythe window, sipping his tea, "she is wrong, for here he is!"

Antoinette sprang up, uttering a cry of joy. She was about to rush outto meet Philip, but the latter did not give her time. He entered almostimmediately, and Antoinette flew to his arms. All her doubts, all hergriefs were forgotten! Ah! If the hour of separation is cruel when itsounds in the ears of those who love, how sweet is the hour thatreunites them! Antoinette clung rapturously to Philip's breast, and Mr. And Mrs. Reed, wishing to allow the young people to enjoy each other'ssociety undisturbed, left the room; but before he went, Mr. Reed said toPhilip:

"You will spend the day and dine with us, will you not?"

"Ah! how gladly would I do so! But I shall be obliged to leave in anhour!"

Mr. Reed stood motionless for a moment, actually stupefied withastonishment. 

"What! you are going to leave me so soon?" cried Antoinette, despairingly. 

"I will explain my reasons, " replied Philip. 

Mr. Reed bowed and followed his wife, who had just disappeared. 

Two years had passed since Philip fled with Antoinette from the burningchâteau and from the bedside of his dying father. On quitting the sceneof the catastrophe that destroyed the home of his childhood, Philipaccompanied by Mlle. De Mirandol repaired to Valence. There, a friend ofthe Chamondrin family furnished them with the means to pursue theirjourney to England, which country they gained after many perils andvicissitudes. 

London served as a refuge for many of the Émigrés, but Philip had chosenthe capital of Great Britain as a retreat for Antoinette, principallybecause he knew that a portion of Mlle. De Mirandol's fortune was in thehands of a banker in that city, and because it would be easy there toobtain news from Louisiana, where the heiress of M. De Mirandol stillowned considerable property. 

After their perilous journey was concluded and they were safelyestablished in England, the agitation caused by the great disaster whichhad deprived them of so much that they loved was succeeded by a relativecalm which gave them an opportunity to look their situation in the face. They both found it exceedingly embarrassing. Antoinette remembered onlythat she loved Philip, and that, in obedience to the request of hisdying father, he had solemnly promised to marry her. She was simplywaiting for him to fulfil this promise, and already regarded herself ashis wife. 

As for Philip, he inwardly cursed this promise. His thoughts wereconstantly occupied with Dolores; he said to himself that since theconvents had been broken up, she must be free if she were still alive;and he would not believe that she was dead. He was certain that she wasstill alive, that Coursegol had remained with her to protect her, andthat the day of their meeting was near at hand. These thoughts made hisheart rebel against the yoke he had striven to impose upon it; for nomatter what attempts may be made to destroy it, hope will not die in aheart that loves sincerely. It resists time and the sternest ordeals. Death alone can, not destroy it, but transform it, by associatingrealization with the delights of a future life which shall know noblight or decay. 

Still, Philip dare not speak frankly to Mlle. De Mirandol. He loved herwith true brotherly affection; and his courage failed him when hethought of the misery his confession would cause this loving and artlessgirl. Moreover, the promise he had made to his father was ever on hismind, arousing constant sorrow and remorse. He resolved, therefore, togain time, if possible. With this aim in view, he had a longconversation with Antoinette a few days after their arrival in London. Without referring to the engagement which he had a just right toconsider irrevocable, he requested that its accomplishment should bedeferred until his period of mourning had expired. He pleaded the tragicdeath of his father and the uncertainty that still enshrouded the fateof Dolores and of Coursegol as reasons for delay; and Antoinetteconsented. He then gave her to understand that, as they were notmarried, it was not proper for them to remain under the same roof, andtold her that he had found a pleasant home for her with some worthypeople who resided in the environs of London and who, as they had nochildren of their own, would be glad to have a young girl with them as aboarder. Antoinette consented to this arrangement also; and thisexplains her installation in the Reed household. Mr. Reed was formerly amerchant, but had retired from business to spend his last years in quietand comfort. The situation of the French Émigrés had aroused thesympathy of the kind-hearted man and his wife, so Philip's propositionwas gladly accepted, and they petted and spoiled the young girlentrusted to their charge as if she had been their own daughter. 

Philip remained in London; but once a week he came to spend a day withAntoinette; and the hours that Mlle. De Mirandol thought so delightfulflew by all too swiftly for her. They never spoke of the future. Philipcarefully avoided any allusion to that subject; but they talked of thepast and of Dolores whose fate was still veiled in mystery. 

Sometimes, accompanied by Mrs. Reed, Antoinette visited the poor Émigréswho had taken refuge in London, and relieved their necessities. She alsorequested Philip, who had charge of her property, never to refuse aid toany of her countrymen or countrywomen who asked it of him; and in thebenefits she quietly conferred upon the needy around her she found someconsolation for her own sorrow and anxiety. As for Philip, he hadplunged into the active and feverish life led by most of the Émigrés, asif he desired to drown his own doubts and regrets in bustle andexcitement. 

London was then the rendezvous of a great proportion of those who hadfled from the Reign of Terror. Princes, noblemen, prelates and ladies ofrank, who were striving to console themselves for the hardships of exileby bright dreams of the future, had assembled there. They plottedagainst the Republic; they planned descents upon France, attacks uponParis, movements in La Vendée, and the assassination of Robespierre andhis friends; but all these schemes were rendered fruitless by the spiritof rivalry and of intrigue that prevailed. They were all united upon theresult to be attained, but divided as to the means of attaining it. Inthis great party there were a thousand factions. They quarreled at aword; they slandered one another; they patched up flimsyreconciliations. French society had taken with it into exile all itsfaults, vanities, frivolities and ignorance. Philip de Chamondrin didnot forsake this circle, though he inwardly chafed at the weakness ofpurpose that was exhibited on every side; but here he could live in aconstant fever of excitement and could forget his personal griefs andanxieties. This was not the case with Antoinette, however, and if Philiphad hoped that by living apart from him and seeing him only at rareintervals she would soon cease to love him, he was mistaken. Antoinette's heart did not change. She waited, and had it not been forthe events that hastened the solution of the difficulty, she would havewaited always; and though she suffered deeply, she concealed her griefso carefully that even the friends with whom she lived and who loved heras tenderly as if she had been their daughter were deceived. AllPhilip's attempts to destroy her love for him proved fruitless. Herheart once given was given irrevocably. Nor did she possess thatexperience which would have enabled her to see that she was not beloved. She attributed Philip's coldness to the successive misfortunes that hadbefallen him; and she was waiting for time to assuage his sorrow andawaken feelings responsive to her own. 

Under these circumstances one can easily understand why she had awaitedPhilip's coming with such feverish impatience. Three weeks had passedsince she had seen him; and all Mrs. Reed's caresses and well-meantattempts at consolation had failed to overcome her chagrin. Philip hadcome at last! She had sprung forward to meet him without making anyeffort to conceal the joy awakened by the prospect of a day spent withhim, and she had hardly done this when the young man announced that hemust leave in an hour. 

"Will you explain the cause of this hasty departure?" she said, as soonas they were alone. 

Her voice trembled and her lovely eyes were dim with tears. 

"I am leaving you, Antoinette, to go where duty calls me, " repliedPhilip, gravely. 

"Duty? What duty?"

"The queen is still imprisoned in the Temple. It is said that she willsoon be sentenced to death. I have formed the project of wresting herfrom the hands of her enemies, of rescuing her from their sanguinaryfury. "

"Alone?" cried Antoinette, overcome with terror at the thought of thedangers Philip would incur. 

"Six of us have resolved to save her or die! We go together. A vessel isto convey us to the coast of Brittany. From there we shall make our wayto Paris as best we can. "

"But what can you do, you, so few in number?"

"God will be with us, " replied Philip. "Besides, we shall find friendsin Paris who will gladly join our little band. "

On hearing these words which proved that Philip's determination wasimmovable, Antoinette could not control her emotion. She sank into anarm chair, covered her pale face with her trembling hands and burst intotears. 

"Do not weep so bitterly, my dear Antoinette, " said Philip, touched byher despair and kneeling beside her. 

"Why did you not consult me before engaging in this mad and perilousundertaking?" she said, at last. "You are leaving me, abandoning mewithout even asking what my fate will be when I no longer have you toprotect me; without thinking how I shall suffer in your absence, andforgetting that if you should be killed I too should die!"

Philip, deeply moved, took her hands and said, gently:

"Be comforted; I shall not die; you will see me again soon. Do you notfeel that I should be dishonored if I shrank from the task that isbefore me? Could you respect a man who might be justly accused ofcowardice and of failure to perform his duty. The queen was formerly mybenefactress; how can I stand here to-day, and make no effort to rescueher from death?"

"But if you should die!"

This cry betrayed Antoinette's love in all its passionate intensity, andit found an echo in Philip's heart. 

"I shall not be killed, " said he, trying to make Mlle. De Mirandol sharethe conviction that animated his own mind; then, seeing her so sad andheart-broken at his departure, he added, with mingled remorse andtenderness:

"When I return, the fulfilment of the promise I made you shall be nolonger delayed. "

He had not referred to this subject before for a long time, and thesefew words carried unspeakable comfort to Antoinette's heart. 

"I have no right to detain you, " said she. "Go! May you succeed and soonreturn. I shall pray for you. "

They conversed some time longer. Philip, who had until then, takencharge of Antoinette's business interests, told her that he had decidedto entrust them until his return to Mr. Reed. He knew her protector tobe an honest man in whom she could place perfect confidence; still, hefelt that it was not only proper, but necessary, to acquaint the girlwith the extent of her resources and the condition of her affairs. Afterhe had done this, he asked to see Mr. And Mrs. Reed. He recommendedMlle. De Mirandol to their care, and for the first time revealed thefact that she was his betrothed. So at the moment of separation, heforced himself to render the pang of parting less bitter to her. Thehope of approaching happiness did much to assuage Antoinette's grief, and Philip was scarcely gone before she began to forget the past indreams of the future. 

The six weeks that followed Philip's departure were weeks of constantanxiety and alarm. Antoinette could not close her eyes to the perilsthat threatened Philip on every side. The reports that reached London inregard to the condition of affairs in Paris were not calculated toreassure her. She heard of the active surveillance exercised by theCommittee of Public Safety, and of the terrible punishment inflictedupon those who were guilty of no crime save that of being regarded withsuspicion. She was in constant fear lest some misfortune had happened toPhilip. Every night and every morning she prayed for him. He was ever inher thoughts; and she was continually trying to divine where he was andwhat he was doing. Every day she looked eagerly for a letter which wouldrelieve her anxiety, but in vain. No news came, and she was forced to becontent with such rumors as Mr. Reed could collect for her in the city. 

On the twenty-second of October that good man did not return untilunusually late in the evening. Antoinette was awaiting him, her heartoppressed by the gloomiest forebodings. When he entered the room she sawthat he was greatly agitated. 

"You have heard bad news!" she exclaimed, wildly. 

Mr. Reed did not attempt to deny it. He told Antoinette that theunfortunate queen of France had been put to death on the sixteenth, justsix days before. 

"They have killed her!" exclaimed the horrified girl. 

She shuddered to think of Philip's probable fate. Since the queen wasdead, the conspiracy which Philip had organized must have failed; and ifit had failed, the conspirators had undoubtedly been discovered andarrested! This thought brought a deathlike pallor to her cheeks. Herfriends saw her totter; they sprang forward to support her and she sankinto their arms wild with anguish and despair. 

"Tell me all!" she entreated. 

"Alas! I know so little, " responded kind-hearted Mr. Reed. "The queenwas sentenced on the sixteenth and beheaded the same day. Severalpersons are now in prison, charged with a conspiracy to rescue her andplace her son upon the throne. I could learn nothing further. "

"That is enough!" she cried. "Philip is in prison!"

She was silent a moment; then suddenly she said, in a firm voice:

"I must start at once. "

The husband and wife uttered an exclamation of dismay. 

"Start, and why?" demanded Mr. Reed. 

"To join Philip. "

"But it is walking straight into the jaws of death!" said Mrs. Reed. 

Antoinette only repeated even more firmly than before:

"I must go at once!"

Then she broke into a passion of sobbing. Mrs. Reed took her in herarms, dried her tears, and tried to reassure her, lavishing everyendearment upon the unhappy girl. 

"My dear child, " said she, "your lover confided you to our care; wecannot let you go. Besides, how do you know that your betrothed has notescaped the dangers you fear for him? He is young, strong and clever. Perhaps at this very moment he is on his way back to you. "

Antoinette made no reply; but she shook her head despondently, as if togive Mrs. Reed to understand that she had no hope. Still, she did notrebel against her guardian's decision. Mrs. Reed conducted her to herchamber, persuaded her to undress, and did not leave her until the girlhad fallen asleep. But her slumber was of short duration. It wasscarcely midnight when Antoinette awoke with a start from a frightfuldream. Philip had appeared to her, his hands bound behind his back, hisneck bare, his hair cut short. He was clad in the lugubrious garb of thecondemned, and he called her name in a voice wild with entreaty. 

"Oh! I will go--I will go to save him or to die with him!"

This cry was upon her lips when she woke. She sprang up, hastily dressedherself, took the little money that chanced to be in her possession, and some or her jewels, and when the first gleam of daylight illuminedthe sky, animated by a saint-like courage, she furtively left the roofthat had sheltered her for three long years. When Mrs. Reed entered theyoung girl's room a few hours later, she found only a letter apprisingher of Antoinette's fixed determination to go to the rescue of herlover, and thanking her most gratefully for her care and love. Mr. Reedhastened to London, hoping to overtake the fugitive. Vain attempt! Hissearch was fruitless. Antoinette had disappeared. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE MOVING CURTAIN. 

Several months had passed since Dolores and Coursegol had taken up theirabode in the house of Citizen Vauquelas. Coursegol, engrossed in thebusiness matters which he had undertaken in concert with Vauquelas, wentout every day, frequenting the Clubs, the Convention and the PalaisÉgalité. Dolores, on the contrary, seldom left the refuge that chancehad provided for her. If she sometimes ventured into the heart of thecity, it was only to visit Cornelia Bridoul or to accompany her to astealthily said mass, solemnized in an obscure chamber by somecourageous priest who dared for conscience's sake to bid defiance to theCommittee of Public Safety, and who would have paid the penalty ofdisobedience with his blood, had he been discovered. 

The life of Dolores was extremely lonely and sad. Deprived of companionsof her own age, and oppressed with anxiety concerning the fate of thosewho were so dear to her, she grew pale and wan like a plant deprived ofsunlight; the old joyous, sonorous ring was gone from her voice and fromher laugh. She had suffered so much during the past three years that sheno longer cherished any hope of happiness in the future; and, insteadof the bright dreams that are wont to gladden the slumber of younggirls, sad memories of the past haunted her restless nights. Those whomshe had loved and lost appeared before her as in a vision--the Marquisede Chamondrin, who had lavished upon her all a mother's care andtenderness; the Marquis, whose affection had filled her early years withjoy; Philip and Antoinette, the brother and sister of heradoption--these appeared and vanished without awaking in her sorrowingheart any emotion save that of the profound anguish of separation. Lookwhich way she would for comfort, she could find none; and she wascondemned to bear her heavy burden alone. Those days of universaldistrust were not propitious for the birth and development of newfriendships; nor were Vauquelas and Coursegol such companions as Doloresneeded to cheer and encourage her. During the few short hours thatCoursegol spent at home, he was always absorbed in his calculations; andas for Vauquelas, though he treated her with rather cold respect, it wasdifficult to ascertain his real feelings toward her, for his furrowedface betrayed none of his impressions; and Dolores instinctively feltthat she could not look to him for the consolation of which she stood sogreatly in need. Her mornings were spent over the account-books, whichhad been entrusted to her charge; at noon, she partook of a solitaryrepast, and it was only at dinner that she saw Coursegol and her host. 

One stormy evening in October, she was sitting in her chamber, a roomupon the first-floor, opening into the garden by a glass door overwhich hung a heavy curtain. It was about nine o'clock. Vauquelas andCoursegol had gone out; the servants had retired, and Dolores was quitealone. Seated in a low chair before the fire, she was busying herselfwith her embroidery; but it was easy to see that her thoughts were notupon her work. She was brooding over the past and wondering in whatquarter of the globe she might hope to find her lost friends. 

"What are they doing?" she wondered. "Are they thinking of me? Are theyhappy?"

And as these questions suggested many others, she sank into a profoundreverie. 

Suddenly the wind gave a loud shriek without, and the branches of thetrees in the garden creaked and groaned as the tempest buffeted them andtossed them to and fro. Dolores shivered, partly from fear, partly fromnervousness. As she did so, another gust, more furious than the first, filled the air with its weird voices. It sounded like the roar of theangry sea. A cloud of dust entered through the glass door which waspartially concealed by the heavy curtain. The light flickered, and thesmoke poured out into the room from the fire-place. At the same timeDolores heard, or fancied she heard, a sound like that made by theclosing of a door. 

"They have forgotten to shut that door, " thought Dolores; and she roseto repair the omission, but suddenly paused, astonished and almostfrightened. She saw the curtain move, not as if in obedience to thewind, but as if an invisible hand had shaken it. 

"Heavens! there is some one behind the curtain!"

That a robber should have effected an entrance into the house at thathour of the night was not at all impossible; and this was the firstthought that entered her mind. She recollected, too, that Vauquelas andCoursegol had just gone out, that the servants were in bed and that shewas to all intents and purposes alone in the house. The feminine mind isquick to take fright; and night and solitude increased the terror whichis so easily aroused by a fevered imagination. Her usual couragedeserted her; she turned pale and her lips quivered. 

"How foolish!" she said to herself, the next instant. "Who would thinkof entering here at such an hour? It must have been the wind. I willclose the door. "

And struggling against the fear that had taken possession of her, shestepped quickly forward, but paused again. She could plainly discern ahuman form in the shadow behind the curtain. 

"Oh! this is terrible!" she murmured, pressing her hand upon her heart. 

Then she said, in a trembling voice:

"Who is there?"

There was no response. Summoning all her courage, she made two stepsforward, seized the curtain and lifted it. Leaning against the glassdoor, which was now firmly closed, stood a man. Dolores was so terrifiedthat she dare not raise her eyes to his face. 

"Who are you?" she demanded. 

The words had scarcely left her lips when the man sprang forward, crying:

"Dolores! Dolores!"

"Philip!"

Then, with a wild cry of rapturous delight, she flung herself in thearms of her lover from whom she had been parted three long weary years. They clung to each other a moment without uttering a word, completelyovercome with emotion. It was Philip, but Philip grown older andthinner. His face was unshaven and his clothing disordered, and he wasfrightfully pale. When she saw the ravages time and suffering had madeupon the face of the man she loved, Dolores burst into tears. 

"Oh Dolores!" sighed Philip, "have I really found you again after allthese years!"

She smiled and wept as he devoured her with his eyes, then stepped byhim and after satisfying herself that the door was securely closed andlocked, she lowered the curtain and led Philip to an arm chair near thefire. 

"Do you find me changed?" she asked. 

"You are even more beautiful now than in the past!"

She blushed and turned away her face, then suddenly inquired: "Howhappens it you are here, Philip?"

"I came to Paris with a party of noblemen to rescue the queen from thehands of her executioners. We failed; she died upon the guillotine. Mycompanions were arrested; I alone succeeded in making my escape--"

"Then you are pursued--you are a fugitive. Perhaps they are even nowupon your track!"

"For a week I have been concealed in the house of a kind-hearted manwho had taken compassion on my misery. I hoped to remain there until Icould find an opportunity to make my escape from Paris. Day beforeyesterday, he told me that he was suspected of sheltering some enemy ofthe nation, and that his house was liable to be searched at any momentby Robespierre's emissaries, and that I must flee at once if I did notdesire to ruin him. I obeyed and since that time I have been wanderingabout the streets of Paris, hiding in obscure nooks, living like a dog, and not daring to ask aid of any one for fear I should be denounced. This evening, half-dead with hunger and cold, I was wondering if itwould not be better to deliver myself up when, only a few steps fromhere, I met a man who was formerly in the employ of the Duke dePenthieore, and to whom I had once rendered an important service. Believing that he had not forgotten it, I approached him and told himwho I was. The wretch cursed me, and tried to arrest me. The instinct ofself-preservation lent me fresh strength. I struggled with him andknocked him down, and while he was calling for help, I ran across theunoccupied ground near the house. A low wall suddenly rose before me. Ileaped over it, and found myself in this garden. I saw the light fromyour window; the door stood open. I entered and God has willed that thehours of agony through which I have just passed should lead me to you. Ah! now I can die. Now that I have seen you again, Dolores, I can diecontent!"

"Why do you talk of dying?" exclaimed Dolores. "Since you are here, youare saved! You shall remain!"

She paused suddenly, recollecting that the house was not hers; Philipnoticed her hesitation. 

"Am I in your house?" he asked. 

"No; you are in the house of Citizen Vauquelas, Coursegol's businesspartner. "

"Vauquelas! How unfortunate!"

"Why?"

"Because, unless there are two individuals by that name, the master ofthis house is the friend of Robespierre, and one of the men who aided inthe discovery of the plot formed by my companions and myself for therescue of the queen. "

Dolores uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands. 

"What shall we do?" she murmured. 

"Is not Coursegol here?"

"He will not return until late at night. "

"He would have found some way to conceal me until to-morrow. "

"I will conceal you in his room, " said Dolores. "No one enters it buthimself. I will await his return and tell him you are there. "

Philip approved this plan. 

"But you said just now that you were hungry;" exclaimed Dolores. "Ah!how unfortunate it is that the servants are in bed. "

She hastily left the room, and Philip, worn out with excitement, hungerand fatigue, remained in the arm chair in which Dolores had placed him. She soon returned, laden with bread, wine, and a piece of cold meat, which she had been fortunate enough to find in the kitchen. She placedthese upon a small table, which she brought to Philip's side. Without aword, the latter began to eat and drink with the eagerness of ahalf-famished man. Dolores stood there watching him, her heart throbbingwildly with joy while tears of happiness gushed from her burning eyes. 

Soon Philip was himself again. The warmth and the nourishing foodrestored his strength. A slight color mounted to his cheeks, and ahopeful smile played upon his lips. Not until then, did Dolores ventureto utter the name that had been uppermost in her thoughts for somemoments. 

"You have told me nothing of Antoinette. "

This name reminded Philip of the sacred bond of which Dolores wasignorant, and which had never seemed to him so galling as now. 

"Antoinette!" he replied. "She is living near London in the care of somefriends to whom I have confided her. "

"Is she your wife?" inquired Dolores, not daring to meet Philip's eyes. 

"No. "

"But your father's wishes--"

"In pity, say no more!" interrupted Philip, "If I had not found youagain, if I had had certain proofs that you were no longer alive, Imight, perhaps, have married Antoinette, but now--"

"Now?"

"She will never be my wife!"

"Does she no longer love you?"

Philip's head drooped. There was a long silence; suddenly he glanced up. 

"Why should I conceal it from you longer, Dolores? I love you; I loveyou as I loved you in years gone by when I first dared to open my heartto you; and since that time, in spite of the barriers between us, I havenever ceased to love you. Nor can our love be a sin in the sight ofHeaven since it is God's providence, in spite of your will, that bringsus together again to-day. And I swear that nothing shall separate usnow!"

Dolores had no strength to reply to such language, or to destroy thehopes which seemed even stronger now than in the past, and far moreprecious since three years of absence had not sufficed to extinguishthem in the faithful and impassioned heart of her lover. Philipcontinued:

"Ah! if I could but tell you how miserable I have been since we havebeen separated. My Dolores, did you not know when you left the châteauin which we had grown up together to offer as a sacrifice to God thelove you shared, did you not know that you took away a part of myselfwith you?"

"Stop!" she entreated, sinking into a chair and burying her face in herhands. 

But he would not listen. 

"Since that day, " he continued, "my life has been wretched. In vain Ihave striven to drive from the heart which you refused to accept thememory of your grace and your beauty; in vain have I striven to listenwith a complaisant ear to Antoinette, whom you commanded me to accept asmy wife. Do you not see that this sacrifice is beyond my strength. Icannot do it--I love her as a sister, but you----"

Dolores interrupted him. Suddenly quieted, and recalled to arecollection of duty by some mysterious inspiration, she rose, and in agentle and firm voice said:

"Philip, I must hear no more. I belong to God, and you, yourself, are nolonger free. Antoinette----"

"Would you compel me to hate her?"

The cry frightened Dolores and awakened in her heart a tender pity forthe unfortunate man whom she adored, even while she wrung his soul withanguish. 

"Ah well! do not marry her, " she replied, "if the union that your fatherdesired is a greater sacrifice than you have strength to make; but donot hope that I shall ever be weak enough to yield to your entreaties. Whether you love her or whether you detest her, Antoinette will foreverstand between us. "

On hearing these words, Philip sprang wildly to his feet, then sank backin his chair and, concealing his face in his hands, broke intopassionate sob. 

The girl's powers of endurance were almost exhausted; but she stillretained energy enough to attempt to put an end to this trying scene. 

"The hour when the master of the house usually returns is fastapproaching, " she resumed. "He must not find you here. I will take youto Coursegol's room; you will be safe there. "

But Philip would not heed her. He wept like a child, and, in a voicebroken with sobs, he cried:

"Ah, the sacrifice you demand is too much to ask of any human creature!God does not require it of us. If after creating us for each other it isHis will that we should live forever apart and be eternally miserable, why has He united us to-night? Is not our meeting providential? Dolores, your decision cannot be irrevocable. "

It required all her courage and determination to repress the lovingwords that rose to her lips from her overflowing heart. 

"Come, Philip, " she pleaded, striving to give a maternal tone to hervoice. 

"But promise me----"

"Ah well! to-morrow, ----" she said, quietly, doing her best to calm him. 

She succeeded. Philip rose, ready to follow her. She had already taken acandle from the table when footsteps were heard in the adjoining room. 

"Good Heavens! it is Vauquelas! We are lost!"

"He will not enter here, perhaps, " whispered Philip. 

With a gesture, Dolores imposed silence: then she waited and listened, hoping that Vauquelas would pass on to his own room without pausing. Herhopes were not realized. Vauquelas rapped twice at the door. 

"May I come in, Citoyenne Dolores?"

"No, I am in bed. "

"Get up quickly then, and open the door. A man was seen to leap over thewall that separates the garden from the street. He must be prowlingabout the house. They are in pursuit of him. The police are coming. "

"I am getting up, " replied Dolores, anxious to gain time, and rackingher brain to discover some means of escape for Philip. 

"The night is very dark, " he whispered. "I will go into the garden andconceal myself there until the soldiers have searched the house andgone. "

Dolores nodded her approval, and went on tip-toe to the glass door toopen it and let Philip out. She turned the knob, softly opened the door, and stepped aside to let him pass. The next instant she uttered a cry ofdismay, for she saw five members of the National Guard approaching thehouse, beating the shrubbery that bordered the path through which theywere advancing with the butt ends of their muskets. She recoiled inhorror, for before she could prevent it Philip stepped out and stood foran instant plainly visible in the light that streamed through the opendoor ere he perceived them. As soon as they saw him, they raised theirguns and took aim. 

"Do not fire!" he exclaimed. "I surrender!"

And he paused, awaiting their approach. At the same moment Vauquelasentered the room by the other door. Dolores cast a despairing look atPhilip, then involuntarily stepped to his side as if to protect him. There was a moment's silence caused by surprise on the one side andterror on the other. Philip was filled with consternation not that hiscourage failed him, but because he was appalled by the thought of thedanger in which he had involved Dolores. 

As for Vauquelas, he glanced from one to the other in evident anger andastonishment. The presence of the soldiers, and the thought of thesuspicions to which he--ardent patriot though he was--might be exposedon account of this stranger's arrest in his house irritated him not alittle. He was about to vent his wrath and indignation upon Philip whenthe sergeant in command interposed, and addressing the young man, said, harshly;

"What are you doing in this house, you rascal? Who are you?"

Philip attempted to reply, but Vauquelas did not give him time. 

"Who is he?" he exclaimed. "It is easy to answer that question. Someenemy of the Republic, you may be sure, who has sought shelter in myhouse at the risk of compromising the honor of this young girl, and myreputation as well. "

Dolores trembled; then sacrificing, not without a terrible effort, hermaidenly delicacy and modesty she said: "You are mistaken, CitizenVauquelas. This man is my husband!"

"Your husband! Are you married?"

"I had a special reason for keeping the fact a secret from every one. "

"But Coursegol--"

"Even he is ignorant of it, " answered Dolores, with downcast eyes. 

"Married! married!" repeated Vauquelas mechanically, while Philip drewnearer to Dolores and, in a voice audible to her alone, murmured:

"Ah! cruel one, had you uttered those words sooner, we should not behere now. "

Dolores made no response. She cast a beseeching look upon Vauquelas. Ata word from him the soldiers would have departed; but he remembered thehistory of Dolores which Coursegol had confided to him, and he said tohimself that the adopted daughter of the late Marquis de Chamondrinwould not be likely to marry other than a nobleman, and that thisnobleman must be an implacable enemy to the new order of things, andconsequently one of those men whom the Committee of Public Safety wereso relentlessly pursuing. That such a person should be found in hishouse augured ill for his patriotism and might cost him his influenceover Robespierre, so it was necessary to strike a crushing blow if hewished to emerge from this ordeal unscathed. 

"Why have you concealed your marriage from me?" he inquired, turning toDolores. 

"For purely personal reasons. "

"And why does your husband steal into my house like a robber, instead ofentering by the door?"

"Because we wished to keep our marriage a secret. "

"All this is not very clear, " remarked the sergeant; then addressingPhilip, he demanded:

"What is your name, and from whence do you come?"

And seeing Philip hesitate, the man continued:

"The citizen and this young woman will follow us to the station-house. They can explain matters to the officials there; and if no blameattaches to them, they will be immediately set at liberty. "

"Yes, yes, take them away, " cried Vauquelas, glad of any decision thatwould remove the soldiers from his house. 

Then Dolores comprehended that the falsehood to which she had resortedhad not only failed to save Philip but had probably cost her her ownlife. For herself, she did not care. She had long ago sacrificed for hissake that which was a thousand times dearer than life; and now her onlyregret was for him. But Philip would not accept the sacrifice. When hesaw that both Dolores and himself were to be placed under arrest, heexclaimed:

"This young girl has uttered a falsehood. She did it, probably, to savea stranger whom she would have forgotten in a few hours. I am not herhusband, and that I have been found in her room is simply due to thefact that I took refuge here a few moments ago from a pursuer. I am theMarquis de Chamondrin. I am an Émigré and a conspirator!"

"Ah, he is lost! he is lost!" murmured Dolores. 

On hearing Philip's confession, Vauquelas sprang towards him, wild withrage. 

"You call yourself Philip de Chamondrin?" he demanded. 

"That is my name. "

"Then you are the adopted brother of this young girl, and if you, anÉmigré and a conspirator, are here, it can only be because she is youraccomplice. Vile wretch! to make my house a rendezvous for the enemiesof the Nation!"

Anger crimsoned his cheeks and glittered in his eyes. He actuallyfrothed with rage. 

"Arrest them! Arrest them both!" he exclaimed. 

Philip, who had supposed he could save Dolores by the confession he hadjust made, could not repress a movement of wrath and despair. 

"You will regret this, sir, " he said, haughtily. 

"There could be no greater misfortune than to shelter aristocrats likeyou under my roof. I am a patriot; I love the Republic. France, first ofall! Citizens, this is a dangerous man. This so-called nobleman has beenplotting to save the queen and to place the little Capet upon thethrone. As for this young woman, she is a viper who has repaid myhospitality with treachery. Take them away!--and so perish the enemiesof the Nation!"

He uttered these words with great energy and enthusiasm as if he wishedto give convincing proofs of his patriotism. The soldiers wereconsulting together; presently they formed into two squads. One divisiontook Dolores in charge; the other took Philip, and they were led away. It was then nearly eleven o'clock. 

CHAPTER X. 

COURSEGOL'S EXPLOITS. 

Coursegol returned home about midnight. In accordance with his usualcustom he was passing through the lower hall without stopping on his wayto his room on the floor above, when he heard some one call him. Herecognized the voice of Vauquelas, but it seemed to proceed from thechamber occupied by Dolores. Surprised that the latter was not in bed atthis late hour, and fearing she was ill, he hastily entered her room. Vauquelas was there alone, pale, nervous and excited. The girl's bed hadnot been disturbed. Her absence struck Coursegol at once. 

"Where is Dolores?" he asked, quickly. 

"Coursegol, why did you not tell me she was receiving Philip deChamondrin here?" was his friend's only response. 

"She receiving M. Philip!" cried Coursegol, greatly astonished. 

"Yes, here in my house; here in this chamber. They were discoveredhere. "

"Then M. Philip is still alive!"

"Unfortunately for me, he is still alive. "

"What do you mean?" inquired Coursegol, who as yet understood but onething--that his master was not dead. 

"I mean that Dolores, whom I received into my house at your request, hasbeen sheltering here, at the risk of compromising and ruining me, Philipde Chamondrin, one of the prime movers in a conspiracy formed for thepurpose of saving the widow Capet. "

"Ah! I understand, " murmured Coursegol, at once divining that Philipbeing pursued had taken refuge in the house of Vauquelas, and had foundDolores there. "Ah, well! citizen, the young man must not remain here. We will help him to make his escape and no one will be the wiser--"

"It is too late!"

"Why?"

"Both have been arrested; he, for conspiring against the government, she, as his accomplice. "

Coursegol uttered a terrible oath: then, turning to Vauquelas andseizing him by the collar, he cried:

"It was you, wretch, who betrayed them!"

"You are choking me!" groaned Vauquelas, breathless in Coursegol'sviolent grasp. 

"Tell me where they are!" thundered Coursegol. "I must see them. Whereare they?"

"Release me, " gasped Vauquelas. 

This time Coursegol obeyed; but he stood before Vauquelas, angry andmenacing. The latter trembled. He had not foreseen that Coursegol wouldhold him accountable for the arrest of Philip and Dolores. 

"Explain and quickly!" cried Coursegol. 

"The soldiers came to the house in pursuit of young Philip, who hadtaken refuge in this room. To save him, Dolores said she was his wife. Philip, fearing she would be compromised, denied her statement; and astheir explanation did not seem sufficiently clear, they were both takento prison. "

"Could you not have vouched for them--declared that they were friends ofyours?"

"I did all I could to save them, " whined Vauquelas. 

"You lie! you lie! I tell you, you lie! It was you who betrayed them! Iam sure of it. You trembled for your life, for your money. Woe be untoyou!"

And Coursegol accompanied those words with a gesture so menacing thatVauquelas, believing his last hour had come, fell on his knees beggingfor mercy. But Coursegol seemed pitiless. 

"Poor children! that death should overtake them just as Providence hadunited them. Wretch! fool! you were less merciful than destiny. "

"Have pity!"

"Had you any pity on them? No! Ah well! you shall die!"

And drawing from his pocket a dagger that he always carried with him, Coursegol raised it above the old man's head. 

"But if I promise to save them--"

The hand of Coursegol, raised to strike, fell. 

"You will save them! That is only another lie. How can you save them?The prisons of the Republic release their victims only to send them tothe guillotine. "

"I will bribe the jailers to let them escape. "

"The jailers are not the only masters: and who among them would exposehimself to almost certain death for the sake of your money?"

"Then I will do still better, " replied Vauquelas. "I will bribe thejudges of the Revolutionary Tribunal, and they will acquit yourfriends. "

"Useless! these judges will demand that the money shall be paid inadvance! and as soon as they have it in their grasp, they will condemnthe prisoners. "

"What can I do then?"

"There is no help for the misfortune, and it is because you are thecause of it that I am going to wreak my vengeance upon you!"

"Stop, stop! I will go to Robespierre. "

"He will refuse your petition. "

"No! my influence over him is all-powerful. I have means to compel himto grant my request. "

"Even when you ask for the release of one of the leaders of theconspiracy to save the queen?"

"Yes; he will not refuse me. "

Coursegol reflected a moment. Vauquelas, still on his knees before him, looked up, trying to read his fate in the stern face above him. 

"Listen, " said Coursegol at last. "I will spare your life on certainconditions. It depends upon yourself whether you are to live or die. "

"Name them. I will obey!" murmured Vauquelas, servilely, beginning tobreathe freely once more. 

"To-morrow by sunset, I must receive from you a blank order signed byRobespierre which will enable me to obtain the release of twoprisoners. "

"You shall have it. "

"I also desire that Robespierre shall remain in ignorance of the namesof the prisoners who are to be released. "

"He shall not know. "

"Under these conditions, your life is yours. Only do not attempt todeceive me. I know that it is in your power to obtain an order for myarrest and thus save yourself from the chastisement you so richlydeserve. "

"Can you believe--"

Vauquelas could not finish his sentence. He stammered and blushed, feeling that his most secret thoughts had been divined. 

"But to prevent that, it is here in this house that I shall await yourreturn; and if to-morrow the soldiers, guided by you, come here toarrest me, they will find me in the cellar where your wealth isconcealed; and it is I who will have the pleasure of initiating theminto the secrets of your patriotic life. "

Vauquelas uttered an exclamation of mingled astonishment and dismay. 

"It is here, " repeated Coursegol, "that I shall wait to receive fromyour hands the order of release that you have promised me. Now, it isfor you to decide whether you will live or die. "

As he spoke, Coursegol pushed open the door leading to the cellar usedby Vauquelas as the repository of his riches and disappeared. Vauquelasrose from his kneeling posture, filled with consternation by what he hadjust heard. The extremity to which he was reduced was a cruel one; hemust bribe the incorruptible Robespierre. When he made the promise toCoursegol he did not intend to fulfil it: he intended to denounce him;but the shrewdness of his partner had placed him in a most embarrassingposition. He was obliged to keep his promise, but he could do it only bycompromising his influence and his reputation; and yet there was no helpfor it since Coursegol could ruin him by a single word. How much heregretted that the strength and vigor of his youth were now paralyzed byage. If he had been twenty years younger, how desperately he would havestruggled with the man who had suddenly become a formidable enemy! Whatan effort he would have made to kill him and thus silence him forever. But such a plan was no longer feasible; nothing was left for him butsubmission. About an hour after Coursegol left him, he went to his roomto obtain the rest of which he stood so greatly in need. He threwhimself upon the bed; but sleep refused to come to his relief. Atdaybreak he was upon his feet once more. He wished, before leaving thehouse, to see Coursegol again. The latter had slept with his pistol inhis hand, guarding the strong-box upon which his life as well as thelives of Dolores and Philip depended. 

"Have you the order?" inquired Coursegol. 

"I am going for it, " responded Vauquelas, meekly. 

"Do not return without it if you wish to leave this place alive. "

Vauquelas hastily retired. Robespierre lived on the Rue Saint Honoré. Thither Vauquelas went, wondering under what form he should present hispetition. The friendship existing between this celebrated man andhimself was lively and profound. It had its origin in former relations, in services mutually rendered, and in common interests, but so far asRobespierre was concerned, he would never allow friendship to conflictwith what he considered his duty. Even in his most cruel decisions, hewas honest and sincere. He was deeply impressed with a sense of hisresponsibility and no consideration foreign to what he regarded as thewelfare of the Nation could move him. He never granted a pardon; henever allowed his heart to be touched with compassion; and when onereads his history, it is hard to decide which is most horrible, the actsof his life or the spirit of fanaticism that inspired them. Vauquelasunderstood the character of the man with whom he had to deal, and feltthat there was no hope of exciting Robespierre's pity by the recital ofthe misfortunes of Philip and Dolores, or by an explanation of theembarrassing position in which he found himself; so he finally decidedto resort to strategy to obtain what he desired. 

When he reached the house, he found that Robespierre had just gone out. Vauquelas did not seem at all annoyed. He entered the office--that dreadplace from which emanated those accusations that carried death anddespair to so many households. The visitor was well-known to theservants of the household and he was permitted to roam about at will. Ashe declared his intention of awaiting Robespierre's return, the servantwho ushered him into the room withdrew, leaving him quite alone. Hehastened to Robespierre's desk and began rummaging among the papers withwhich it was strewn, keeping one eye all the while upon the door lestsome one should enter and detect him. There were intended orders, listsof proscriptions, documents and reports from the provinces, as well aspolice reports, but Vauquelas paid no attention to these. He continuedhis search until Robespierre's signature on the bottom of a blank sheetof paper met his eyes, and drew from him an exclamation of joy. 

This sheet was the last belonging to a police report which had beenapproved by the committee, and the only one upon which the clerk to whomthe copying of the document had been entrusted had as yet writtennothing. It was upon this sheet that Robespierre had placed hissignature. His name, written by his own hand and ornamented with theflourish which he always appended to his signature, lay upon theimmaculate whiteness of the paper like a blood stain. Without theslightest hesitation, Vauquelas tore this precious page loose from theothers; then in a feigned hand he wrote these words "Permission to leavethe prison is hereby granted to the man and woman bearing this order. "These lines written above the signature transformed the paper into thesafe-conduct which Coursegol had demanded. Greatly agitated by theaudacious act he had just accomplished, Vauquelas placed the document hehad fabricated in his pocket, hid the mutilated report in the bottom ofa desk drawer under a pile of memorandum books; then, after giving hisagitation time to subside, he left the house, lingering a moment to chatwith those on guard at the door, and remarking as he left them:

"I have not time to wait just now; I will call again. "

But as soon as he had gained the street he quickened his pace, as iffearing pursuit. On reaching home he hastened to the cellar and, addressing Coursegol who had not once quitted his post, he said:

"Here is what you desired. Go!"

Coursegol took the paper without a word, scrutinized it closely toconvince himself that the signature was genuine: then satisfied with hisexamination he replied:

"I am going with the hope that I shall be able to save Dolores andPhilip; but do not consider yourself forgiven for the injury you havedone them. Remember this; if my efforts fail and any harm befalls themit is on you that my vengeance will fall. "

He rose to go; then changing his mind, he added:

"For six months we have worked together, and as I shall probably need agood deal of money to carry this undertaking to a successfultermination, I wish you to give me my share of the profits. "

"Make your own estimate, " replied Vauquelas, who was too thoroughlyfrightened to haggle as to terms. 

"Give me fifty thousand francs; half in gold, half in assignats. "

Vauquelas breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared that Coursegol woulddemand an amount ten times as large. He counted out fifty thousandfrancs. Coursegol put the assignats in his pocket, and secreted thegold in a leather belt he wore; then without another word, he started inquest of Philip and Dolores. 

How could he reach them? He must first discover where they were. Prisonswere very numerous in those days. There were the Luxembourg, the Abbaye, the Force, the Carmes, the Madelonnettes, Saint-Lazare and many others. In which of them were Philip and Dolores immured? Had they been sent tothe same prison or had they been separated? Vauquelas had been unable tofurnish any information on this subject, and Coursegol could onlyconjecture. He repaired immediately to the house of the Bridouls, wherehe made arrangements to remain for a time. He apprised these triedfriends of the events that had occurred since the evening before. Cornelia could not restrain her tears when she heard that her youngfriend was in prison. As for Bridoul, he soon decided upon the course tobe pursued. In most of the prisons there were many persons charged withno particular offence. It was not at all probable that they would everbe brought to trial, and, in spite of the surveillance to which theywere subjected, they enjoyed comparative freedom. They were notabsolutely forbidden to hold communication with the world outside, andif they possessed pecuniary resources it was possible for them topurchase the good-will of the jailers and to obtain permission toreceive letters, food and even visits from their friends. It may havebeen that the number of prisons and of prisoners prevented themaintenance of very severe discipline; it may have been that theCommittee of Public Safety, having decided to execute all convictedprisoners, did not desire to exercise a too rigid surveillance. Howeverthis may have been, many of the prisoners were in daily communicationwith the outer world. Wives and children obtained permission to visittheir husbands and fathers without much difficulty; and there had beenestablished, for the convenience of the prisoners, a corps of regularlyappointed messengers who came and went at all hours of the day oncondition that they paid the jailers a certain percentage on theirearnings. Coursegol was ignorant of these details, but Bridoulacquainted him with them. 

"One of these messengers is a friend of mine, " added Bridoul, "and for afair compensation, he will consent to take you with him as hisassistant. In his company, you can visit the different prisons withoutthe slightest danger. "

This plan delighted Coursegol. That same evening they made the desiredarrangement with the man of whom Bridoul had spoken. The next day, hebegan his search, and three days later he ascertained that Dolores wasconfined in the Conciergerie and Philip in the Madelonnettes. 

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 château, " 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 bewitchingnégligés; 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 thecircumstances 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 anÉmigré; 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 Modérantisme, 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 République!"

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 ofChévreuse, 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 Chévreuse 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 Vendée. 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 Château 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 nobleman, 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 LaVendée. 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 Vendée 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. 

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 Abbé 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 Château 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 thechâteau 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 château 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. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE THUNDERBOLT. 

Three days passed, leaving the situation of affairs unchanged. Antoinette and Dolores saw Philip but seldom, though they were livingunder the same roof, so persistently did he avoid them. If he chanced toenter the hall when they were there, he took refuge with some of thegroups of gentlemen, where the two girls would not be likely to approachhim unless they had something of great importance to communicate totheir ungracious friend. 

What Philip utterly lacked, after the events recounted in the lastchapter, was resignation. He felt, that Dolores was irrevocably lost tohim, and that even if she left the prison alive, she would instantlyplace an impassable barrier between them; but though he was convinced ofthis, he could not make up his mind to submit to a decision thatdestroyed all his hopes of happiness; so he hoped and despaired byturns, sometimes assuring himself that he could find words sufficientlyeloquent to move Dolores, sometimes admitting with a sort of desperationthat nothing could shake the firmness of the young girl who had resolvedto sacrifice her happiness for the sake of duty. 

Antoinette and Dolores respected his sadness and his evident desire forsolitude. They spent most of their time together in their own littleroom, happy in being again united, and bearing the trials that besetthem on every side with wonderful fortitude. Each evening found themastonished that they had not been summoned before the RevolutionaryTribunal; and each evening they said, not without anguish:

"The summons will come, perhaps, to-morrow. "

The fourth day after Philip's arrival at the Conciergerie, Aubry, thejailer, who had shown Dolores so much kindness and attention, obtainedleave of absence for the day, and engaged Coursegol to take his place. Once before he had made a similar arrangement, and Coursegol had thusbeen able to spend almost an entire day with Dolores. 

His anxiety to see her now, was increased by his desire to fix upon aplan whereby he could rescue her and also Philip from the danger thatthreatened them. He brought with him the order in which he had insertedtheir names, and which would set "Citoyen and Citoyenne Chamondrin" atliberty. He was not aware of Antoinette's arrest, and when he enteredthe cell and saw Mlle. De Mirandol, he uttered an exclamation of dismay. 

"You here, mademoiselle!" he cried. 

"Yes, I have been here three days. "

"But the order releases only two persons!" he exclaimed, sorrowfully. 

Antoinette did not understand him; she had heard nothing about the orderto which he alluded; but Dolores quickly approached Coursegol and said, hurriedly, in a low voice:

"Not another word. Give me the order. When the proper time comes, itshall be used by those who have the best right to it. "

Coursegol reluctantly obeyed. He was convinced that Dolores wouldconcentrate all her efforts upon the deliverance of Philip andAntoinette; and he almost hated the latter who, for the second time, imperiled the life and happiness of one so dear to him. 

"Before, it was her presence in the château that prevented the marriageof my dear Dolores to the man she loved; to-day, after I have worked sohard to secure their liberty and the realization of their hopes, it isshe who destroys all my plans, " he thought. Perhaps he would have givenvent to his feelings had not Dolores, who seemed to read what waspassing in his mind, made an imperative sign; so he withdrew and went tojoin Philip, and to tell him that the order was in the hands of Dolores. 

"It will not be used, " said Philip, sadly. "If it would open the prisondoors for two women, I could induce them to go; but since I must go outwith one of them, and as neither will consent to save her life at thecost of the other's, we shall all remain. "

"Then all my efforts will be lost, " cried Coursegol, despairingly; "andI shall be compelled to see you perish after I have accomplishedmiracles in order to save you. "

And tears of anger and disappointment sprang to his eyes. 

Philip calmed him by explaining how impossible it would be for two toavail themselves of an opportunity to escape and abandon their friendto her fate. If one was forsaken by the others, eternal remorse would bethe portion of those who deserted her; hence, they must make theirescape together or await the dénouement. 

Coursegol promised to do his best to obtain an order which could be usedby three persons; and he left the prison towards evening, telling hisfriends that he would see them again in a few days and even sooner, ifpossible. 

While he was there, Antoinette, Dolores, and Philip had repaired, as ifby common consent, to the main hall; and when he had gone, the threeyoung people found themselves together. 

"Shall we still persist in shunning one another?" Antoinette askedPhilip. 

"No, no, " he replied, touched by the tender sorrow in her voice; "let usbe together while we can; then, should death be our portion, we shallnot be obliged to regret that we have not consecrated to friendship thefew moments left at our disposal. "

"That is well, Philip, " rejoined Dolores, and as she could say no morein Antoinette's presence without revealing the secret she wished toconceal, she extended her hand to her friend as if in approval of hisdecision. 

They remained together until the usual signal warned the prisoners thatthey must retire to their cells and extinguish their lights; but noallusion was made to the order of release. Philip and Dolores seemed tohave tacitly agreed to conceal from Antoinette the fact that herunforeseen arrival had prevented their immediate restoration to liberty. 

The next morning Dolores went down to the public hall, and there held along conversation with Philip. 

"Since God has united us here, " she said to him; "let us enjoy the timehe has given us, and allow no differences to creep in between us anddestroy the peace and harmony that are our only consolation. I do notwish to know your feelings, whatever they may be. You must constantlybear in mind these two things, Philip--that I can never, never be yourwife, and that you owe Antoinette reparation. This is the duty that lifeimposes upon you. So accept your destiny, and no longer pain us by thesight of your despondency. It only renders me miserable and it canchange nothing. "

Philip listened with bowed head to these firm words. He said to himself:

"She is right. Why should we concern ourselves about the future, sincethe present allows me to remain by her side? We are ever on thethreshold of the grave, here. Alas! we must escape from the shadow ofdeath that is hanging over us before we make any plans for the future. "

But he was touched, and while he mentally resolved to keep his love andhis hopes a secret in his own heart, he bowed over the hand of Dolores, and raising it to his lips, said:

"You speak wisely, my sister. I will be worthy of you. "

This day was the first that passed happily for the three whoselife-history we are attempting to relate. Unfortunately, thislong-sought happiness was to endure but for a day. The very nextafternoon after the just described, all the prisoners were assembled inthe main hall. It was the last of December, and night comes quickly inwinter. It was only four o'clock, and already the gathering twilightwarned the prisoners that the hour for returning to their cells was fastapproaching. 

Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd. The prisoners nearest thedoor pushed against those who were further away, and soon they foundthemselves ranged along the wall, while a large vacant space was left inthe centre of the room. 

A man had just entered. He was attired in black, and he wore a large redcockade on his hat. In his hand he held a roll of papers. Four soldiersaccompanied him. It was easy to recognize in this personage a clerk ofthe Revolutionary Tribunal; and it was his duty as an officer of thatbody, to visit the prisons and read the names of those condemned todeath and of those who were summoned to appear before the Tribunal toanswer the charges against them. Like an avenging spirit, he appearedevery day at the same hour, rigid, inflexible, cruel, deaf tosupplications and tears, a grim avant-courier of the executioner, selecting his victims and marking them for death. 

Accustomed as they were to see him, his appearance among the prisonersalways caused a thrill of horror. There was so much youth, beauty, innocence, grace, and devotion there! Why should they be doomed? Theywere enemies to whom? To what projects were they an obstacle? Uselessquestions! It is because Robespierre laid his merciless hand upon thegood, upon the weak and upon the timid that his name will be eternallyheld in execration by all generous hearts. 

When this official entered, Antoinette and Philip, who were as yetunversed in the customs of the prison, were pushed back by the crowdinto the yard, without understanding why. Dolores, who knew what was tocome, remained in the hall and chanced to be in the foremost row. 

The clerk came forward, unrolled a long list and began to read in a loudvoice the names of all who were to appear before the Tribunal thefollowing day. What a strange medley of names! Names of plebeians and ofnobles; of nuns and of priests; of royalists and of republicans; of oldmen and of children; of men and of women; it was all the same, providedthe guillotine was not compelled to wait for its prey. 

Each time a prisoner's name was called a murmur, more or less prolongedaccording as the rank, the age or the sex of the victim inspired more orless sympathy or pity, ran through the crowd. Then, the person namedcame forward and received from the hands of the official a paper, enumerating the real or imaginary crimes with which he was charged andordering him to appear before his judges the following day. If hisfather, his wife or his children were in prison with him, the air wasfilled with tears and lamentations. 

One could hear such words as these:

"If they had but taken me!"

"Would I could die in your stead!"

These heart-breaking scenes began even before the departure of theofficer, and generally lasted the entire night until the hour of finaladieu; but if the prisoner designated was alone and without family, hecame forward with a firm step, stoically accepted his sentence of death, and hummed a lively air as he returned to the crowd where a dozenunknown, but friendly, hands were extended as if to encourage andstrengthen him. 

Dolores had been a sympathetic witness of many such scenes, and thatevening she was neither more nor less moved than on previous occasions. The eyes and the heart soon become accustomed to anything. But suddenlyshe trembled. Those near her saw her totter and turn pale. She had justheard the officer call the name of Antoinette de Mirandol. She glancedaround her but did not see her friend. Antoinette was with Philip, outside the door. She did not reply to her name. The clerk repeated itin a still louder voice. 

"Antoinette de Mirandol, " he repeated a third time. 

Dolores stepped forward. 

"Here I am, " said she. "Pardon me, I did not hear at first. "

"Are you Citoyenne Mirandol?"

"The same. "

This generous response, twice repeated, caused a murmur of admiration, surprise and consternation among those who knew Dolores. She did nothear it, but her eyes glowed with heroic resolve as, with a firm hand, she took the act of accusation extended to her, and slowly returned toher place. 

The name of Antoinette to which she had just responded was the lastupon the sad list. 

"All whose names I have called will be tried to-morrow morning at teno'clock. "

With these words, the messenger of the Tribunal withdrew. Then came asigh of relief from those who had not been summoned. 

The friends of Dolores assembled around her. 

"Unfortunate child, what have you done?" asked one. 

"Are you, then, so anxious to die?"

"Why did you go forward when it was not your name that he called?"

She glanced calmly at her questioners; then, in a voice in whichentreaty was mingled with the energy that denotes an immutable resolve, she said:

"I beg that no one will interfere in this matter, or make me unhappy byendeavoring to persuade me to reconsider my decision. Above all, Iearnestly entreat you to keep my secret. "

No one made any response. The wish she had expressed was equivalent to acommand; and as such, deeds of heroism were not uncommon, the one whichshe had performed so bravely, and which would cost her her life, wasforgotten in a few moments by her companions in misfortune, who werenaturally absorbed in the question as to when their own turn was tocome. 

Dolores passed through the little group that had gathered around her, each person stepping aside with a grave bow to make way for her, andrejoined Antoinette and Philip, who knew nothing of what had takenplace. When she appeared before them no trace of emotion was visibleupon her face, and she had concealed the fated paper beneath the fichuthat covered her bosom. She chatted cheerfully with her friends untilthe sound of the drum warned the prisoners that they must retire totheir cells. Then, she smilingly extended her hand to Philip. 

"Good-night!" she said, simply. 

And taking Antoinette's arm in hers, she led her back to the cell theyoccupied in common. Antoinette entered first, leaving Dolores alone aninstant in the main corridor. The latter turned and swiftly retraced hersteps. She was seeking Aubry, the jailer. She soon met him. He, too, wasignorant of all that had occurred. 

"Where are you going?" he inquired, in a half-good-natured, half-grumbling tone. 

"I was looking for you, " Dolores replied. "I must send a message toCoursegol this very night. "

"I am not sure that I can get permission to leave the prison. "

"You must, " she eagerly rejoined. "It is absolutely necessary that I seeCoursegol to-morrow morning at nine o'clock. If he comes later, he willnot find me here. "

And as Aubry looked at her in astonishment, she added:

"I am to appear to-morrow before the Tribunal. "

"You! I hoped they had forgotten you. "

"Hush! not a word to any one, above all, to the young girl who sharesmy cell. If you have any regard for me, give my message to Coursegol. You will do a good deed for which you shall be rewarded. "

She left the kind-hearted jailer without another word, and hastened backto the cell where Antoinette was awaiting her. 

Dolores passed the night in a profound and peaceful slumber and awokewith a heart overflowing with pure and holy joy at the thought that shewas about to heroically crown a life devoted to duty and to abnegation. She did not underrate the sacrifice she was to make; but she knew thatthe death would not be without moral grandeur, and even while shecomprehended that she had exceeded the limit of the obligations whichduty imposed upon her, she felt no agitation, no regret. 

She rose early and arrayed herself with more than usual care. The dressshe selected was of gray cashmere. Her shoulders were covered with asilk fichu of the same color, knotted behind at the waist. Upon her headshe wore one of the tall, plumed felt hats in fashion at the time, andfrom which her golden hair descended in heavy braids upon her whiteneck. Never had she been more beautiful. The light of immortality seemedto beam in her lovely face; and the serenity of her heart, theenthusiasm that inspired her and the fervor of her religious faithimparted an inexpressible charm to her features. When her toilet wascompleted, she knelt, and for an hour her soul ascended in ferventaspiration to the God in whom she had placed her trust. Her heart wasdeeply touched: but there were no tears in her eyes. 

"Death, " she thought, "is only a journey to a better life. In theunknown world to which my soul will take flight, I shall rejoin thosewhom I love and who have gone before: the Marquis, whose benevolencesheltered me from misery and want; his wife, who lavished all a mother'stenderness upon me; my mother, herself, who died soon after giving mebirth. For those I leave behind me I shall wait on high, watching overthem, and praying for their peace and happiness. "

These consoling thoughts crowded in upon her as if to strengthen her inher last moments by hopes which render the weakest natures strong andindomitable, even before the most frightful suffering. She rose calm andtranquil, and approached Antoinette's bedside. She was sleeping soundly. Dolores looked at her a moment with loving, pitying eyes. 

"May my death assure your happiness, " she murmured, softly; "and mayPhilip love you as fondly as I have loved him!"

She left the cell. In the corridor, she met Aubry, who was in search ofher. 

"Your friend Coursegol is waiting for you below, " he said, sadly. 

"Oh! thank you, " she quickly and cheerfully rejoined. 

She hastened down. Coursegol was there. He was very pale, his face washaggard, and his eyes were terribly swollen. Warned the evening beforeby Aubry, the poor man had spent the entire night in the street, crouching against the wall of the prison, weeping and moaning while hewaited for the hour when he could see Dolores. 

"What do I hear, mademoiselle, " he exclaimed, on meeting her. "You aresummoned before the Tribunal! Oh! it is impossible. There must be somemistake. They can accuse you of no crime, nor can they think ofpunishing you as if you had been an Émigré or a conspirator. "

"Nevertheless, I received a summons yesterday and also a papercontaining the charge against me. "

"Alas, alas!" groaned Coursegol, "why did you not listen to me? Why haveyou not made use of the order I procured for you? You would now be atliberty and happy. "

"But Antoinette had no means of escape. "

"And what do I care for Mademoiselle de Mirandol? She is nothing to me, while you are almost my daughter. If you die, I shall not survive you. Ihave accomplished miracles to insure your escape from prison. I alsoflattered myself that I had assured your life's happiness, but by yourimprudence you have rendered all my efforts futile. Oh, God is notjust!"

"Coursegol, in pity say no more!"

But he would not heed her. He was really beside himself, and hecontinued his lamentations and reproaches with increasing violence, though his voice was choked with sobs. He gesticulated wildly; he formeda thousand plans, each more insane than the preceding. Now, he declaredhis intention of forcibly removing Dolores; now he declared he wouldappeal to the judges for mercy; again he swore that Vauquelas shouldinterfere in her behalf. But the girl forbade any attempt to save her. 

"No, my good Coursegol, " she said; "the thought of death does notappall me; and those who mourn for me will find consolation in the hopeof meeting me elsewhere. "

"And do you think this hope will suffice for me?" cried Coursegol. "Since I took you from the breast of your dying mother on the thresholdof the Château de Chamondrin, I have loved you more and more each day. Ilived for you and for you alone. My every hope and ambition were centredin you. You were my joy, my happiness, the only charm life had for me;and to see you condemned, you, the innocent--"

Sobs choked his utterance. 

"Show me the charges against you, " he demanded, suddenly. 

"What is the use?" rejoined Dolores, desiring to conceal the truth fromhim until the last. 

"I wish to know the crimes of which you are accused, " persistedCoursegol. "There are no proofs against you. I will find a lawyer todefend you--if need be, I, myself will defend you. "

"It would be useless, my friend. Your efforts would only compromise you, without saving me. "

As she spoke, she heard quick footsteps behind her. She turned. Theofficer who was there the evening before had returned to conduct theprisoners to the Tribunal. He began to call their names. 

"Farewell, farewell, " murmured Dolores, huskily. 

In this parting from the friend who had loved her so long andfaithfully, she experienced the first pang of anguish that had assailedher heart since she had decided to sacrifice her own life forAntoinette's sake. 

"Not farewell, " responded Coursegol, "but au revoir!"

And without another word, he departed. 

Dolores glanced around the hall; but saw nothing of Philip orAntoinette. She was greatly relieved, for she had feared that theiremotion would unnerve her; but now she could reasonably hope to carrywith her to the grave the secret of the devotion which was to cost herher life. She did not wish Philip ever to know that she had died inplace of Antoinette, lest her friend should become hateful in his sight, and Antoinette herself be condemned to eternal remorse. 

It was now nine o'clock, and about twenty persons had assembled in thehall. The majority of them were unfortunates who, like Dolores, were toappear that morning before the tribunal; but all did not enjoy aserenity like hers. One, a young man, seated upon a chair, a littleapart from his companions, allowed his eyes to rove restlessly aroundwithout pausing upon any of the objects that surrounded him. Though hisbody was there, his mind assuredly, was far away. He was thinking, doubtless, of days gone by, memories of which always flock into theminds of those who are about to die; not far from him, a venerable mancondemned to death, was striving to conquer his emotion in order toconsole a young girl--his daughter--who hung about his neck, wipingbitterly; there, stood a priest, repeating his breviary, pausing everynow and then to reply to each of the prisoners who came to implore thebenediction which, according to the tenets of the Romish Church, insures the soul the eternal joys of Paradise. So these prisoners, alldifferently occupied, were grouped about the hall; and those who were todie displayed far more fortitude and resignation than those who wouldsurvive them. Dolores approached the priest. 

"Father, " said she, "on returning from the Tribunal, I shall beg you tolisten to my confession and to grant me absolution. "

As he looked upon this beautiful young girl who confronted death socalmly and serenely, the priest closed his book and said, in a voicetrembling with compassion:

"What! are you, too, a victim for the guillotine? You cannot be aconspirator. Do these wretches respect nothing?"

"I am glad to die, " Dolores said, simply. 

Did he comprehend that this resignation concealed some great sacrifice?Perhaps so. He looked at her with admiration, and bowed respectfullybefore her, as he replied:

"You set us all an example of courage, my child. If you are condemned, Iwill give you absolution; and I shall ask you to address to Him, whonever turns a deaf ear to the petitions of the innocent, a prayer forme. "

There was so much sadness in his voice that all the sympathies ofDolores were aroused. She pitied those who were doomed to die withouteven remembering to weep over her own sad fate. 

When the name of Mademoiselle de Mirandol was called, Dolores steppedforward as she had done the evening before, and took her place with theother prisoners between the double file of soldiers who were to conductthem to the Tribunal. Then the gloomy cortége started. When they enteredthe court-room a loud shout rent the air. The hall was filled withsans-culottes and tricoteuses who came every day to feast their eyesupon the agony of the prisoners, and to accompany them to theguillotine. Never was there such an intense and long-continued thirstfor blood as prevailed in those horrible days. 

The prisoners were obliged to pass through this hooting and yellingcrowd, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that the soldiersprotected them from its violence. Several wooden benches occupied thespace between the bar and the chairs of the judges; and upon these theprisoners were seated, eleven on each bench and so close together thatit was almost impossible for them to make the slightest movement. Ontheir right stood the arm chair of the prosecuting attorney, or"accusateur;" on their left, were the seats of the jurors. Ten minutespassed, and the noise and confusion increased until it became positivelydeafening. Suddenly, a door opened and the court entered. The judgescame first, dressed in black, with plumed hats, and with red sashesabout their waists. The government attorney took his seat; the jurorsinstalled themselves noisily in their places, and the session began. 

Nothing could be more summary than the proceedings of this tribunal. The prisoner at the bar was generally ignorant of the charges againsthim, for the so-called act of accusation was in most cases, a scrap ofpaper covered with cramped and illegible hand-writing that frequentlyproved undecipherable. The president read a name. The person designated, rose and replied to such questions as were addressed to him. If theresponses were confused, the prisoner's embarrassment was regarded as aconclusive proof of his guilt; if they were long, he was imperiouslyordered to be silent. Witnesses were heard, of course; but those whotestified in favor of the accused were roughly handled. Then theprosecuting attorney spoke five minutes, perhaps; the jury rendered itsverdict, and the judge sentenced the prisoner or set him at liberty asthe case might be. That day, eleven persons were tried and condemned todeath in less than two hours. Dolores' turn came last. 

"Your name?" asked the president. 

"Antoinette de Mirandol. "

As she made this reply, she heard an ill-suppressed cry behind her. Sheturned quickly, and saw Coursegol. He was leaning upon the arm ofBridoul, and his hands were clenched and his face flushed. He nowcomprehended, for the first time, the girl's heroic sacrifice. Fearinghe would betray her, she gave him a warning glance, as if to imposesilence. It was unnecessary. He well knew that any statement of the realfacts would be useless now; and that the truth would ruin Antoinettewithout saving Dolores. Such mistakes were not rare during the Reign ofTerror. Almost daily, precipitancy caused errors of which no one wasconscious until it was too late to repair them. Only a few days before, a son had been condemned in place of his father; and another unfortunateman had paid with his head, for the similarity between his name and thatof another prisoner in whose stead he had been summoned before theTribunal, and with whom he was executed; for Fouquier-Tinville, notknowing which was the real culprit, chose rather to doom two innocentmen to death than to allow one guilty man to escape. Dolores wassentenced to be beheaded under the name of Antoinette de Mirandol Whenher sentence was pronounced, the business of the Court was concluded, and the judges were about to retire when suddenly a man made his waythrough the crowd to the bar, and cried a stentorian voice:

"The sentence you have just pronounced is infamous. You are not judges, but assassins and executioners. "

Then he crossed his arms upon his breast and glowered defiance on theindignant and wrathful judges. 

"Arrest that man!" thundered the public accusateur. 

Two gendarmes sprang forward, and the officer who had just spoken added:

"Citizen judges, I place this prisoner at your bar. Question him thatthe citizen jurors may decide upon his fate. "

It was Coursegol, who, hearing Dolores condemned, had suddenly resolvednot to survive her, but to die with her. 

"Unfortunate man!" murmured the young girl, and for the first time thatmorning her eyes filled with tears. 

Coursegol looked at her as if to ask if she thought him worthy of her. In answer to the question put by the chief judge, he curtly replied:

"It is useless to seek any other explanation of my conduct than thatwhich I am about to give. I am weary of the horrors which I havewitnessed. I hate the Republic and its supporters. I am a Royalist; andI have no other wish than to seal with my blood, the opinions I havehere proclaimed. 

"Citizen jurors, " cried his accuser, angrily; "I ask for this man apunishment which shall be an example to any who may desire to imitatehim. "

"He is mad!" objected one of the jurors. 

"No, I am not mad!" cried Coursegol. "Down with the Republic and longlive the King!"

There was such boldness in this defiance that a profound stillness madeitself felt in the crowded hall. Judges and jurors conferred together inwrathful whispers. In a few moments, Coursegol was condemned to sufferdeath upon the guillotine for having been guilty of the heinous crime ofinsulting the court in the exercise of its functions, and of utteringseditious words in its presence. Then he approached Dolores. She wassobbing violently, entirely overcome by this scene which had moved hermuch more deeply than her own misfortunes. 

"Forgive me, mademoiselle, " said he, "for being so bold as to resolvenot to survive you; but even in death, my place is beside you. "

"My friend! my protector! my father!" sobbed Dolores. 

And yielding to an irresistible impulse, she threw herself intoCoursegol's arms. He held her pressed tightly to his breast until he wasordered to make ready to start for the prison with the other victims. They were to remain there until the hour of execution. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE LAST FAREWELL. 

While these events were taking place in the Tribunal, Antoinette deMirandol awoke later than usual to find her friend absent; but thediscovery caused her little surprise, for this was not the first timethat Dolores, who was a much earlier riser than herself, had left thecell without disturbing her slumbers. Antoinette dressed herself withall possible speed, but it was nearly twelve o'clock before she wasready to go down to the main hall in search of Dolores. She did not seeher in the hall or in the corridors, and she entered the refectorycertain that her friend was already seated at the table where they hadtaken their meals since the increasing coldness of the weather haddriven them from their cell in the daytime. She cast a quick glancethrough the dining-hall. The prisoners were chatting gayly over theirmeagre fare, as if wishing to console themselves for the plainness oftheir food by the cheerfulness and brilliancy of their conversation. Dolores was not there. 

The discovery brought with it a feeling of vague alarm; not thatAntoinette had any suspicion of the truth, but because she was seizedwith a grim presentiment of approaching misfortune. She hastily turnedaway and started in pursuit of Philip, hoping to find Dolores with him. She soon met him, but he was alone. 

"Dolores? where is Dolores?" she cried. 

"I have not seen her, " replied Philip, surprised at the question, andalarmed by Antoinette's manner. 

"My God!" the girl whispered, turning suddenly pale; then, overcome withan inexplicable terror, she stood silent and motionless. 

"What has happened?" cried Philip. "You frighten me. "

"A terrible misfortune, I fear, " she gasped. 

She tottered and would have fallen had not Philip supported her; but shefinally recovered her composure sufficiently to explain the cause of heralarm. The presentiment which had assailed the girl also assailed him. Together, they began a frantic search for their missing friend, exploring every nook and corner of that portion of the prison in whichthey were allowed to circulate, and questioning their acquaintances, whoeither through compassion or through ignorance gave them no informationconcerning Dolores. Suddenly, at a turn in the corridor, theyencountered Aubry. 

"What! do you not know?" he asked, stupefied with amazement. 

"Know what?" cried Philip, impetuously. 

"That Citoyenne Dolores was ordered to appear before the Tribunal at teno'clock this morning. "

Two cries rang out on the still air: a cry of rage from Philip, a cry ofanguish from Antoinette; then, with tears and exclamations of despairthey entreated Aubry to explain. All he could tell them was that Doloreshad informed him the evening before that she had been summoned beforethe Tribunal; that she had requested him to inform Coursegol of thefact; that she had left her cell, that morning, at nine o'clock, calmand beautiful; that she had held a long conversation with Coursegol, whowas waiting for her below, after which she had left the prison to go tothe Tribunal in company with several others. 

This intelligence plunged Philip and Antoinette into a state ofindescribable despair. Unable to utter a word, they looked at each otherin wild but speechless terror; and yet, in the anguish that wrung theirhearts, their thoughts followed the same course. Both were askingthemselves why Dolores had concealed the truth from them; why she hadnot allowed them to die with her. It would have been so sweet to departtogether from a world from which all light seemed to have fled! Whowould have been cruel enough to refuse them the happiness of ascendingthe scaffold together?

"She feared to cause us pain, " said Philip, at last. "She departedalone, not realizing that by doing so she caused us greater anguish thanshe would have done had she told us the frightful truth. "

As he said this, Aubry, who had left them a moment before, returned. 

"The prisoners have come back. Citoyenne Dolores is with them in theHall of the Condemned. She wishes to see you. "

"In the Hall of the Condemned!" repeated Antoinette. 

That terrible word rang in their ears like the thud of the executioner'saxe. With hearts torn with anguish and despair, they wended their way tothe grim hall below. When they entered it, they found the doomedprisoners scattered about the room, striving to conquer their emotion, and to summon up all their strength for the terrible ordeal from whichthey were separated by only three short hours. Those who, like Dolores, had relatives or friends in the prison, had sent for them; but those whocould count on no loving farewell, sat silent and mournful, castingglances of envy upon their more fortunate companions. Some asked andobtained permission to go to their cells in order to write a last letterto their friends, or give directions concerning the few articles thatremained at their disposal. Some had ordered choice viands and rarewines, not wishing to die before they had again enjoyed the pleasures ofthe table, in default of something better; while coming and going in themidst of them, were the clerks of the Tribunal, the executioner'sassistants and the turnkeys of the prison, who hung about, hoping thecondemned would bestow some gratuity upon them before leaving theprison. Dolores had seated herself upon a bench that stood against thewall. The passion of weeping to which she had yielded after Coursegol'sheroic deed, had calmed her. He was standing by her side, looking downupon her with a in which there was neither bitterness nor Nothing couldbe more peaceful than the delicate features of the young girl and theenergetic face that bent over her, though traces of the tears which hadbeen wrung from them in a moment of despair were still visible. 

Antoinette, followed by Philip, rushed toward Dolores, threw herself ather feet, and, resting her head on the lap of her friend, sobbedunrestrainedly. 

"Antoinette, do not, I entreat you, deprive me of courage at a momentwhen I stand so greatly in need of it, " said Dolores. 

"How cruel in you not to have told us!" cried Antoinette. 

"I wished to save you pain. We must be resigned and submit to the fatethat awaits us; and we must not allow emotion to deprive us of thestrength to die bravely and courageously. "

As she spoke, Dolores compelled Antoinette to rise and take a seatbeside her; then she talked to her gently, but firmly. Their rolesseemed to be changed; she who was about to die, consoled her whose lifewas spared. While this conversation was going on between Antoinette andDolores, Philip, terribly pale, questioned Coursegol and learned fromhim what had taken place. He envied this devoted servant who was aboutto die with Dolores. He vainly strove to discover some means by which hecould draw down upon his own head the wrath of the accusateur, Fouquier-Tinville, and be sent at once to the scaffold. Coursegol toldhis story simply and modestly. Rendered desperate by the condemnation ofDolores, he resolved to share her fate, feeling no desire to survivethe loss of one so dear to him. 

"How greatly preferable your destiny is to mine!" cried Philip, bitterly. "Would I could die in your place. "

Dolores heard these words, and leaving Antoinette, she approached Philipand said:

"Do not speak thus, Philip. To-day, God declares His will to you. Unintentionally, I was an obstacle to the fulfilment of the vows you hadmade. God recalls me to Him. You long to die with me, you say. You mustnot die, you must live, for your life belongs to one who has put hertrust in you. Your life belongs to her, and your name; and no one ismore worthy than Antoinette to bear your name. "

Philip passionately interrupted her:

"I am no saint, I am a man! Why do you talk to me of promises and ofduty? Whatever I may have said, whatever I may have promised, if I havenot told you that I loved you, if I have not told you that I shouldalways love you, I have lied. Read my--heart; you will behold your name, your name alone, written there; and tell me, courageous creature, noble-hearted woman, how can one stifle the aspirations of a love whichhas been the only joy, the only torment of one's life? Remember thepast, Dolores--our childhood, the blissful existence in which love wasfirst awakened in our hearts. I do not know what was passing in yours;but mine has nourished but one thought, cherished but one hope: tobelong to you and to possess you. Upon this hope have I lived. It hasbeen the strength and the weakness of my life; its deepest sorrow andits purest joy. "

While he was thus speaking in low tones that he might not be overheard, Antoinette, after exchanging a few remarks with Coursegol, approachedthem. Not a single word uttered by Philip had escaped her, and herterror-stricken eyes and drawn features betrayed her agony. 

"Was this dream of mine so unutterably wild and hopeless?" continuedPhilip, not perceiving Antoinette, and refusing to heed Dolores' warningsign. "Does a man display a culpable ambition when he longs for a calmand happy life with an adored wife who is worthy of him? And yet, thefirst time I spoke of this love, you said to me: 'Antoinette loves you;marry her;' and when I still pleaded, you added: 'I belong to God. '"

"Was this not the truth?" asked Dolores, timidly. 

"No, for you loved me and you sacrificed yourself for the sake of somefoolish scheme upon the accomplishment of which my father would not haveinsisted if, sustained by you, I had ventured to confess the truth. Youwould not consent to this; you left us: then, Providence once morebrought us face to face. This time, you granted me a hope only to takeit from me again when Antoinette reappeared. Now, behold your work. Hereare all three of us equally miserable; you, in dying; I, in survivingyou; Antoinette, in loving me. "

"I am glad to die, " replied Dolores, who had regained her firmness andcomposure. 

"Then why did you not allow me to share this happiness? Yesterday, whenyou received the fatal news, why did you not say to me: 'We have beenunhappy here on earth; death will save us from many and undeservedmisfortunes; come, let us die together. '"

"What! be the cause of your death?"

"It would be less cruel than to leave me behind you. Do you know what mylife will be when I can no longer hope to see you again here below? Onelong supplication for death to quickly relieve me of the burden ofexistence. "

"Philip, Philip!" murmured Dolores, reproachfully. "Can it be you whospeak thus, you who have linked a soul to yours; you who are a husbandalready, for at the bedside of your dying father did not you andAntoinette kneel together to receive the blessing of God's anointedpriest?"

Philip made no reply. 

"You have reproached me, " continued Dolores, "and why? Who is the realculprit here? Is it I? Have I not always discouraged you? Have I notalways told you that duty stood between us? Have I not always striven toconvince you that your hopes were futile? Had not you, yourself, renounced them? Then, why should I reproach myself? Besides, I have notsought death. I die because Heaven wills it, but I am resigned, and ifthis resignation is any evidence of courage, let it strengthen andreanimate your soul. Bravely act the only part that is worthy of yourpast, of your heart and of your name. There, and there only yoursoul-will find happiness and peace. "

Philip's anger vanished before such words as these. He was no longerirritated, but entirely overcome. Suddenly a sob resounded behind them. They turned. Antoinette was upon her knees. 

"Pardon, " said she, in a voice broken with sobs. 

Dolores sprang forward to raise her. 

"Philip, do you forgive me?" entreated Antoinette. 

He too was weeping. He extended his hand to the young girl, who took itand covered it with her tears. 

"Spare me, spare me!" exclaimed Dolores. "You rend my soul now when Ihave need for all my strength. Your grief and despair at my fate leadyou both beyond reality. You, my dear friend, my dear sister Antoinette, have received a sacred promise which you, Philip, made freely and withthe intention to fulfil it. That is the only thing you must remembernow. "

She uttered these words in a sweet and penetrating voice, and with anenergy that calmed and silenced both of them. She spoke of the chiefduties of life, of the necessity of resignation, devotion andself-denial. 

"I wish to carry with me to the grave, " she added, "the assurance thatyou will console each other after my death by loving each other inremembrance of me. "

And they promised all that she asked, for it was impossible to resist somuch grace, so much eloquence and so much humility. Then she took fromher pocket the order of release which Coursegol had obtained throughVauquelas. She handed this to Philip. 

"There is your freedom, " she resumed. "With the assistance of Bridoul, who will aid you in Coursegol's stead, this paper will enable you toescape from prison. You will be conducted to a safe retreat where youcan await the fall of these wicked men and the triumph of truth and ofvirtue. That hour will surely come; for the future does not belong tothe violent and audacious; it is for the meek, the generous, the good. "

She conversed with them an hour longer, then begged them to leave her. She desired to prepare for death. Antoinette's sobs and Philip's despairincreased in violence. 

"Have pity on me!" she entreated. "Before I go, I will call you to bidyou a last farewell. "

They left her. She remained alone with the other prisoners who had beencondemned to death. Among them was the priest of whom we have alreadyspoken; the same who had consoled and blessed her. He was seated in acorner of the room and many of the poor creatures, whose moments onearth were now numbered, had knelt before him to confess their sins andreceive absolution. Dolores followed the example of her companions inmisfortune. Purified by suffering and sanctified by the approach ofdeath, her full confession revealed such nobility of character that theworthy priest was filled with admiration. 

"Now I am ready, " she said to Coursegol. "Death may come. "

"So young and so beautiful, and to die!" he exclaimed, sadly. 

"Are you going to bewail my fate?" she inquired, with a smile. "It isunnecessary, for I am very happy. "

"It is the thought of the sacrifice you have accomplished that rendersyou thus happy!"

"Hush!" she said, quickly. "Who has spoken to you of a sacrifice? Itmust never be mentioned. Antoinette and Philip must never know that Idied in place of another. "

"A saint might utter words like those, " he murmured. Then beholding hercheerful, courageous and inspired with the holy enthusiasm of themartyrs, he added: "I am glad to die with you. You will open the portalsof Heaven for me; and I will cling so closely to you, pure soul, thatthey will let me follow you in. "

Thus were these two souls elevated to the grandest heroism by the verysimplicity of their devotion. There was certainly not a drop of nobleblood in the veins of either of them, and yet they went to meet deathvaliantly, like saints. 

It was three o'clock, and a lovely winter's day. The sky was clear andthe sun radiant. 

"We have fine weather for our journey to the scaffold, " thoughtCoursegol. 

Dolores was absorbed in prayer. Her heart ascended to God in ferventsupplication that He would bless her sacrifice, and make it redound tothe peace and happiness of the two beloved friends that were leftbehind. Suddenly, several men entered the hall: the executioner and hisassistants. Moans and cries of terror arose from the condemned. 

"Already!" exclaimed a young woman, who had until now borne herselfcourageously. 

She fainted. She was half-dead with fear when she was carried up thesteps of the guillotine an hour later. Dolores lost none of hercomposure on beholding the executioner. She quietly removed her hat; andwhile the three assistants cut off the hair of the prisoners around her, she unbound the magnificent golden tresses which enveloped her like arippling veil. There was a universal shudder when the scissors despoiledthat charming head of its superb adornment; and Coursegol could notrepress an exclamation of wrath at this act of barbarity. Doloreschecked him with a gesture. 

"I would like to have my hair, " she said to the assistant executioner, pointing to the tresses lying upon the floor. 

"It belongs to me, " he responded, roughly. "That is the custom. "

"Will this suffice to pay for it?" inquired Dolores, showing him a ringthat she wore upon one of her fingers. 

"Undoubtedly. "

"Very well, I will buy it then. "

The man gathered up the golden curls and handed them to Dolores. 

"It is a pity, " she said, gently and with a tinge of sadness. "Theybecame me well. "

It was her only sign of regret for the sad fate to which her youth andbeauty were condemned. 

When she saw that the moment of departure was near at hand, she askedto see Philip and Antoinette again. They had been standing just outsidethe door, half-crazed with grief. They entered, followed by Aubry, who, though accustomed to such scenes, was deeply moved. It was to him thatshe turned first. 

"I thank you for all your kindness, " she said to him. "On my arrival atthe prison, I confided a cross to your keeping. "

"Here it is. I return it to you, citoyenne. "

"Keep it, my friend; it will remind you of a prisoner to whom you showedcompassion, and who will pray for you. "

"Oh, citoyenne, I could have done no less!" faltered the poor man. 

Then Dolores turned to Antoinette and Philip. Their despair verged uponmadness. That of Antoinette was violent, and vented itself in moans andtears; that of Philip was still more terrible, for the wretched manseemed to have grown ten years older in the past few hours. 

"Farewell, my dear friends, " said Dolores, cheerfully. "Do not mourn. Try to think that I am going on a journey, and to a country where youwill soon come to join me. In its relations to life, death is nothingmore. "

But, while she was thus endeavoring to console them, her own tearsmingled with theirs. She took them both in her arms, and clasped them toher heart in a close embrace. 

"Love each other always, and do not forget me. "

These were her last words of counsel. 

Coursegol approached. Philip opened his arms. 

"Coursegol, " said he, "you are a man and an old soldier. Death has noterrors for you; you will lose none of your calmness. Take good care ofher to the last, will you not?"

"That she might not be compelled to go alone was why I resolved to diewith her, " replied Coursegol, simply. 

"Dolores, give me your blessing. "

It was Antoinette who spoke. 

"Yes, my sister, I bless thee!"

And Dolores extended her hand over the grief-stricken head of herfriend. 

"En route! en route!"

This cry was uttered by a stentorian voice. The moment of parting hadcome. One last kiss was exchanged. 

"Farewell, farewell! We shall meet again in Heaven!"

And Dolores tore herself from their clinging arms. Coursegol followedher, but not so quickly that he failed to see Antoinette swoon with acry of heart-broken anguish, and Philip spring forward to support her. Acart was awaiting the victims in the court-yard of the prison. Thetwelve who were doomed to death took their places in it with their handsbound behind their backs. A number of soldiers on horseback and some onfoot acted as an escort. They fell into line and the little processionstarted. 

From the Conciergerie to the Place de la Révolution the cart wasfollowed by a hooting, jelling crowd of men, women and children, whosang coarse songs and hurled insults in the faces of their victims. These last seemed insensible to the indignities heaped upon them. On oneside of the cart an aged man and a youth were seated side by side. Crowded close one against the other, they did not, along the entireroute, once cease to cry: "Vive le Roi!" One of their companions, aRepublican, accused of _Modérantisme_, regarded them with an air ofironical compassion. A priest stood in the centre of the cart, surrounded by three women, reciting prayers and canticles with them. Dolores, who was leaning upon Coursegol's shoulder, seemed to beentirely unconscious of what was passing around her. Grief, cold, fatigue and the rough jolting of the vehicle had reduced her to acondition of pitiable weakness. Coursegol was distressed to see her inthis state, and to be powerless to succor her. He did not think ofhimself; he thought only of her. 

When they came in sight of the Place de la Révolution, where theterrible guillotine towered up grim and ghastly against the horizon, Dolores trembled, and, closing her eyes, whispered:

"I am afraid!"

"Oh! my dearest little one, do not lose courage, " said Coursegol, withall a father's tenderness. "I am here, but I can do nothing to save youfrom these horrors. But be brave and hopeful. Only a moment more and weshall find peace in the grave and in the arms of our blessed Lord. "

The cart jolted onward through the dense and jeering crowd until itreached the foot of the steps leading to the awful guillotine. The agedman and his youthful companion were yet crying "Vive le Roi!" TheRepublican, accursed of _Modérantisme_, was still regarding them with anair of ironical compassion. The priest was yet reciting prayers andcanticles with the three women. None of these unfortunates paid theslightest attention either to the hooting mob or the dreadful doom fromwhich but a few instants separated them. 

The cart suddenly stopped and the condemned were roughly ordered toleave it. They did so mechanically and without resistance. Theexecutioner's assistants seized upon them, dragging them into an openspace, as if, instead of human beings, they had been merely dumbanimals, awaiting slaughter in a butcher's shambles. The sans-culottescheered; the tricoteuses, seated in knots, clapped their hands wildly insavage joy, delighted that more blood was speedily to be spilled. It wasan appalling scene, steeped in horror. 

Coursegol moved towards Dolores to put his arm about her and sustain hertrembling form. He was rudely pulled back by the assistant who had himin charge. 

"If you are a man and have a heart, show some mercy!" he pleaded. "Letme go to my daughter who is about to die!"

The assistant gave a demoniac scowl. 

"There is no mercy for the enemies of the Republic!" he snarled. "Remainwhere you are!"

Dolores glanced at Coursegol tenderly. The utmost thankfulness was inher look. But she uttered not a word. She felt that speech would merelyaugment her companion's misery and her own. 

Those of the mob who were near enough to catch the assistant's brutalreply to Coursegol applauded it. Their hearts seemed turned to stone. Not a morsel of pity or human feeling was left in them. They were likeso many wild beasts eager to lap blood. 

The executioner had bared his brawny arms for his fiendish task. Hisface glowed with intense satisfaction. 

"Come, " said he, addressing his assistants. "We are wasting the Nation'stime and keeping hosts of patriots waiting for their just revenge. Deathto the enemies of the Republic!"

An officer unfolded a soiled and crumpled paper. He began to call thedeath-roll. 

The aged Royalist went to the guillotine first. In an instant the hugeknife descended; his life blood gushed forth and his head fell into thebasket. The executioner grasped the head by its white locks and held itup, streaming with gore, to the gaze of the howling concourse. 

"So perish all who hate France and liberty!" he shouted. 

His shout was taken up and repeated from one end of the Place de laRévolution to the other. 

"So perish all who hate France and liberty!"

It was a sublime mockery of justice, a deliberate treading under foot ofall the rights of man. The sans-culottes and the tricoteuses rivaledeach other in the loudness and strength of their applause. 

The youthful Royalist was the next victim, and the preceding scene withall its horrors was repeated. 

Then the Republican, accused of _Modérantisme_, met his fate, then thepriest, and then, one by one, the three women, each execution having asimilar finale. 

Dolores and Coursegol alone were left of all the condemned. They lookedat each other, encouraging each other to be brave by signs and glances. 

The officer with the death-roll read Dolores' name. Coursegol bowed hishead, trembling in every limb. The supreme moment had come. The faintinggirl was dragged forward. Her foot was already on the first step of theguillotine platform, when suddenly there was a great commotion in thecrowd and a stentorian voice cried out:

"In the name of the Republic, hold!"

At the same instant the throng parted like a wave of the ocean and threemen appeared at the foot of the guillotine. Two of them were clerks fromRobespierre's bureau, clad in the well-known uniform and wearing therevolutionary cockade. The third was Bridoul. He wore the dress of theterrible Committee of Public Safety. It was he who had uttered thestentorian cry:

"In the name of the Republic, hold!"

The assistant who was dragging Dolores forward paused, astounded. Theexecutioner dropped his arms to his sides and glanced at the three menin speechless amazement. An interruption of the guillotine's deadly workwas something that had never yet come his knowledge or experience in thebloody days of the Reign of Terror. He could not comprehend it. Thesuddenly silenced mob was equally unable to grasp the situation. Whatcould be the matter? Had the flinty and inexorable Robespierre turnedfainthearted at last? No! That was impossible! The patriots waited withopen mouths for an explanation of this bewildering phenomenon. 

As for Dolores, she saw nothing, heard nothing. At the foot of theguillotine steps she had fainted dead away in the assistant's arms. 

Coursegol had seen Bridoul and heard his words, but they were as much ofan enigma to him as to the rest. How was it that Bridoul was withRobespierre's clerks, and how was it that he wore the dress of theCommittee of Public Safety? Coursegol, however, realized one thing--thatBridoul had in some inexplicable way acquired power and had come at thelast moment to save Dolores and himself!

Meanwhile Bridoul and the clerks had mounted the guillotine steps andwere standing on the platform of death, facing the awed and amazed mob. Bridoul produced a huge document and held it up to the people. On it wasseen the great red seal of the Republic. At the bottom, those nearestcould make out the well-known signature of Robespierre!

Bridoul proceeded to read the document. It declared that a mistake hadbeen made in the condemnation of Citoyenne Antoinette de Mirandol andCitoyen Coursegol, that they were altogether innocent of any crimewhatever against the Republic, and ordered them to be set at libertyimmediately. 

A subdued murmur followed the reading of this surprising paper, but, though the mob was dissatisfied and disappointed, no one dare disputethe command of the formidable and dreaded Dictator!

Bridoul folded the precious document and placed it in his pocket; thenhe turned to the assistant who was supporting Dolores and ordered him todeliver his charge to Robespierre's clerks; the man at once obeyed. 

Bridoul then came down from the platform and went to Coursegol. Thelatter began at once to question him. 

"Hush!" said he. "Not a word now! I will explain all in time! For thepresent the girl and yourself are safe! That must suffice you! Come withme!"

A carriage was waiting a few paces away. Bridoul led Coursegol to it andthither also Dolores was borne by the two clerks, who, after placing heron a seat, bowed respectfully to Bridoul and departed. 

"We are going to my house, " said Bridoul, as the vehicle started off atthe top of its horses' speed, the crowd leaving it an open passage. 

Dolores revived and opened her eyes just as they reached the wine-shop. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

IN THE CHÉVREUSE VALLEY. 

The first thing Dolores saw was the kindly face of Cornelia Bridoul, whowas bending over her with tears of joy in her eyes. The good woman hadbeen waiting at the door of the "Bonnet Rouge" and had sprang into thecarriage the moment it stopped. Dolores was still very faint and utterlybewildered. She glanced at Cornelia, at Bridoul and then at Coursegol. Then she swooned again. Taking her in his arms, the wine-shop keepercarried her to the chamber she had formerly occupied, where he placedher upon the bed, leaving his wife to bestow such care on her as in herweak condition she might require. This done, he repaired to the backshop, where, by his direction, Coursegol had preceded him. 

"You want to know what all this means and how it was accomplished, " saidhe, as he entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him. "Iam now ready to tell you. But first you must have something tostrengthen you, for you have just passed through a trial sufficient tobreak down even Hercules himself. "

As he spoke he took a flask of brandy from a closet and filled glassesfor his companion and himself. After they had drunk the liquor andseated themselves, he continued:

"Time is precious, and it will not do for Dolores and yourself toremain long here, or, for that matter, in Paris! You are safe for themoment, but at what instant you may again be in deadly peril it isimpossible to say! I have succeeded in cheating the guillotine of itsprey, and I will tell you how in as few words as I can. When I learnedthat Dolores was in prison and heard of your own arrest, I determined tomove heaven and earth to save you, but was at a loss to know eitherwhere to turn or what to do. Just at that critical juncture word wasbrought me that I had been chosen a member of the Committee of PublicSafety, on the recommendation of no less a personage than Robespierrehimself, and that the Dictator wished to see me at once. I saw myopportunity and hastened to him without an instant's delay. 

"Robespierre received me cordially and informed me that I could be ofthe greatest service to him and the Republic. I answered that as a truepatriot I was not only willing but anxious to do all that lay in mypower. He smiled and said that he had a mission of the utmost importanceto entrust to me, that he had selected me for it because of mywell-known zeal for the Nation's welfare and my equally well-knownintegrity. I bowed, and he went on to say that certain members of theCommittee of Public Safety were plotting against himself and thecontinuance of his power. My mission was to win over those members tohis interest and restore harmony in the Committee. I accepted themission and succeeded. 

"The Dictator's delight and exultation were boundless. He told me toname the price of my distinguished service and, whatever it might be, itshould instantly be paid. He undoubtedly expected that I would demandmoney and position, but I demanded neither. I simply asked for hiswarrant, under his own signature and the great seal of the Republic, tosave from prison and the guillotine two of my friends who were accusedof crimes of which they were entirely innocent. Robespierre wassurprised. He hesitated; then he asked the names of my friends. I gavethem and he showed further hesitation. Finally, he drew up the warrant, signed it, placed the great seal upon it, and directed me to take two ofhis clerks and have it at once carried into effect. You may well imaginethat I did not let the grass grow under my feet. I took the preciousdocument and, accompanied by the clerks, fairly flew to theConciergerie, where I had learned you were confined previous to going tothe guillotine. 

"When I arrived I was informed, to my terror and dismay that the cartladen with the condemned had already started for the Place de laRévolution and that Dolores and yourself were among the victims. Iprocured a carriage and with my companions drove at headlong speed tothe very steps of the guillotine. The rest you know. Now, Robespierre istreacherous and forgetful of services when his end has been attained. Hemay revoke his warrant and order your re-arrest at any moment. Hence Isay that time is precious and that it will not do for you to remain longeither here or elsewhere in Paris. You must seek safety as soon aspossible in the little cottage in the Chévreuse valley, where theDictator and his myrmidoms will not think of searching for you. This isimperative!"

Coursegol grasped his friend's hand. 

"You are a man, Bridoul!" said he. "You have saved our lives and won ourundying gratitude! We will follow your advice to the letter! But youmust do something more. Antoinette de Mirandol and Philip de Chamondrinare still in the Conciergerie. They have an order for their release, butcannot use it without your help. You must aid them to escape and join usin the Chévreuse valley!"

"I will do it!" said Bridoul, solemnly. "I swear it!"

"Enough, " replied Coursegol. "Dolores and myself will leave for therefuge this very night!"

Madame Bridoul was summoned and acquainted with the decision that hadbeen reached. She reported that Dolores had recovered consciousness andstrength and would be ready for the departure when required. 

"One thing more, " said Coursegol to Bridoul and his wife. "NeitherPhilip nor Antoinette must know that we have escaped the guillotineuntil they find us alive and well in the Chévreuse valley!"

This was agreed to, and, at nightfall, Coursegol and Dolores, providedwith the requisite passports, quitted Paris. In due time they reachedthe little cottage in the Chévreuse valley in safety. 

About a fortnight after the supposed execution of Dolores and Coursegol, Philip and Antoinette, with the aid of Bridoul and the order of releasewrested from Vauquelas, succeeded in obtaining their freedom. No soonerwere they out of the Conciergerie than they hastened to the refugeprovided for them in the Chévreuse valley. What pen can describe theirjoy and gratitude to God when, on their arrival, they found that thelittle cottage contained two other tenants, and that those tenants weretheir beloved friends whom they had mourned as victims of the hideousguillotine?

Dolores, after the first transports of delight at the reunion were over, endeavored to continue her rôle of martyr and to induce Philip to keephis promise to her to marry Antoinette, but the latter had greatlychanged since that dreadful parting at the Conciergerie. She had becomecapable of as great a sacrifice as Dolores, and firmly refused to standlonger between Philip and the woman he had loved for so many years. Shestill loved Philip, it is true, but her love had grown pure andunselfish--it was now a sister's love, not that of a woman who wished tobe his wife. 

To say that Philip was overjoyed by this unexpected turn of affairs isonly to state the simple truth. 

Dolores at first demurred, urging the wish of the late Marquis, alsothat she was devoted to God, but Antoinette's only reply was to jointheir hands and bless them, and Dolores finally consented to themarriage that at her heart's core she so ardently desired. 

Philip and Dolores were quietly united in wedlock a few weeks later. Coursegol, the Bridouls and Antoinette were the only persons present atthe ceremony besides the bride and groom and the officiating priest. Shortly afterwards the Marquis de Chamondrin and his wife, accompaniedby Coursegol, Antoinette and the Bridouls, the latter having sold theirwine-shop, went to England and from there to Louisiana, where Mlle. DeMirandol owned extensive estates. Antoinette decided to remain inLouisiana, having persuaded Madame Bridoul to take charge of her houseand Bridoul to assume the management of her business. 

Philip and Dolores spent ten years in America and then returned toFrance. They had two children, a son and a daughter, the latter namedAntoinette, and their life, though always slightly tinged withmelancholy, was serene and peaceful. After his return to his nativeland, Philip rebuilt the Château de Chamondrin and took up his permanentabode there, determined to lead the life of a country gentleman andstudent and to take no part in the political controversies of the time, nor could he be induced to reconsider this decision though he was twiceoffered a seat in the Chamber of Deputies. After the exciting andterrible scenes of the Reign of Terror through which he had passed, helonged for quiet and repose. Coursegol was made the steward of hisestate and managed it with such shrewdness and intelligence that Philipbecame rich and all the prestige of the Chamondrins was restored. 

In the month of May, 1822, while in Paris, to which city he had beencalled by important business, the Marquis de Chamondrin met an oldnobleman who had been a fellow prisoner in the Conciergerie. They talkedtogether a long time over the past and the frenzy, perils and heroismwhich had stamped those eventful days, and a chance word, let fall byhis companion, first acquainted Philip with the fact that Dolores hadendeavored to sacrifice her own life in order to save that of Antoinettede Mirandol. The Marquis de Chamondrin turned pale as death and pressedhis hand convulsively against his heart, but he speedily recovered hiscolor and self-possession and the old nobleman did not even suspect theemotion to which his revelation had given rise. 

Philip never mentioned the knowledge he had acquired to his wife, buthis love and reverence for her were vastly augmented by it, and, whenever he thought of the sacrifice that God in His mercy had notpermitted to be made, he murmured to himself:

"Dolores has a noble and heroic soul! An angel from Heaven could nothave acted more grandly!"

THE END.