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.
This serves to explain how and why a general curiosity was awakened by the appearance of Antoinette de Mirandol. A few moments before, they had noticed the Marquis de Chamondrin engaged in animated conversation with Dolores. The malicious scented an intrigue; the ladies undertook the defence of Dolores; the old people remembered that she had been educated with Philip, and thought it quite natural that they should have much to say to each other after a long separation; but when Dolores, after absenting herself a few moments, returned with a charming young girl upon her arm, a stranger, whom she led straight to Philip, every one was eager to know the name of the new-comer. They watched the group with evident curiosity, as if trying to divine what was passing; they commented on the emotion betrayed in Philip's face, and the acquaintances of Dolores were anxiously waiting for an opportunity to question her.
"I think we are creating quite a sensation," Dolores said, at last, in a low tone and with a smile.
Philip turned, and seeing they were the subject of universal comment, and desiring an opportunity to collect his scattered thoughts, he said:
"We will meet again presently."
Then, without another word, he left them.
Dolores looked at Antoinette. She was very pale, and she trembled violently. Dolores led her gently back to the cell which they occupied in common. When Antoinette found herself again alone with her friend she made no attempt to restrain her tears.
"He did not even answer me," she sobbed. "My arrival seemed to cause him sorrow rather than joy."
"It is because he loves you and it makes him wretched to see you threatened by the same dangers that surround us," replied Dolores, striving to console her.