"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, for troubling you," began Philip, without the slightest hesitation; "but the service you can render me is of such importance to me, and the happiness of my whole life is so dependent upon it, that I have not scrupled to appeal to your generosity."
"In what way can I serve you?" inquired Mademoiselle de Mirandol, whose emotion had been suddenly calmed by this preamble, so utterly unlike anything she had expected to hear.
"I am in love!" began Philip.
She trembled, her embarrassment returned and her eyes dropped. Philip continued:
"She whom I love is charming, beautiful and good, like yourself. You surely will not contradict me, for it is Dolores whom I love!"
Why Antoinette did not betray her secret, she, herself, could not understand when she afterwards recalled the circumstances of this interview. She did, however, utter a stifled cry which Philip failed to hear. She felt that she turned very pale, but her change of color was not discernible in the shadow. It was with intense disappointment that she listened to Philip's confession. He told her that he had loved Dolores for more than four years, but that she had known it only a few months, and that she hod made no response to his declaration of love. He had waited patiently for her answer, but he could endure this state of cruel uncertainty no longer, and he entreated Mademoiselle de Mirandol to intercede for him, and to persuade Dolores to make known her decision to her adorer. Antoinette promised to fulfil his request. She promised, scarcely knowing what she said, so terrible was the anguish that filled her heart. She desired only one thing—to make her escape that she might be at liberty to weep. How wretched he was! Coming to this rendezvous with a heart full of implicit confidence, she had met, instead of the felicity she expected, the utter ruin of her hopes. This revulsion of feeling proved too much for a young girl who was entirely unaccustomed to violent emotions of any kind. She blamed herself bitterly, reproaching herself for her love as if it had been a crime, and regarded her disappointment as a judgment upon her for having allowed herself to think of Philip so soon, after her father's death.
At last Philip left her, and she could then give vent to her sorrow. Soon jealously took possession of her heart. Incensed at Dolores, who had received her confidence without once telling her that Philip's love had long since been given to her, Antoinette hastened to her rival to reproach her for her duplicity.
"Antoinette, what has happened?" exclaimed Dolores, seeing her friend enter pale and in tears.
"I have discovered my mistake. It is not I who am beloved, it is you; and he has been entreating me to plead his cause and to persuade you to give him an answer that accords with his wishes! What irony could be more bitter than that displayed by fate in making me the advocate to whom Philip has applied for aid in winning you? Ah! how deeply I am wounded! How terrible is my shame and humiliation! You would have spared me this degradation if you had frankly told me that Philip loved you when I first confided my silly fancies to you. Why did you not confess the truth? It was cruel, Dolores, and I believed you my friend, my sister!"
Sobs choked her utterance and she could say no more. Dolores, who had suffered and who was still suffering the most poignant anguish, nevertheless felt the deepest sympathy for her unhappy friend. She approached her, gently wiped away her tears and said: