Several months had passed since Dolores and Coursegol had taken up their abode in the house of Citizen Vauquelas. Coursegol, engrossed in the business matters which he had undertaken in concert with Vauquelas, went out every day, frequenting the Clubs, the Convention and the Palais Égalité. Dolores, on the contrary, seldom left the refuge that chance had provided for her. If she sometimes ventured into the heart of the city, it was only to visit Cornelia Bridoul or to accompany her to a stealthily said mass, solemnized in an obscure chamber by some courageous priest who dared for conscience's sake to bid defiance to the Committee of Public Safety, and who would have paid the penalty of disobedience with his blood, had he been discovered.
The life of Dolores was extremely lonely and sad. Deprived of companions of her own age, and oppressed with anxiety concerning the fate of those who were so dear to her, she grew pale and wan like a plant deprived of sunlight; the old joyous, sonorous ring was gone from her voice and from her laugh. She had suffered so much during the past three years that she no longer cherished any hope of happiness in thefuture; and, instead of the bright dreams that are wont to gladden the slumber of young girls, sad memories of the past haunted her restless nights. Those whom she had loved and lost appeared before her as in a vision—the Marquise de Chamondrin, who had lavished upon her all a mother's care and tenderness; the Marquis, whose affection had filled her early years with joy; Philip and Antoinette, the brother and sister of her adoption—these appeared and vanished without awaking in her sorrowing heart any emotion save that of the profound anguish of separation. Look which way she would for comfort, she could find none; and she was condemned to bear her heavy burden alone. Those days of universal distrust were not propitious for the birth and development of new friendships; nor were Vauquelas and Coursegol such companions as Dolores needed to cheer and encourage her. During the few short hours that Coursegol spent at home, he was always absorbed in his calculations; and as for Vauquelas, though he treated her with rather cold respect, it was difficult to ascertain his real feelings toward her, for his furrowed face betrayed none of his impressions; and Dolores instinctively felt that she could not look to him for the consolation of which she stood so greatly in need. Her mornings were spent over the account-books, which had been entrusted to her charge; at noon, she partook of a solitary repast, 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 room upon the first-floor, openinginto the garden by a glass door over which hung a heavy curtain. It was about nine o'clock. Vauquelas and Coursegol had gone out; the servants had retired, and Dolores was quite alone. Seated in a low chair before the fire, she was busying herself with her embroidery; but it was easy to see that her thoughts were not upon her work. She was brooding over the past and wondering in what quarter of the globe she might hope to find her lost friends.
"What are they doing?" she wondered. "Are they thinking of me? Are they happy?"
And as these questions suggested many others, she sank into a profound reverie.
Suddenly the wind gave a loud shriek without, and the branches of the trees in the garden creaked and groaned as the tempest buffeted them and tossed them to and fro. Dolores shivered, partly from fear, partly from nervousness. As she did so, another gust, more furious than the first, filled the air with its weird voices. It sounded like the roar of the angry sea. A cloud of dust entered through the glass door which was partially concealed by the heavy curtain. The light flickered, and the smoke poured out into the room from the fire-place. At the same time Dolores heard, or fancied she heard, a sound like that made by the closing of a door.
"They have forgotten to shut that door," thought Dolores; and she rose to repair the omission, but suddenly paused, astonished and almost frightened. She saw the curtain move, not as if in obedience to the wind, 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 that hour of the night was not at all impossible; and this was the first thought that entered her mind. She recollected, too, that Vauquelas and Coursegol had just gone out, that the servants were in bed and that she was to all intents and purposes alone in the house. The feminine mind is quick to take fright; and night and solitude increased the terror which is so easily aroused by a fevered imagination. Her usual courage deserted her; she turned pale and her lips quivered.
"How foolish!" she said to herself, the next instant. "Who would think of entering here at such an hour? It must have been the wind. I will close the door."
And struggling against the fear that had taken possession of her, she stepped quickly forward, but paused again. She could plainly discern a human 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 steps forward, seized the curtain and lifted it. Leaning against the glass door, which was now firmly closed, stood a man. Dolores was so terrified that 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 the arms of her lover from whom she had been parted three long weary years. They clung to each other a moment without uttering a word, completely overcome with emotion. It was Philip, but Philip grown older and thinner. His face was unshaven and his clothing disordered, and he was frightfully pale. When she saw the ravages time and suffering had made upon the face of the man she loved, Dolores burst into tears.
"Oh Dolores!" sighed Philip, "have I really found you again after all these years!"
She smiled and wept as he devoured her with his eyes, then stepped by him and after satisfying herself that the door was securely closed and locked, she lowered the curtain and led Philip to an arm chair near the fire.
"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: "How happens it you are here, Philip?"
"I came to Paris with a party of noblemen to rescue the queen from the hands of her executioners. We failed; she died upon the guillotine. My companions were arrested; I alone succeeded in making my escape—"
"Then you are pursued—you are a fugitive. Perhaps they are even now upon your track!"
"For a week I have been concealed in the houseof a kind-hearted man who had taken compassion on my misery. I hoped to remain there until I could find an opportunity to make my escape from Paris. Day before yesterday, he told me that he was suspected of sheltering some enemy of the nation, and that his house was liable to be searched at any moment by Robespierre's emissaries, and that I must flee at once if I did not desire to ruin him. I obeyed and since that time I have been wandering about 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 it would not be better to deliver myself up when, only a few steps from here, I met a man who was formerly in the employ of the Duke de Penthieore, and to whom I had once rendered an important service. Believing that he had not forgotten it, I approached him and told him who I was. The wretch cursed me, and tried to arrest me. The instinct of self-preservation lent me fresh strength. I struggled with him and knocked him down, and while he was calling for help, I ran across the unoccupied ground near the house. A low wall suddenly rose before me. I leaped over it, and found myself in this garden. I saw the light from your window; the door stood open. I entered and God has willed that the hours 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 die content!"
"Why do you talk of dying?" exclaimed Dolores. "Since you are here, you are saved! You shall remain!"
She paused suddenly, recollecting that the house was not hers; Philip noticed her hesitation.
"Am I in your house?" he asked.
"No; you are in the house of Citizen Vauquelas, Coursegol's business partner."
"Vauquelas! How unfortunate!"
"Why?"
"Because, unless there are two individuals by that name, the master of this house is the friend of Robespierre, and one of the men who aided in the discovery of the plot formed by my companions and myself for the rescue 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 but himself. 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, hunger and 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 placed these upon a small table,which she brought to Philip's side. Without a word, the latter began to eat and drink with the eagerness of a half-famished man. Dolores stood there watching him, her heart throbbing wildly with joy while tears of happiness gushed from her burning eyes.
Soon Philip was himself again. The warmth and the nourishing food restored his strength. A slight color mounted to his cheeks, and a hopeful smile played upon his lips. Not until then, did Dolores venture to utter the name that had been uppermost in her thoughts for some moments.
"You have told me nothing of Antoinette."
This name reminded Philip of the sacred bond of which Dolores was ignorant, and which had never seemed to him so galling as now.
"Antoinette!" he replied. "She is living near London in the care of some friends 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 you again, if I had had certain proofs that you were no longer alive, I might, 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 love you as I loved you in years gone by when I first dared to open my heart to you; and since that time, in spite of the barriers between us, I have never ceased to love you. Nor can our love be a sin in the sight of Heaven since it is God's providence, in spite of your will, that brings us together again to-day. And I swear that nothing shall separate us now!"
Dolores had no strength to reply to such language, or to destroy the hopes which seemed even stronger now than in the past, and far more precious since three years of absence had not sufficed to extinguish them in the faithful and impassioned heart of her lover. Philip continued:
"Ah! if I could but tell you how miserable I have been since we have been separated. My Dolores, did you not know when you left the château in which we had grown up together to offer as a sacrifice to God the love you shared, did you not know that you took away a part of myself with you?"
"Stop!" she entreated, sinking into a chair and burying her face in her hands.
But he would not listen.
"Since that day," he continued, "my life has been wretched. In vain I have striven to drive from the heart which you refused to accept the memory of your grace and your beauty; in vain have I striven to listen with a complaisant ear to Antoinette, whom you commanded me to accept as my wife. Do you not see that this sacrifice is beyond my strength. I cannot do it—I love her as a sister, but you——"
Dolores interrupted him. Suddenly quieted, and recalled to a recollection of duty by some mysterious inspiration, she rose, and in a gentle and firm voice said:
"Philip, I must hear no more. I belong to God, and you, yourself, are no longer free. Antoinette——"
"Would you compel me to hate her?"
The cry frightened Dolores and awakened in her heart a tender pity for the unfortunate man whom she adored, even while she wrung his soul with anguish.
"Ah well! do not marry her," she replied, "if the union that your father desired is a greater sacrifice than you have strength to make; but do not hope that I shall ever be weak enough to yield to your entreaties. Whether you love her or whether you detest her, Antoinette will forever stand between us."
On hearing these words, Philip sprang wildly to his feet, then sank back in his chair and, concealing his face in his hands, broke into passionate sob.
The girl's powers of endurance were almost exhausted; but she still retained energy enough to attempt to put an end to this trying scene.
"The hour when the master of the house usually returns is fast approaching," she resumed. "He must not find you here. I will take you to Coursegol's room; you will be safe there."
But Philip would not heed her. He wept like a child, and, in a voice broken 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 is His 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 loving words that rose to her lips from her overflowing heart.
"Come, Philip," she pleaded, striving to give a maternal tone to her voice.
"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 a candle 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. Her hopes 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 the wall that separates the garden from the street. He must be prowling about the house. They are in pursuit of him. The police are coming."
"I am getting up," replied Dolores, anxious to gain time, and racking her brain to discover some means of escape for Philip.
"The night is very dark," he whispered. "I will go into the garden and conceal myself there until the soldiers have searched the house and gone."
Dolores nodded her approval, and went on tip-toe to the glass door to open 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 of dismay, for she saw five members of the National Guard approaching the house, beating the shrubbery that bordered the path through which they were advancing with the butt ends of their muskets. She recoiled in horror, for before she could prevent it Philip stepped out and stood for an instant plainly visible in the light that streamed through the open door ere he perceived them. As soon as they saw him, they raised their guns and took aim.
"Do not fire!" he exclaimed. "I surrender!"
And he paused, awaiting their approach. At the same moment Vauquelas entered the room by the other door. Dolores cast a despairing look at Philip, then involuntarily stepped to his side as if to protect him. There was a moment's silence caused by surprise on the one side and terror on the other. Philip was filled with consternation not that his courage failed him, but because he was appalled by the thought of the danger in which he had involved Dolores.
As for Vauquelas, he glanced from one to the other in evident anger and astonishment. The presence of the soldiers, and the thought of the suspicions to which he—ardent patriot though he was—might be exposed on account of this stranger's arrest in his house irritated him not a little. 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. Some enemy of the Republic, you may be sure, who has sought shelter in my house at the risk of compromising the honor of this young girl, and my reputation as well."
Dolores trembled; then sacrificing, not without a terrible effort, her maidenly delicacy and modesty she said: "You are mistaken, Citizen Vauquelas. 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 drew nearer to Dolores and, in a voice audible to her alone, murmured:
"Ah! cruel one, had you uttered those words sooner, we should not be here now."
Dolores made no response. She cast a beseeching look upon Vauquelas. At a word from him the soldiers would have departed; but he remembered the history of Dolores which Coursegol had confided to him, and he said to himself that the adopteddaughter of the late Marquis de Chamondrin would not be likely to marry other than a nobleman, and that this nobleman must be an implacable enemy to the new order of things, and consequently one of those men whom the Committee of Public Safety were so relentlessly pursuing. That such a person should be found in his house augured ill for his patriotism and might cost him his influence over Robespierre, so it was necessary to strike a crushing blow if he wished to emerge from this ordeal unscathed.
"Why have you concealed your marriage from me?" he inquired, turning to Dolores.
"For purely personal reasons."
"And why does your husband steal into my house like a robber, instead of entering by the door?"
"Because we wished to keep our marriage a secret."
"All this is not very clear," remarked the sergeant; then addressing Philip, 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 blame attaches to them, they will be immediately set at liberty."
"Yes, yes, take them away," cried Vauquelas, glad of any decision that would remove the soldiers from his house.
Then Dolores comprehended that the falsehood to which she had resorted had not only failed tosave Philip but had probably cost her her own life. For herself, she did not care. She had long ago sacrificed for his sake that which was a thousand times dearer than life; and now her only regret was for him. But Philip would not accept the sacrifice. When he saw that both Dolores and himself were to be placed under arrest, he exclaimed:
"This young girl has uttered a falsehood. She did it, probably, to save a stranger whom she would have forgotten in a few hours. I am not her husband, and that I have been found in her room is simply due to the fact that I took refuge here a few moments ago from a pursuer. I am the Marquis 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 with rage.
"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, an Émigré and a conspirator, are here, it can only be because she is your accomplice. Vile wretch! to make my house a rendezvous for the enemies of the Nation!"
Anger crimsoned his cheeks and glittered in his eyes. He actually frothed with rage.
"Arrest them! Arrest them both!" he exclaimed.
Philip, who had supposed he could save Dolores by the confession he had just 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 like you under my roof. I am a patriot; I love the Republic. France, first of all! Citizens, this is a dangerous man. This so-called nobleman has been plotting to save the queen and to place the little Capet upon the throne. As for this young woman, she is a viper who has repaid my hospitality with treachery. Take them away!—and so perish the enemies of the Nation!"
He uttered these words with great energy and enthusiasm as if he wished to give convincing proofs of his patriotism. The soldiers were consulting together; presently they formed into two squads. One division took Dolores in charge; the other took Philip, and they were led away. It was then nearly eleven o'clock.
Coursegol returned home about midnight. In accordance with his usual custom he was passing through the lower hall without stopping on his way to his room on the floor above, when he heard some one call him. He recognized the voice of Vauquelas, but it seemed to proceed from the chamber occupied by Dolores. Surprised that the latter was not in bed at this late hour, and fearing she was ill, he hastily entered her room. Vauquelas was there alone, pale, nervous and excited. The girl's bed had not 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 de Chamondrin 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 discovered here."
"Then M. Philip is still alive!"
"Unfortunately for me, he is still alive."
"What do you mean?" inquired Coursegol, who asyet understood but one thing—that his master was not dead.
"I mean that Dolores, whom I received into my house at your request, has been sheltering here, at the risk of compromising and ruining me, Philip de Chamondrin, one of the prime movers in a conspiracy formed for the purpose of saving the widow Capet."
"Ah! I understand," murmured Coursegol, at once divining that Philip being pursued had taken refuge in the house of Vauquelas, and had found Dolores 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 and seizing him by the collar, he cried:
"It was you, wretch, who betrayed them!"
"You are choking me!" groaned Vauquelas, breathless in Coursegol's violent grasp.
"Tell me where they are!" thundered Coursegol. "I must see them. Where are they?"
"Release me," gasped Vauquelas.
This time Coursegol obeyed; but he stood before Vauquelas, angry and menacing. The latter trembled. He had not foreseen that Coursegol would hold him accountable for the arrest of Philip and Dolores.
"Explain and quickly!" cried Coursegol.
"The soldiers came to the house in pursuit of youngPhilip, who had taken refuge in this room. To save him, Dolores said she was his wife. Philip, fearing she would be compromised, denied her statement; and as their explanation did not seem sufficiently clear, they were both taken to prison."
"Could you not have vouched for them—declared that they were friends of yours?"
"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! I am sure of it. You trembled for your life, for your money. Woe be unto you!"
And Coursegol accompanied those words with a gesture so menacing that Vauquelas, believing his last hour had come, fell on his knees begging for mercy. But Coursegol seemed pitiless.
"Poor children! that death should overtake them just as Providence had united 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 to the guillotine."
"I will bribe the jailers to let them escape."
"The jailers are not the only masters: and who among them would expose himself to almost certain death for the sake of your money?"
"Then I will do still better," replied Vauquelas. "I will bribe the judges of the Revolutionary Tribunal, and they will acquit your friends."
"Useless! these judges will demand that the money shall be paid in advance! and as soon as they have it in their grasp, they will condemn the prisoners."
"What can I do then?"
"There is no help for the misfortune, and it is because you are the cause 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 him to grant my request."
"Even when you ask for the release of one of the leaders of the conspiracy 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 certain conditions. It depends upon yourself whether you are to live or die."
"Name them. I will obey!" murmured Vauquelas, servilely, beginning to breathe freely once more.
"To-morrow by sunset, I must receive from you a blank order signed by Robespierre which will enable me to obtain the release of two prisoners."
"You shall have it."
"I also desire that Robespierre shall remain in ignorance of the names of the prisoners who are to be released."
"He shall not know."
"Under these conditions, your life is yours. Only do not attempt to deceive me. I know that it is in your power to obtain an order for my arrest and thus save yourself from the chastisement you so richly deserve."
"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 your return; and if to-morrow the soldiers, guided by you, come here to arrest me, they will find me in the cellar where your wealth is concealed; and it is I who will have the pleasure of initiating them into 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 from your hands the order of release that you have promised me. Now, it is for you to decide whether you will live or die."
As he spoke, Coursegol pushed open the door leading to the cellar used by Vauquelas as the repository of his riches and disappeared. Vauquelas rose from his kneeling posture, filled with consternation by what he had just heard. The extremity to which he wasreduced was a cruel one; he must bribe the incorruptible Robespierre. When he made the promise to Coursegol he did not intend to fulfil it: he intended to denounce him; but the shrewdness of his partner had placed him in a most embarrassing position. He was obliged to keep his promise, but he could do it only by compromising his influence and his reputation; and yet there was no help for it since Coursegol could ruin him by a single word. How much he regretted that the strength and vigor of his youth were now paralyzed by age. If he had been twenty years younger, how desperately he would have struggled with the man who had suddenly become a formidable enemy! What an 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 but submission. About an hour after Coursegol left him, he went to his room to obtain the rest of which he stood so greatly in need. He threw himself upon the bed; but sleep refused to come to his relief. At daybreak he was upon his feet once more. He wished, before leaving the house, to see Coursegol again. The latter had slept with his pistol in his hand, guarding the strong-box upon which his life as well as the lives 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 his petition. The friendship existing between this celebrated man and himself was lively and profound. It had its origin in former relations, in services mutually rendered, and in common interests, but so far as Robespierre was concerned, he would never allow friendship to conflict with what he considered his duty. Even in his most cruel decisions, he was honest and sincere. He was deeply impressed with a sense of his responsibility and no consideration foreign to what he regarded as the welfare of the Nation could move him. He never granted a pardon; he never allowed his heart to be touched with compassion; and when one reads his history, it is hard to decide which is most horrible, the acts of his life or the spirit of fanaticism that inspired them. Vauquelas understood the character of the man with whom he had to deal, and felt that there was no hope of exciting Robespierre's pity by the recital of the misfortunes of Philip and Dolores, or by an explanation of the embarrassing position in which he found himself; so he finally decided to 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 dread place from which emanated those accusations that carried death and despair to so many households. The visitor was well-known to the servants of the household and he was permitted to roam about at will. As he declared his intention of awaitingRobespierre's return, the servant who ushered him into the room withdrew, leaving him quite alone. He hastened to Robespierre's desk and began rummaging among the papers with which it was strewn, keeping one eye all the while upon the door lest some one should enter and detect him. There were intended orders, lists of proscriptions, documents and reports from the provinces, as well as police reports, but Vauquelas paid no attention to these. He continued his search until Robespierre's signature on the bottom of a blank sheet of paper met his eyes, and drew from him an exclamation of joy.
This sheet was the last belonging to a police report which had been approved by the committee, and the only one upon which the clerk to whom the copying of the document had been entrusted had as yet written nothing. It was upon this sheet that Robespierre had placed his signature. His name, written by his own hand and ornamented with the flourish which he always appended to his signature, lay upon the immaculate whiteness of the paper like a blood stain. Without the slightest hesitation, Vauquelas tore this precious page loose from the others; then in a feigned hand he wrote these words "Permission to leave the prison is hereby granted to the man and woman bearing this order." These lines written above the signature transformed the paper into the safe-conduct which Coursegol had demanded. Greatly agitated by the audacious act he had just accomplished, Vauquelas placed the document he had fabricated in his pocket, hid the mutilated report in the bottom of a deskdrawer under a pile of memorandum books; then, after giving his agitation time to subside, he left the house, lingering a moment to chat with 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 if fearing 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 to convince himself that the signature was genuine: then satisfied with his examination he replied:
"I am going with the hope that I shall be able to save Dolores and Philip; but do not consider yourself forgiven for the injury you have done them. Remember this; if my efforts fail and any harm befalls them it 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 a good deal of money to carry this undertaking to a successful termination, I wish you to give me my share of the profits."
"Make your own estimate," replied Vauquelas, who was too thoroughly frightened 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 would demand an amount ten times as large. He counted out fifty thousand francs.Coursegol put the assignats in his pocket, and secreted the gold in a leather belt he wore; then without another word, he started in quest of Philip and Dolores.
How could he reach them? He must first discover where they were. Prisons were 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 to the same prison or had they been separated? Vauquelas had been unable to furnish any information on this subject, and Coursegol could only conjecture. He repaired immediately to the house of the Bridouls, where he made arrangements to remain for a time. He apprised these tried friends of the events that had occurred since the evening before. Cornelia could not restrain her tears when she heard that her young friend was in prison. As for Bridoul, he soon decided upon the course to be pursued. In most of the prisons there were many persons charged with no particular offence. It was not at all probable that they would ever be brought to trial, and, in spite of the surveillance to which they were subjected, they enjoyed comparative freedom. They were not absolutely forbidden to hold communication with the world outside, and if they possessed pecuniary resources it was possible for them to purchase the good-will of the jailers and to obtain permission to receive letters, food and even visits from their friends. It may have been that the number of prisons and of prisoners prevented the maintenance ofvery severe discipline; it may have been that the Committee of Public Safety, having decided to execute all convicted prisoners, did not desire to exercise a too rigid surveillance. However this may have been, many of the prisoners were in daily communication with the outer world. Wives and children obtained permission to visit their husbands and fathers without much difficulty; and there had been established, for the convenience of the prisoners, a corps of regularly appointed messengers who came and went at all hours of the day on condition that they paid the jailers a certain percentage on their earnings. Coursegol was ignorant of these details, but Bridoul acquainted him with them.
"One of these messengers is a friend of mine," added Bridoul, "and for a fair compensation, he will consent to take you with him as his assistant. In his company, you can visit the different prisons without the slightest danger."
This plan delighted Coursegol. That same evening they made the desired arrangement with the man of whom Bridoul had spoken. The next day, he began his search, and three days later he ascertained that Dolores was confined in the Conciergerie and Philip in the Madelonnettes.
After their arrest Philip and Dolores were taken to the nearest station-house and ushered into a room where three persons, arrested like themselves during the evening, were awaiting examination. Unfortunately the official charged with conducting these investigations had already gone home. As he would not return until the next morning, the sergeant of police decided that the prisoners must pass the night there. Some mattresses were spread upon the floor for those who chose to use them. Dolores refused to lie down. She seated herself in a broken-down arm chair which Philip obtained for her, not without considerable difficulty, and declared that she would spend the night there. Philip placed himself on a stool at her feet and thus they waited the break of day.
Their companions were stretched upon their couches fast asleep, and the night, 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 in foreign lands solely for this purpose. By sheltering him, Doloreshad become his accomplice. Such crimes would meet with, no indulgence. In the morning they would be interrogated by an official, whose mind had been poisoned against them in advance, and who would show no mercy to their youth. Accused of desiring the overthrow of the Republic and the return of the Bourbons, they would be sent to prison, taken from their cells to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and condemned to the guillotine. Such was the summary mode of procedure during the Reign of Terror. To hope that any exception would be made in their case was folly. All that was left for them, therefore, was to prepare to die. If the prospect of such a fate brought the tears to their eyes at first, it was not because either of them was wanting in courage. No, it was only for the fate that was to befall the other that each wept. But when they had talked together, and learned that they were mutually resigned, their sorrow was appeased; and as if their sentence had already been pronounced, they thought only of making their last hours on earth pass as calmly and sweetly as possible.
"Why should I fear to die?" said Dolores, when Philip tried to encourage her 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 I not for a long time been the same as dead to her? I can leave the world without creating a void in any heart, without causing any one a pang. HenceI can, without regret, go to seek the eternal rest for which I have sighed so long."
"Have you truly longed for death?" asked Philip.
"I have seen so many loved ones fall around me," replied Dolores, "my eyes have witnessed so many sorrows, I have suffered so much, and my life since my happy childhood has been so unspeakably lonely and sad that 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, if you had but placed your hand in mine, what misery we should have been spared."
"It would not have averted our misfortunes."
"No; but we might have borne them together, and after our sorrows found consolation 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 these moments which were, as they supposed, ushering them into eternity, Philip continued:
"Whenever I pressed my suit, you pleaded my father's wishes as an excuse for not listening to my prayers. To gratify a foolish ambition he desired me to marry Antoinette. Ah, well! my father's will no longer stands between us; and the engagement that binds me to her is broken by the changed situation in which we find ourselves. We are free now in the shadow of death. Will you not tell me the truth? Will you not open your heart to me as I have opened mine to you?"
Dolores listened, her glowing eyes riveted upon Philip's face, her bosom heaving with emotion. The words; "We are free now in the shadow of death," rang in her ears. She felt that she could not refuse her lover the last joy and consolation that he claimed; and that she, whose past had been one long sacrifice of her happiness and of her hopes, had a right to reveal the secret so long buried in her soul. Gently, almost solemnly, these words fell from her lips:
"Listen, Philip, since you ask me for the truth, now, at this supreme hour, I have always loved you as I love you now; and I love you now as ardently as I am beloved!"
There was so much tenderness in her manner that Philip sprang up, his eyes 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; and if I were compelled to give my life in exchange for the happiness of hearing this from your lips, I should not think that I paid too dearly for it. But you have restored my energy and my courage. I feel strong enough, now, to defy the whole world in a struggle for the felicity that is rightfully ours. We shall live, Dolores, to belong to each other, to comfort each other."
"Do not, I entreat you, ask me to live," exclaimed Dolores, "since the certainty of death alone decided me to speak."
"But," pleaded Philip, "if I should succeed inrescuing you from the peril that surrounds us, would you be more rigorous than destiny? Would you not feel that God smiled upon our love, and that it was He who had mercifully united us again?"
"Philip! Philip!" murmured Dolores. She could say no more, but yielding at last to the sweet power of the love against which she had struggled so long, she laid her weary head upon the heart that worshipped her with such a tender and all-absorbing passion.
It was nine o'clock in the morning when the officer who was to conduct the examination made his appearance. The expectations of Philip and Dolores were realized. He questioned them hastily, listened to the report of the sergeant who had arrested them, took a few notes, then ordered the culprits to be sent, one to the Conciergerie, the other to the Madelonnettes.
"Can we not be together?" asked Philip, filled with dismay by the prospect of a separation.
"The Committee will decide. For the present, I shall be obliged to separate 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 sent for a carriage. She entered it and her guards seated themselves opposite her and on the box with the driver. To reach the Conciergerie, theywere obliged to pass the Palais de Justice. Upon the steps of the palace, not far from the prison, was a crowd of women that assembled there every day to witness the departure of the prisoners who were condemned to death. They saw Dolores when she alighted from the carriage, and immediately began to clap their hands and utter shrill cries 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 not without considerable difficulty that the men acting as her escort protected her from the infuriated throng. At last the dread door opened before her. She was ushered into the office, a small room where the prison register was kept. Her full name and age were recorded by the clerk, and she was then placed in charge of one of the jailers, who was ordered to find accommodations for her in that part of the prison over which he had jurisdiction.
"I have two favors to ask of you," Dolores said to this man, whose benevolent 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 what else?"
"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 was living myself when I was arrestedin his absence. You may see the contents of the letter and assure yourself that it contains nothing objectionable."
"Very well," replied the jailer, moved with compassion by the misfortunes of this beautiful young girl. "I will conduct you to a cell where you will be alone, and where you will have an opportunity to write your letter."
As he spoke, he led Dolores to a small room on the second floor, lighted by a grated window, opening upon the court-yard.
"You can remain here as long as you like. No one shall come to trouble you. Meals are served in the refectory, unless a prisoner desires them in 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 its destination," said Dolores. "It took all I had to pay for the carriage that 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 and paper."
The worthy man withdrew but soon returned, bringing the desired articles. Dolores wrote a hasty note to Coursegol, informing him of her arrest and that of Philip, and begging him to send her some money at once. The jailer promised that the letter should be delivered some time during the day. Then he departed. Dolores, left in solitude, fell upon her knees and prayed for Philip. She had never loved him so fondly as now; and the misfortune that had befallenher would have been nothing had it been alleviated by the joy of knowing that her lover was near her.
She spent the day alone, and she was really surprised at her own calmness. Comforted by the immortal hopes that are ever awakened in the Christian's soul by the prospect of death, and elevated to an ideal world by the exciting events of the previous evening and by the eloquent confession 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 had given him. Coursegol could not be found; he was no longer with Vauquelas, 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 his threats, and that he had drawn down some misfortune upon himself. Moreover, the disappearance of her protector cut off her pecuniary resources; and as the prisoners could not obtain the slightest favor without the aid of gold, she was deprived of the means to alleviate the hardships of her lot. The jailer pitied her distress.
"Do not worry, citoyenne," he said to Dolores. "You shall have your meals here, and you shall not be disturbed. By and by, you will be able to compensate me for my services."
Grateful for this unexpected kindness, Dolores removed a small cross set with diamonds which she wore about her neck, and, offering it to the jailer, said:
"Accept this as security for the expense that I shall cause you. If I die, you can keep it; if I live, I will redeem it."
The man refused at first; but the girl's entreaties conquered his scruples, 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 the Conciergerie. This first day in prison passed slowly. She did not leave her cell, but toward evening Aubry brought up two dishes which were as unpleasing to the taste as to the eye. As he placed them before her and saw the movement of disgust which Dolores could not repress, Aubry was almost ashamed of the meagre fare.
"Things here are not as they were in your château," he remarked, rather tartly.
"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 the sash; the breeze came in through the heavy bars, but Dolores could only catch a glimpse of the gray sky already overcast by the mists of evening.
An hour later, Dolores was sleeping calmly; and the next morning, as if to render her first awakening in prison less gloomy, a bright sunbeam peeped in to salute her.
When Aubry entered about ten o'clock with her breakfast, she was walking about her cell.
"Citoyenne," he began; "I must tell you that as I was leaving the prison, this morning, I met a man who inquired if I had seen, among the prisoners, a pretty young girl with golden hair and dark eyes. The description 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 great trouble."
"It was Coursegol—the person for whom my letter was intended. Shall you see him again?"
"His evident distress excited my pity, and I promised to aid him in his search. 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 some excuse 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 a look, Coursegol made her understand that he was employing every effort to effect her deliverance; and she returned to her cell cheered by the thought that a devoted heart was watching over her and over Philip. The next day, when she was least expecting it, the door opened and Coursegol entered.
"I have taken Aubry's place to-day," he remarked.
Dolores sprang towards him, and he clasped her inhis arms. They had been separated only three days, but those three days had seemed a century 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 this intelligence; and she gratefully thanked the protector whose devotion thus alleviated the hardships of her lot; then he told her what had occurred since her arrest, and how he had compelled Vauquelas to obtain an order for the release of those he had betrayed.
"This order is now in my possession," he continued; "but it cannot be used until Philip is an inmate of the same prison in which you are confined. He will be here in a few days and then you can both make your escape. In the meantime I will make all the necessary arrangements to enable you to leave Paris as soon as you are set at liberty."
This interview, which lasted nearly an hour, literally transformed Dolores. For the first time in many years she allowed herself to contemplate the possibility of happiness here below; and the grave and solemn thoughts that had been occupying her mind gave place to bright anticipations of a blissful future with Philip.
For the first time since her arrival at the Conciergerie, she went down into the public hall. This hall was separated only by an iron grating from the long and narrow corridor upon which the cells assigned tothe men opened, and in which they spent most of their time. It was against this grating that they leaned when they wished to converse with their lady friends; and, during the day, it not unfrequently happened that the doors were left open, and prisoners of both sexes were allowed to mingle together. Then, ladies and gentlemen promenaded gayly to and fro; acquaintances exchanged greetings; and handsome men and beautiful women chatted as blithely as if they were in their elegant drawing-rooms.
The ancient nobility of France thus entered its protest against the persecutions of which it was the victim, and convinced even its bitterest enemies that it was not lacking in spirit and in courage in the very jaws of death. All the historians who have attempted a description of the prison life of that time unite in declaring that contempt of death was never evinced more forcibly than by the victims of that bloody epoch.
The ladies displayed habits of luxury that were worthy of the days of the Regency. In the morning they generally appeared in bewitching négligés; in the afternoon they made more careful and elegant toilettes, and when evening came they donned the costly, trailing robes which they had worn at Court, only a few short weeks before. Those who, by the circumstances attendant upon their arrest, had been prevented from bringing a varied assortment of dresses with them, expended any amount of energy and ingenuity in their attempts to rival their more fortunate companions in the splendor of their costumes. Hence, theprison resembled a ball-room rather than an antechamber of death. The ladies were coquettish and bewitching; the men were gallant and impassioned; and more than one love was born in those days of alternate hope and terror—more than one love whose ardor was not impaired by fears for the morrow, and whose delights sweetened the last hours of those who shared it. There was, of course, little real enjoyment or happiness in those clays which were constantly disturbed by the arrival of new victims. One came mourning for her children; another, for her husband. At intervals, the jailer appeared to summon those condemned to die. Heart-rending shrieks and despairing farewells attended these separations; the executioner led away his victims, and all was over. Those who remained filled up the ranks, and, looking at one another with an anguish that deprived 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 weak and resignation to the strong. Cowardice was as rare as voluntary sacrifice was common; and that which rendered the sight of such fortitude and courage in the presence of danger still more touching, was the tender sympathy that united all the prisoners, without regard to former differences in social position.
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Dolores, reassured by her interview with Coursegol, made her appearance in the hall frequented by the inmates of the prison. More than a hundred personshad gathered there. They were now scattered about in little groups; and the conversation was very animated. Here sat an ancient dowager, delighting some gentlemen with piquant anecdotes of the Court of Louis XV.; there, stood a jovial priest, composing rhymes for the amusement of a half-dozen young girls; at a little distance were several statesmen, earnestly discussing the recent acts of the Convention—all doing their best to kill time, as travellers detained at some wayside inn strive to divert one another, while they wait for the sunshine that will enable them to pursue their journey.
Dolores was not remarked at first among the crowd of prisoners. Each day brought so many new faces there that one more unfortunate excited little comment. But soon this young girl, who seemed to be entirely alone, and who gazed half-timidly, half-curiously, at the scene before her, attracted the attention of several prisoners. A woman, endowed with such rare loveliness of form and feature as Nature had bestowed upon Dolores, cannot long remain unnoticed. Her golden hair lay in soft rings upon her smooth, open brow, and drooped in heavy braids upon her white neck. Her dark brown dress and the little fichu knotted at the waist behind, were very 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 placed themselves in her path in order to obtain a closer look at her. Not until then did she note the sensation she had created. She became embarrassed, and took a step backward as if to retire; but, at that very moment, a lady, still young, in spite of the premature whiteness of her locks, 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 I will gladly remain if you will act as my protectress."
"Take my arm, my dear. I will present you to my friends here. I am the Marquise de Beaufort. And you?"
"My name is Dolores. I have neither father nor mother. The Marquis de Chamondrin adopted me; and I was reared in his house as his own daughter."
"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 a salon," added the Marquise, smiling.
"Philip emigrated," remarked Dolores, "but unfortunately, he recently returned to France. He, with several other gentlemen, attempted to save the queen.He was with me, yesterday, when we were arrested; he, as an Émigré; I, for giving him shelter."
This short explanation sufficed to awaken the liveliest sympathy among her listeners. She was immediately surrounded and respectfully entreated to accept certain comforts and delicacies that those who had money were allowed to purchase for themselves. She refused these proffered kindnesses; 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 deeply affected by scenes which no longer moved her companions. Every evening a man entered, called several persons by name and handed them a folded paper, a badly written and often illegible scrawl in which not even the spelling of the names was correct, and which, consequently, not unfrequently failed to reach the one for whom it was intended. This was an act of accusation. The person who received it was allowed no time to prepare his defence, but was compelled to appear before the Revolutionary 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 same fortitude, courage and firmness. They met their doom with such proud audacity that those who survived them, but who well knew that the same fate awaited them, in their turn, watched them depart with sad, but not despairing, eyes.
These scenes, of which she was an almost hourly witness, strengthened the soul of Dolores and increased her distaste for life and her scorn of death. Still, she experienced a feeling of profound sorrow when, on the morning of the ninth day of her captivity, she was obliged to bid farewell to the Marquise de Beaufort, who, in company with the former abbess of the Convent of Bellecombe, in Auvergne, and a venerable priest, had been summoned before the Tribunal. They were absent scarcely three hours; they returned, condemned. Their execution was to take place that 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 die without regret. There was nothing left me here on earth. I have lost my husband, my son—all who were dear to me. I am going to rejoin them. I could ask no greater happiness."
She spoke thus as she obeyed the call of the executioner, who summoned her and her companions to array themselves for their final journey. When her 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 blessed her. When she rose, her face was radiant. She took Dolores in her arms.
"Farewell, my child;" she said, tenderly. "You are young. I hope you will escape the fury of these misguided wretches. Pray for me!"
And as the prisoners crowded around her with outstretched hands, she cried, cheerfully:
"Au revoir, my friends, au revoir!"
She was led away. Just as she was disappearing from sight, she turned once 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. Their bearing was no less brave than that of the Marquise. They were not royalists. They died accused of Modérantisme, that frightful word with which the revolution sealed the doom of so many of its most devoted children. The Marquise de Beaufort had cried: "Vive le Roi!" They cried:
"Vive la République!"