"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 Abbé 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 assuring the happiness to which she is justly entitled."
Philip was greatly embarrassed. 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 passed thus. The prisoners were passing and repassing. 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.
We have already said that each of the prisons which had been crowded with victims by the Reign of Terror was a faithful reproduction of the aristocratic society of Paris, now decimated by death and by exile, but which was famous for its intrigues, its wit, its indiscretions, its luxury and its gallantries. Behind the prison bars the ladies still remained grandes dames; the men, courtiers: and neither sex had lost any of its interest in small events as well as great. On the contrary, the monotony of prison life and the desire to kill time intensified this interest so natural to the French mind. An incident of trifling importance furnished them with a topic of conversation for hours. The new dress in which the duchess had appeared, the pleasure with which the marquise seemed to receive the attentions of the chevalier, interested this little world, which had not been cured of its frivolity by its misfortunes, as much as the heroism which the last person condemned had displayed on ascending the scaffold.