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 PalaisEgalite. 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 chateauin 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 Emigre 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, anEmigre 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.