Antoinette de Mirandol

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

One morning, on entering the public hall, she saw Coursegol behind the grating in the corridor. She hastened to him, and he whispered through the 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 arrange to 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 order of the Committee; and the order given me by Vauquelas is a fac-simile of those always used.”

“With this difference, however: the names of those to be released have not 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 citoyenne Chamondrin.”

“But if we should succeed in escaping from this prison, Coursegol, where shall we go?”

“To Bridoul’s at first, where you will be safe for at least twenty-four hours. From there I shall conduct you to a cottage in the Forest of Chevreuse, some little distance from Versailles. The place is almost a wilderness; no one will ever think of looking for us there.”

Coursegol’s words made a deep impression upon the girl’s mind. After resigning 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 seemed irretrievably lost, hope sprang up from the ruins like some gorgeous flower and unfolded its brilliant petals one by one before her wondering and enraptured eyes.

“And Antoinette?” some one asks, “Had Dolores forgotten Antoinette’s right to Philip’s devotion?” No; the reader knows how heroically Dolores had sacrificed her happiness for her friend’s sake, and how earnestly she had endeavored to compel Philip to fulfil his father’s wishes; but when Philip met her at the house of Vauquelas after their long separation, he made no allusion to the recent promise which bound him more closely than ever to Mlle. de Mirandol; and, knowing that Dolores was aware of the engagement which had formerly existed between himself and Antoinette, he did his best to make that bond appear of a trivial nature in order to induce her to listen to his suit with favor. So he had merely told Dolores that he did not love Antoinette, that he could never love Antoinette, that it was she, Dolores, whom he passionately adored and whom he was resolved to make his wife. If we remember the influence such words as these could not fail to exercise over the mind of Dolores, and the influence exerted by the peculiar circumstances of their meeting, and by the perils that surrounded them; if we recollect, too, that Antoinette was far away and presumably beyond the reach of danger or of want, it is easy to understand how they came to forget everything but their own happiness, and to regard their marriage until now deemed an impossibility as a most natural and proper thing.

It was in this condition of mind that Dolores listened to Coursegol’s description of the little house in the Chevreuse valley, in which they were to take refuge; but the vision of happiness conjured up by his words was rudely dispelled by a sudden commotion around her which recalled her to the grim reality of the dangers that still threatened her on every side. The jailer was reading the names of the prisoners who were to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal the next day.

That evening, when Dolores re-entered her cell, eagerly longing for the morrow which would bring Philip once more to her side, she was followed by Aubry, who was carrying a small iron bedstead which he placed near the 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 give you to-morrow, citoyenne. I have resorted to every sort of stratagem to gratify your desire to be alone, but now there is no help for it. We are expecting a party of prisoners from La Vendée. There are several women among them; and some place must be found for them, although the prison is filled to overflowing. While you were down-stairs the inspector came here and ordered me to put another prisoner in this cell. It is annoying, but, never mind; when the new-comers arrive I will choose your room-mate, and you will be pleased with her.”

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

“Here is your companion,” Aubry whispered to Dolores. “I hope you will be pleased with my selection. Poor little thing, she seems worn out and terribly dejected.”

The stranger, without lifting her veil, had seated herself upon her bed in an attitude which indicated intense fatigue or despondency. Aubry gave her a few directions to which she listened abstractedly, without replying 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 not be friends?”

At the sound of the girl’s voice, the stranger trembled; then she rose and 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 of astonishment in which one could detect both consternation and joy; then, springing forward, she hastily lifted the veil which hid the face of the speaker.

“Antoinette! Antoinette!”

“Dolores, you here!”

They were again in each other’s arms after four long years of separation, kissing each other, questioning each other, smiling and weeping by turns.

“Tell me about yourself!” cried Antoinette.

“All in good time, my dearest,” replied Dolores. “First, lie down and rest. 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 upon her own bed; then she left her a moment to ask Aubry to bring a cup of coffee to her weary friend. That worthy man exhibited his accustomed zeal, and soon the two young-girls, one reclining on her couch, the other seated by her bedside were talking of the past. But their conversation had hardly begun when Antoinette inquired:

“Have you seen Philip?”

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

“I have seen Philip. He, too, has been arrested, and he will be brought here 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 companion some account of her own life since she left the Chateau de Chamondrin four years before. Antoinette was affected to tears by the story of her friend’s misfortunes. She interrupted her again and again to pity and caress her, and Dolores could not summon up courage to speak of her love for 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 his troth to her at last. She also told her friend that she could not endure her life in England, separated from him, and that anxiety for his safety had induced her to leave the Reed mansion by stealth and come to France in 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, after vainly attempting to dissuade her, at last consented to make such arrangements as would enable her to reach France in safety. It was through his efforts that Antoinette was allowed to take passage in a small vessel that was sent to bear a message from the princes to La Vendée. On reaching the coast of Brittany where the vessel landed, she and her travelling companions parted. She was eager to reach Paris, but found that the journey would be no easy task. She finally succeeded in finding 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 figured as a grain merchant; the other for Antoinette, who was represented to be his daughter. Unfortunately, they stopped for refreshments at a small village near Nantes; and Antoinette’s unmistakable air of distinction and the whiteness of her hands led people to suspect that she was not the child of a petty village merchant. The man discovered this; his fears were aroused, and while Antoinette was sitting in the parlor of the inn, he harnessed his horses and drove off at full speed. This cowardly desertion filled the girl with dismay. On finding herself alone, she could not conceal her disquietude, and this increased the suspicions that had already been aroused. The inn-keeper, who was a zealous patriot, compelled her to go with him to the district Commissioner. Her presence of mind deserted her; and her incoherent replies and her reticence caused her arrest. The Commissioner intended to 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 party of prisoners from La Vendée passed through the village; and Antoinette was entrusted to the care of the officer in charge of them. After a long and painful journey, she at last reached Paris, where the Conciergerie opened to receive her.

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

“Now you must sleep and regain your strength. Have no fears, I will watch 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. Dolores sat motionless, her thoughts busy with what she had just heard. In all this narrative she had clearly understood only two things: first, that it was the hope of discovering and saving Philip, whom she still passionately loved, that had induced Mlle. de Mirandol to make this journey which had terminated so disastrously, and secondly, that Philip only a few weeks before had solemnly renewed an engagement which he had concealed from her.

“What shall I do?” asked the poor girl, as she remembered with a breaking heart her blissful dreams of the evening before.

Her own great love stood face to face with that of Antoinette. Which should be sacrificed? Antoinette’s most assuredly, since Philip loved Dolores. But she dare not contemplate such a solution of the problem.

“What!” she thought; “after the Marquis de Chamondrin has reared me as his own child, I repay his kindness by encouraging his son to disobey his last wishes? No, no! It is impossible! He made him promise to marry Antoinette; and Philip did promise, first his father and afterwards Antoinette. What does it matter if he does love me! When he no longer sees 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 were so 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 you wed Philip, Antoinette will be miserable. Her disappointment would break her heart; and all your life long, the phantom form of the dear sister whose happiness you had wrecked would stand between your husband and yourself. She is innocent; she does not even know that I love Philip. I have never admitted it to her; I have always concealed the truth. She will be happy; she will feel no remorse, and she will cause peace, resignation and love to descend with healing wings upon the heart of him she so fondly loves.”

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

“Ah!” she murmured, as she sadly gazed upon her; “why did you not remain in England? Why did you come here? You little know how much misery 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 soul with the hopes she had just relinquished forever. Suddenly the door opened, and the jailer entered. It was now about ten o’clock in the morning.

“There is a prisoner below who has just arrived, and who wishes to see you, citoyenne.”

“It is he!” thought Dolores, turning pale at the thought of meeting Philip again.

Nevertheless, she armed herself with courage, and went down-stairs with a firm step to welcome Philip. He was awaiting her with feverish impatience. 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 that threaten us with destruction, shall you not believe that he smiles upon our love? Ah, well! thanks to Coursegol, we shall succeed in making our escape 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 she could command:

“You left Antoinette in England, Philip, promising to marry her on your return. She is now in France, in Paris, in this prison. She comes to claim the fulfilment of your promise.”

While Dolores was speaking, Philip’s face underwent an entire change, so great was the surprise and emotion caused by this intelligence. When she had finished, he could make no response; he could only lean against the wall of the prison, speechless and motionless.