Part 9 (1/2)
An hour went by; it seemed a century. In the gloomy room where these unfortunates had taken refuge no sound broke the stillness save the moans of the Marquis and the voice of the Abbe Peretty, as he uttered occasional words of consolation and encouragement to a.s.suage the mute anguish of Philip and the despair of the weeping Antoinette. Then all was still again.
Philip's agony was terrible. His father dying; his home in the hands of vandals, who were ruthlessly destroying the loved and cherished objects that had surrounded him from infancy, Antoinette, crushed by the disasters of this most wretched night, this was the terrible picture that rose before him. To this torture was added the despair caused by a sense of his utter powerlessness. Gladly would he have rushed back to the chateau to die there, struggling with his enemies, but he was prevented by the thought of Antoinette, who was now dependent upon him for protection. He was engrossed in these gloomy thoughts when a strange crackling sound attracted his attention, and at the same moment a man, who had ventured out into the park to watch the proceedings of the enemy rushed back, exclaiming:
”They are burning the chateau!”
The tidings of this new misfortune overpowered Philip and almost bereft him of reason. He ran to the door. A tall column of flame and smoke was mounting to the sky; the trees were tinged with a crimson light, and the crackling of the fire could be distinctly heard above the hooting and yelling of the infuriated crowd. His eyes filled with tears, but he was das.h.i.+ng them away preparatory to returning to his father when the Abbe Peretty joined him.
”Courage, my poor boy!” said the good priest.
”I will be brave, sir. I can cheerfully submit to the loss of our possessions, but to the death of my father, I----”
He could not complete the sentence. The abbe, who had lost all hope, was silent for a moment; then he said:
”There is something I must no longer conceal from you. After the chateau is destroyed, I fear these wretches will search the park in order to discover our retreat. I do not fear for myself. I shall remain with the Marquis. They will respect a dying man and a white-haired priest; but you, Philip, must remain here no longer. Make your escape with Mademoiselle de Mirandol without delay.”
”I cannot abandon my father,” replied Philip. ”If our hiding-place is discovered, we will defend ourselves--we will fight until death!”
The priest said no more, and they both returned to the bedside of the Marquis. On seeing them, the latter, addressing his son, inquired:
”The chateau is on fire, is it not?”
Philip's reply seemed to cause the Marquis intense anguish; but, after a moment, he motioned to his son to come nearer; then he said.
”Listen, Philip. You must leave France. This unhappy country is about to enter 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 must depart, Philip. Think, my son, you will be the sole heir of the house of Chamondrin.”
”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, before I die, to feel a.s.sured that the family of Chamondrin will be perpetuated. Consent to marry Antoinette.”
Philip, as we have said before, had already tacitly consented to this marriage. Since he had lost all hope of winning Dolores, the thought of wedding another was no longer revolting to him.
”I am ready to obey you, father,” he replied, ”but will you allow me to remind you that Mademoiselle de Mirandol is rich and that I have nothing.”
The Marquis checked him and, calling Antoinette, said in a voice that was becoming weaker and weaker:
”Antoinette, Philip is poor; his position is gone; the favor of the king will avail him nothing in the future, and the power has pa.s.sed into the hands of our enemies; nevertheless, will you consent to marry him?”
”If he desires it,” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, ”and never was I so grateful for my wealth!”
Philip pressed the hand of the n.o.ble girl, and the face of the Marquis was transfigured with joy in spite of his agony. Then M. de Chamondrin resumed:
”You must leave the country, my children, and marry as soon as circ.u.mstances will permit. You must stay in foreign lands until France recovers her reason. Promise to obey me.”
They promised in voices choked with sobs.
”Abbe,” continued the Marquis, ”bless these children!”
Without exchanging another word, Philip and Antoinette, in obedience to the wishes of the dying man, knelt before the priest. The latter, employing the solemn formula which makes bride and bridegroom indissolubly one, asked Mademoiselle de Mirandol if she would accept Philip as her husband, and Philip if he would take Antoinette for his wife, and when they had answered in the affirmative, he added: