"Very well, I will buy it then."
The man gathered up the golden curls and handed them to Dolores.
"It is a pity," she said, gently and with a tinge of sadness. "They became me well."
It was her only sign of regret for the sad fate to which her youth and beauty were condemned.
When she saw that the moment of departure was near at hand, she asked to see Philip and Antoinette again. They had been standing just outside the door, half-crazed with grief. They entered, followed by Aubry, who, though accustomed to such scenes, was deeply moved. It was to him that she turned first.
"I thank you for all your kindness," she said to him. "On my arrival at the prison, I confided a cross to your keeping."
"Here it is. I return it to you, citoyenne."
"Keep it, my friend; it will remind you of a prisoner to whom you showed compassion, and who will pray for you."
"Oh, citoyenne, I could have done no less!" faltered the poor man.
Then Dolores turned to Antoinette and Philip. Their despair verged upon madness. That of Antoinette was violent, and vented itself in moans and tears; that of Philip was still more terrible, for the wretched man seemed to have grown ten years older in the past few hours.