CHAPTER VIII.

AN EPISODE OF THE EMIGRATION.

On the first Sunday in the month of September, 1793, about ten o'clock in the morning, a young girl clad in mourning emerged from the doorway of a pretty cottage in the suburbs of London. She slowly descended the broad and handsome steps that led up to the dwelling, pa.s.sed through the garden, and having opened the gate, gazed anxiously in the direction of the city.

She was a brunette, rather fragile in appearance, and pet.i.te in stature; and though she was not really beautiful, hers was a sympathetic and altogether charming face. The air of elegance that characterized her person and her attire, the whiteness of her hands, and her delicate and refined features, all indicated that she was a person of gentle birth.

She did not appear to be more than twenty years of age. By the anxiety with which her large blue eyes scanned the horizon, it was easy to divine that she was expecting some loved one; but it was also evident that he did not come quickly enough to suit her desires, for she seemed restless and impatient.

"What if he should not come?" she murmured. As if these words had been heard, a voice responded:

"Do not be impatient, dear Antoinette. M. Philip said he would be here to-day, but did not mention the hour; and the day has scarcely begun.

You will see him, never fear."

The lady who had just spoken had used the English language. She was a kind, motherly looking person, past middle age. Understanding the young girl's anxiety, she had joined her with the desire to appease it.

Antoinette replied, not without some bitterness:

"I am quite sure that we shall see him, dear Mrs. Reed; but have I not a right to be impatient? Has it not been three weeks since he was here?"

"You do not know what important interests may have detained him in London."

Antoinette shook her head; then, after casting another glance at the deserted road, she sadly returned to the house. Mrs. Reed followed her, trying to divert her mind and make her forget the sorrow and anxiety caused by Philip's long absence. The two ladies entered a small, but prettily furnished parlor and seated themselves at a round table, upon which a servant had just deposited a smoking tea-urn, some empty cups and some bread and b.u.t.ter. Just then, a very stout man entered the room.

It was Mr. Reed, the master of the house. He strongly resembled his wife; there was the same age, the same corpulence, the same kind and benevolent expression of countenance.

"Ah, well! mademoiselle," he remarked to the young girl, pouring out a cup of tea, "this is a fete day, is it not? You are expecting Monsieur Philip?"

Antoinette made no response. Mrs. Reed answered for her.

"Mademoiselle Antoinette is afraid her cousin will not keep his word."

"She is wrong then," quietly remarked Mr. Reed, who was now standing by the window, sipping his tea, "she is wrong, for here he is!"

Antoinette sprang up, uttering a cry of joy. She was about to rush out to meet Philip, but the latter did not give her time. He entered almost immediately, and Antoinette flew to his arms. All her doubts, all her griefs were forgotten! Ah! If the hour of separation is cruel when it sounds in the ears of those who love, how sweet is the hour that reunites them! Antoinette clung rapturously to Philip's breast, and Mr.

and Mrs. Reed, wishing to allow the young people to enjoy each other's society undisturbed, left the room; but before he went, Mr. Reed said to Philip:

"You will spend the day and dine with us, will you not?"

"Ah! how gladly would I do so! But I shall be obliged to leave in an hour!"

Mr. Reed stood motionless for a moment, actually stupefied with astonishment.

"What! you are going to leave me so soon?" cried Antoinette, despairingly.

"I will explain my reasons," replied Philip.

Mr. Reed bowed and followed his wife, who had just disappeared.

Two years had pa.s.sed since Philip fled with Antoinette from the burning chateau and from the bedside of his dying father. On quitting the scene of the catastrophe that destroyed the home of his childhood, Philip accompanied by Mlle. de Mirandol repaired to Valence. There, a friend of the Chamondrin family furnished them with the means to pursue their journey to England, which country they gained after many perils and vicissitudes.

London served as a refuge for many of the emigres, but Philip had chosen the capital of Great Britain as a retreat for Antoinette, princ.i.p.ally because he knew that a portion of Mlle. de Mirandol's fortune was in the hands of a banker in that city, and because it would be easy there to obtain news from Louisiana, where the heiress of M. de Mirandol still owned considerable property.

After their perilous journey was concluded and they were safely established in England, the agitation caused by the great disaster which had deprived them of so much that they loved was succeeded by a relative calm which gave them an opportunity to look their situation in the face.

They both found it exceedingly embarra.s.sing. Antoinette remembered only that she loved Philip, and that, in obedience to the request of his dying father, he had solemnly promised to marry her. She was simply waiting for him to fulfil this promise, and already regarded herself as his wife.

As for Philip, he inwardly cursed this promise. His thoughts were constantly occupied with Dolores; he said to himself that since the convents had been broken up, she must be free if she were still alive; and he would not believe that she was dead. He was certain that she was still alive, that Coursegol had remained with her to protect her, and that the day of their meeting was near at hand. These thoughts made his heart rebel against the yoke he had striven to impose upon it; for no matter what attempts may be made to destroy it, hope will not die in a heart that loves sincerely. It resists time and the sternest ordeals.

Death alone can, not destroy it, but transform it, by a.s.sociating realization with the delights of a future life which shall know no blight or decay.

Still, Philip dare not speak frankly to Mlle. de Mirandol. He loved her with true brotherly affection; and his courage failed him when he thought of the misery his confession would cause this loving and artless girl. Moreover, the promise he had made to his father was ever on his mind, arousing constant sorrow and remorse. He resolved, therefore, to gain time, if possible. With this aim in view, he had a long conversation with Antoinette a few days after their arrival in London.

Without referring to the engagement which he had a just right to consider irrevocable, he requested that its accomplishment should be deferred until his period of mourning had expired. He pleaded the tragic death of his father and the uncertainty that still enshrouded the fate of Dolores and of Coursegol as reasons for delay; and Antoinette consented. He then gave her to understand that, as they were not married, it was not proper for them to remain under the same roof, and told her that he had found a pleasant home for her with some worthy people who resided in the environs of London and who, as they had no children of their own, would be glad to have a young girl with them as a boarder. Antoinette consented to this arrangement also; and this explains her installation in the Reed household. Mr. Reed was formerly a merchant, but had retired from business to spend his last years in quiet and comfort. The situation of the French emigres had aroused the sympathy of the kind-hearted man and his wife, so Philip's proposition was gladly accepted, and they petted and spoiled the young girl entrusted to their charge as if she had been their own daughter.

Philip remained in London; but once a week he came to spend a day with Antoinette; and the hours that Mlle. de Mirandol thought so delightful flew by all too swiftly for her. They never spoke of the future. Philip carefully avoided any allusion to that subject; but they talked of the past and of Dolores whose fate was still veiled in mystery.

Sometimes, accompanied by Mrs. Reed, Antoinette visited the poor emigres who had taken refuge in London, and relieved their necessities. She also requested Philip, who had charge of her property, never to refuse aid to any of her countrymen or countrywomen who asked it of him; and in the benefits she quietly conferred upon the needy around her she found some consolation for her own sorrow and anxiety. As for Philip, he had plunged into the active and feverish life led by most of the emigres, as if he desired to drown his own doubts and regrets in bustle and excitement.

London was then the rendezvous of a great proportion of those who had fled from the Reign of Terror. Princes, n.o.blemen, prelates and ladies of rank, who were striving to console themselves for the hardships of exile by bright dreams of the future, had a.s.sembled there. They plotted against the Republic; they planned descents upon France, attacks upon Paris, movements in La Vendee, and the a.s.sa.s.sination of Robespierre and his friends; but all these schemes were rendered fruitless by the spirit of rivalry and of intrigue that prevailed. They were all united upon the result to be attained, but divided as to the means of attaining it. In this great party there were a thousand factions. They quarreled at a word; they slandered one another; they patched up flimsy reconciliations. French society had taken with it into exile all its faults, vanities, frivolities and ignorance. Philip de Chamondrin did not forsake this circle, though he inwardly chafed at the weakness of purpose that was exhibited on every side; but here he could live in a constant fever of excitement and could forget his personal griefs and anxieties. This was not the case with Antoinette, however, and if Philip had hoped that by living apart from him and seeing him only at rare intervals she would soon cease to love him, he was mistaken.

Antoinette's heart did not change. She waited, and had it not been for the events that hastened the solution of the difficulty, she would have waited always; and though she suffered deeply, she concealed her grief so carefully that even the friends with whom she lived and who loved her as tenderly as if she had been their daughter were deceived. All Philip's attempts to destroy her love for him proved fruitless. Her heart once given was given irrevocably. Nor did she possess that experience which would have enabled her to see that she was not beloved.

She attributed Philip's coldness to the successive misfortunes that had befallen him; and she was waiting for time to a.s.suage his sorrow and awaken feelings responsive to her own.

Under these circ.u.mstances one can easily understand why she had awaited Philip's coming with such feverish impatience. Three weeks had pa.s.sed since she had seen him; and all Mrs. Reed's caresses and well-meant attempts at consolation had failed to overcome her chagrin. Philip had come at last! She had sprung forward to meet him without making any effort to conceal the joy awakened by the prospect of a day spent with him, and she had hardly done this when the young man announced that he must leave in an hour.

"Will you explain the cause of this hasty departure?" she said, as soon as they were alone.

Her voice trembled and her lovely eyes were dim with tears.

"I am leaving you, Antoinette, to go where duty calls me," replied Philip, gravely.

"Duty? What duty?"

"The queen is still imprisoned in the Temple. It is said that she will soon be sentenced to death. I have formed the project of wresting her from the hands of her enemies, of rescuing her from their sanguinary fury."

"Alone?" cried Antoinette, overcome with terror at the thought of the dangers Philip would incur.

"Six of us have resolved to save her or die! We go together. A vessel is to convey us to the coast of Brittany. From there we shall make our way to Paris as best we can."

"But what can you do, you, so few in number?"

"G.o.d will be with us," replied Philip. "Besides, we shall find friends in Paris who will gladly join our little band."

On hearing these words which proved that Philip's determination was immovable, Antoinette could not control her emotion. She sank into an arm chair, covered her pale face with her trembling hands and burst into tears.

"Do not weep so bitterly, my dear Antoinette," said Philip, touched by her despair and kneeling beside her.

"Why did you not consult me before engaging in this mad and perilous undertaking?" she said, at last. "You are leaving me, abandoning me without even asking what my fate will be when I no longer have you to protect me; without thinking how I shall suffer in your absence, and forgetting that if you should be killed I too should die!"

Philip, deeply moved, took her hands and said, gently:

"Be comforted; I shall not die; you will see me again soon. Do you not feel that I should be dishonored if I shrank from the task that is before me? Could you respect a man who might be justly accused of cowardice and of failure to perform his duty. The queen was formerly my benefactress; how can I stand here to-day, and make no effort to rescue her from death?"