"All in good time, my dearest," replied Dolores. "First, lie down and rest. You look weary and are pale with fatigue."
"I was travelling all night!"
Dolores helped her remove her damp clothing and made her lie down upon her own bed; then she left her a moment to ask Aubry to bring a cup of coffee to her weary friend. That worthy man exhibited his accustomed zeal, and soon the two young-girls, one reclining on her couch, the other seated by her bedside were talking of the past. But their conversation had hardly begun when Antoinette inquired:
"Have you seen Philip?"
A slight pallor overspread the cheeks of Dolores, but the next instant she responded, calmly:
"I have seen Philip. He, too, has been arrested, and he will be brought here to-day."
Antoinette was eager to know the circumstances of Philip's arrest. Dolores related them, and to do so she was obliged to give her companion some account of her own life since she left the Château de Chamondrin four years before. Antoinette was affected to tears by the story of her friend's misfortunes. She interrupted her again and again to pity and caress her, and Dolores could not summon up courage to speak of her love for Philip, or of what had passed between them.
Then, it was Antoinette's turn to speak of herself and of her own past; and she soon revealed the fact that Philip had solemnly plighted his troth to her at last. She also told her friend that she could not endure her life in England, separated from him, and that anxiety for his safety had induced her to leave the Reed mansion by stealth and come to France in quest of him.
In London, she had sought the protection of the Chevalier de Millemont, an aged nobleman, and Philip's devoted friend. That gentleman, after vainly attempting to dissuade her, at last consented to make such arrangements as would enable her to reach France in safety. It was through his efforts that Antoinette was allowed to take passage in a small vessel that was sent to bear a message from the princes to La Vendée. On reaching the coast of Brittany where the vessel landed, she and her travelling companions parted. She was eager to reach Paris, but found that the journey would be no easy task. She finally succeeded in finding a man who agreed to take her as far as Nantes in his carriage. He procured two passports, one for his own use, and in which he figured as a grain merchant; the other for Antoinette, who was represented to be his daughter. Unfortunately, they stopped for refreshments at a small village near Nantes; and Antoinette's unmistakable air of distinction and the whiteness of her hands led people to suspect that she was not the child of a petty village merchant. The man discovered this; his fears were aroused, and while Antoinette was sitting in the parlor of the inn, he harnessed his horses and drove off at full speed. This cowardly desertion filled the girl with dismay. On finding herself alone, she could not conceal her disquietude, and this increased the suspicions that had already been aroused. The inn-keeper, who was a zealous patriot, compelled her to go with him to the district Commissioner. Her presence of mind deserted her; and her incoherent replies and her reticence caused her arrest. The Commissioner intended to send her to Nantes; but she begged so hard to be sent to Paris, instead, that he finally granted her request. That same evening a party of prisoners from La Vendée passed through the village; and Antoinette was entrusted to the care of the officer in charge of them. After a long and painful journey, she at last reached Paris, where the Conciergerie opened to receive her.
Such was the story she related to Dolores. The latter listened to it in silence. When it was ended, she said to her friend: