Part 29 (2/2)
Philip pa.s.sionately interrupted her:
”I am no saint, I am a man! Why do you talk to me of promises and of duty? Whatever I may have said, whatever I may have promised, if I have not told you that I loved you, if I have not told you that I should always love you, I have lied. Read my--heart; you will behold your name, your name alone, written there; and tell me, courageous creature, n.o.ble-hearted woman, how can one stifle the aspirations of a love which has been the only joy, the only torment of one's life? Remember the past, Dolores--our childhood, the blissful existence in which love was first awakened in our hearts. I do not know what was pa.s.sing in yours; but mine has nourished but one thought, cherished but one hope: to belong to you and to possess you. Upon this hope have I lived. It has been the strength and the weakness of my life; its deepest sorrow and its purest joy.”
While he was thus speaking in low tones that he might not be overheard, Antoinette, after exchanging a few remarks with Coursegol, approached them. Not a single word uttered by Philip had escaped her, and her terror-stricken eyes and drawn features betrayed her agony.
”Was this dream of mine so unutterably wild and hopeless?” continued Philip, not perceiving Antoinette, and refusing to heed Dolores' warning sign. ”Does a man display a culpable ambition when he longs for a calm and happy life with an adored wife who is worthy of him? And yet, the first time I spoke of this love, you said to me: 'Antoinette loves you; marry her;' and when I still pleaded, you added: 'I belong to G.o.d.'”
”Was this not the truth?” asked Dolores, timidly.
”No, for you loved me and you sacrificed yourself for the sake of some foolish scheme upon the accomplishment of which my father would not have insisted if, sustained by you, I had ventured to confess the truth. You would not consent to this; you left us: then, Providence once more brought us face to face. This time, you granted me a hope only to take it from me again when Antoinette reappeared. Now, behold your work. Here are all three of us equally miserable; you, in dying; I, in surviving you; Antoinette, in loving me.”
”I am glad to die,” replied Dolores, who had regained her firmness and composure.
”Then why did you not allow me to share this happiness? Yesterday, when you received the fatal news, why did you not say to me: 'We have been unhappy here on earth; death will save us from many and undeserved misfortunes; come, let us die together.'”
”What! be the cause of your death?”
”It would be less cruel than to leave me behind you. Do you know what my life will be when I can no longer hope to see you again here below? One long supplication for death to quickly relieve me of the burden of existence.”
”Philip, Philip!” murmured Dolores, reproachfully. ”Can it be you who speak thus, you who have linked a soul to yours; you who are a husband already, for at the bedside of your dying father did not you and Antoinette kneel together to receive the blessing of G.o.d's anointed priest?”
Philip made no reply.
”You have reproached me,” continued Dolores, ”and why? Who is the real culprit here? Is it I? Have I not always discouraged you? Have I not always told you that duty stood between us? Have I not always striven to convince you that your hopes were futile? Had not you, yourself, renounced them? Then, why should I reproach myself? Besides, I have not sought death. I die because Heaven wills it, but I am resigned, and if this resignation is any evidence of courage, let it strengthen and reanimate your soul. Bravely act the only part that is worthy of your past, of your heart and of your name. There, and there only your soul-will find happiness and peace.”
Philip's anger vanished before such words as these. He was no longer irritated, but entirely overcome. Suddenly a sob resounded behind them.
They turned. Antoinette was upon her knees.
”Pardon,” said she, in a voice broken with sobs.
Dolores sprang forward to raise her.
”Philip, do you forgive me?” entreated Antoinette.
He too was weeping. He extended his hand to the young girl, who took it and covered it with her tears.
”Spare me, spare me!” exclaimed Dolores. ”You rend my soul now when I have need for all my strength. Your grief and despair at my fate lead you both beyond reality. You, my dear friend, my dear sister Antoinette, have received a sacred promise which you, Philip, made freely and with the intention to fulfil it. That is the only thing you must remember now.”
She uttered these words in a sweet and penetrating voice, and with an energy that calmed and silenced both of them. She spoke of the chief duties of life, of the necessity of resignation, devotion and self-denial.
”I wish to carry with me to the grave,” she added, ”the a.s.surance that you will console each other after my death by loving each other in remembrance of me.”
And they promised all that she asked, for it was impossible to resist so much grace, so much eloquence and so much humility. Then she took from her pocket the order of release which Coursegol had obtained through Vauquelas. She handed this to Philip.
”There is your freedom,” she resumed. ”With the a.s.sistance of Bridoul, who will aid you in Coursegol's stead, this paper will enable you to escape from prison. You will be conducted to a safe retreat where you can await the fall of these wicked men and the triumph of truth and of virtue. That hour will surely come; for the future does not belong to the violent and audacious; it is for the meek, the generous, the good.”
She conversed with them an hour longer, then begged them to leave her.
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