"But if you should die!"

This cry betrayed Antoinette's love in all its pa.s.sionate intensity, and it found an echo in Philip's heart.

"I shall not be killed," said he, trying to make Mlle. de Mirandol share the conviction that animated his own mind; then, seeing her so sad and heart-broken at his departure, he added, with mingled remorse and tenderness:

"When I return, the fulfilment of the promise I made you shall be no longer delayed."

He had not referred to this subject before for a long time, and these few words carried unspeakable comfort to Antoinette's heart.

"I have no right to detain you," said she. "Go! May you succeed and soon return. I shall pray for you."

They conversed some time longer. Philip, who had until then, taken charge of Antoinette's business interests, told her that he had decided to entrust them until his return to Mr. Reed. He knew her protector to be an honest man in whom she could place perfect confidence; still, he felt that it was not only proper, but necessary, to acquaint the girl with the extent of her resources and the condition of her affairs. After he had done this, he asked to see Mr. and Mrs. Reed. He recommended Mlle. de Mirandol to their care, and for the first time revealed the fact that she was his betrothed. So at the moment of separation, he forced himself to render the pang of parting less bitter to her. The hope of approaching happiness did much to a.s.suage Antoinette's grief, and Philip was scarcely gone before she began to forget the past in dreams of the future.

The six weeks that followed Philip's departure were weeks of constant anxiety and alarm. Antoinette could not close her eyes to the perils that threatened Philip on every side. The reports that reached London in regard to the condition of affairs in Paris were not calculated to rea.s.sure her. She heard of the active surveillance exercised by the Committee of Public Safety, and of the terrible punishment inflicted upon those who were guilty of no crime save that of being regarded with suspicion. She was in constant fear lest some misfortune had happened to Philip. Every night and every morning she prayed for him. He was ever in her thoughts; and she was continually trying to divine where he was and what he was doing. Every day she looked eagerly for a letter which would relieve her anxiety, but in vain. No news came, and she was forced to be content with such rumors as Mr. Reed could collect for her in the city.

On the twenty-second of October that good man did not return until unusually late in the evening. Antoinette was awaiting him, her heart oppressed by the gloomiest forebodings. When he entered the room she saw that he was greatly agitated.

"You have heard bad news!" she exclaimed, wildly.

Mr. Reed did not attempt to deny it. He told Antoinette that the unfortunate queen of France had been put to death on the sixteenth, just six days before.

"They have killed her!" exclaimed the horrified girl.

She shuddered to think of Philip's probable fate. Since the queen was dead, the conspiracy which Philip had organized must have failed; and if it had failed, the conspirators had undoubtedly been discovered and arrested! This thought brought a deathlike pallor to her cheeks. Her friends saw her totter; they sprang forward to support her and she sank into their arms wild with anguish and despair.

"Tell me all!" she entreated.

"Alas! I know so little," responded kind-hearted Mr. Reed. "The queen was sentenced on the sixteenth and beheaded the same day. Several persons are now in prison, charged with a conspiracy to rescue her and place her son upon the throne. I could learn nothing further."

"That is enough!" she cried. "Philip is in prison!"

She was silent a moment; then suddenly she said, in a firm voice:

"I must start at once."

The husband and wife uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Start, and why?" demanded Mr. Reed.

"To join Philip."

"But it is walking straight into the jaws of death!" said Mrs. Reed.

Antoinette only repeated even more firmly than before:

"I must go at once!"

Then she broke into a pa.s.sion of sobbing. Mrs. Reed took her in her arms, dried her tears, and tried to rea.s.sure her, lavishing every endearment upon the unhappy girl.

"My dear child," said she, "your lover confided you to our care; we cannot let you go. Besides, how do you know that your betrothed has not escaped the dangers you fear for him? He is young, strong and clever.

Perhaps at this very moment he is on his way back to you."

Antoinette made no reply; but she shook her head despondently, as if to give Mrs. Reed to understand that she had no hope. Still, she did not rebel against her guardian's decision. Mrs. Reed conducted her to her chamber, persuaded her to undress, and did not leave her until the girl had fallen asleep. But her slumber was of short duration. It was scarcely midnight when Antoinette awoke with a start from a frightful dream. Philip had appeared to her, his hands bound behind his back, his neck bare, his hair cut short. He was clad in the lugubrious garb of the condemned, and he called her name in a voice wild with entreaty.

"Oh! I will go--I will go to save him or to die with him!"

This cry was upon her lips when she woke. She sprang up, hastily dressed herself, took the little money that chanced to be in her possession, and some or her jewels, and when the first gleam of daylight illumined the sky, animated by a saint-like courage, she furtively left the roof that had sheltered her for three long years. When Mrs. Reed entered the young girl's room a few hours later, she found only a letter apprising her of Antoinette's fixed determination to go to the rescue of her lover, and thanking her most gratefully for her care and love. Mr. Reed hastened to London, hoping to overtake the fugitive. Vain attempt! His search was fruitless. Antoinette had disappeared.

CHAPTER IX.

THE MOVING CURTAIN.

Several months had pa.s.sed 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 egalite. 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 ma.s.s, 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 the future; 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, opening into the garden by a gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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: