Part 25 (1/2)
”But your silence the other evening when I entreated you to grant my suit--was not your silence then an avowal?”
”You misunderstood me!” replied Dolores, courageously.
The girl could endure no more; her strength was exhausted; but her decision was made, and her sole aim now was to a.s.sure Antoinette's happiness by compelling Philip to marry her. She said, gently:
”Coursegol must bring the order of release by the aid of which you and I were to leave the prison. It will be of service when we plan Antoinette's escape.”
Philip uttered an exclamation of remonstrance. She pretended not to hear it and continued:
”You will go with her. When you are once outside these walls, thanks to Coursegol, it will be easy for you to reach a place of safety. I do not ask you to marry Antoinette as soon as you have left me; but when time has calmed the fever that is now raging in your heart, and peace has descended upon your troubled soul, you will bravely fulfil the promise you 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, I shall go to some foreign land and there, resuming the vocation to which I have consecrated myself, I shall pa.s.s the remainder of my life in a convent where I shall pray for you. But I shall not take the vows of eternal seclusion from the world; and if, some day, you feel strong enough to endure my presence without danger to your peace of mind, I will see you again, Philip, and give your children a second mother by the renewal of my friends.h.i.+p with Antoinette.”
”I refuse to obey you! No; I will not marry Antoinette, and since you would compel me to do so, she shall decide what course I ought to pursue. I will tell her all; I will tell her that we love each other, that we have always loved each other.”
”Hus.h.!.+” said Dolores, beseechingly; ”she must never know--you have no right to reveal a secret that is as much mine as it is yours.”
Their conversation had lasted some time. The yard and the hall that opened into it were beginning to fill with the inmates of the prison.
They came down from their cells by no means certain that evening would find them still alive; and yet this uncertainty did not mar the serenity of their features or of their minds. Several, on pa.s.sing Philip and Dolores, looked at them with evident curiosity, as if anxious to know the theme of such an animated conversation.
”I must return to Antoinette,” said Dolores. ”I will bring her down with me, and I entreat you, in the name of your love, to say nothing that will cause her pain. There is no haste. We are in prison, and, in spite of Coursegol's efforts, none of us may succeed in making our escape. An act 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, but let us not embitter the present by reproaches and differences. Let us live here, as we lived at Chamondrin, in perfect harmony, encouraging and sustaining one another in our misfortunes, so we can endure them cheerfully, and wait with patience until time shall solve this difficulty for us.”
”What energy you possess!” replied Philip, gladly accepting this proposal, since it gave him a gleam of hope.
Dolores left him to go to Antoinette, and Philip mingled with the other prisoners, among whom he found many n.o.blemen and t.i.tled ladies whose acquaintance he had made at court and at the house of the Duke de Penthieore. Antoinette was just waking when Dolores returned to the cell they shared in common, and she did not notice the emotion that was still visible on her friend's face. She smiled, extended her hand and kissed her.
”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 the two girls went down to join Philip. Dolores felt Antoinette's heart throb violently, so deeply was she moved by the thought of seeing him whom she regarded as her betrothed. She flew to his arms with such artless delight that he was really touched with remorse when he remembered that, only a moment before, he had almost hated this lovely young girl whose only fault was her love for him.
”Poor child,” he said, almost tenderly, ”why did you not remain in England? 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 death of the queen, I said to myself that, in your fruitless efforts to save her, you must have incurred great peril, and that you had probably been arrested. You see that I was not mistaken. So I started to find you, and I deem myself fortunate to be with you once more.”
This response, which Dolores heard distinctly, was only another proof of the promises Philip had made to Antoinette. These promises, consecrated as they had been by the blessing of the Abbe Peretty, beside the deathbed of the Marquis de Chamondrin, seemed of so sacred a nature in the eyes of Antoinette that she really felt it her duty to treat Philip as 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 of making yourself worthy of her, and of a.s.suring the happiness to which she is justly ent.i.tled.”
Philip was greatly embarra.s.sed. Antoinette seemed to expect that he would 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 of Dolores from whom he could no longer conceal the truth, intimidated him and rendered him mute. Some minutes pa.s.sed thus. The prisoners were pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing. Those who had been surprised by the arrival of Philip a short time before, were now wondering who this young girl, for whom Dolores evinced all a sister's tenderness, could be.