A Struggle For Life | Page 3

side. It was not slumber; it was death.
Two messages were at once despatched to Philip, one to the station at
G------, the other to his hôtel. The first missed him on the road, the
second he had neglected to open. On his arrival at M. Dorine's house,
the valet, under the supposition that Wentworth had been advised of
Mile. Dorine's death, broke the intelligence with awkward cruelty, by
showing him directly to the salon. Mile. Dorine's wealth, her beauty,
the suddenness of her death, and the romance that had in some way
attached itself to her love for the young American drew crowds to
witness the funeral ceremonies, which took place in the church in the
Rue d'Aguesseau. The body was to be laid in M. Dorine's tomb, in the
cemetery of Montmartre.
This tomb requires a few words of description. First there was a grating
of filigraned iron; through this you looked into a small vestibule or hall,
at the end of which was a massive door of oak opening upon a short
flight of stone steps descending into the tomb. The vault was fifteen or
twenty feet square, ingeniously ventilated from the ceiling, but
unlighted. It contained two sarcophagi: the first held the remains of
Madame Dorine, long since dead; the other was new, and bore on one
side the letters J. D., in monogram, interwoven with fleurs-de-lis.
The funeral train stopped at the gate of the small garden that enclosed
the place of burial, only the immediate relatives follow-ing the bearers
into the tomb. A slender wax candle, such as is used in Catholic
churches, burnt at the foot of the uncovered sarcophagus, casting a dim
glow oyer the centre of the apartment, and deepening the shadows
which seemed to huddle together in the corners. By this flickering light
the coffin was placed in its granite shell, the heavy slab laid over it
reverently, and the oaken door swung on its rusty hinges, shutting out
the uncertain ray of sunshine that had ventured to peep in on the

darkness.
M. Dorine, muffled in his cloak, threw himself on the back seat of the
landau, too abstracted in his grief to observe that he was the only
occupant of the vehicle. There was a sound of wheels grating on the
gravelled avenue, and then all was silence again in the cemetery of
Montmartre. At the main entrance the carriages parted company,
dashing off into various streets at a pace that seemed to express a sense
of relief.
The rattle of wheels had died out of the air when Philip opened his eyes,
bewildered, like a man abruptly roused from slumber. He raised
himself on one arm and stared into the surrounding blackness. Where
was he? In a second the truth flashed upon him. He had been left in the
tomb! While kneeling on the farther side of the stone box, perhaps he
had fainted, and during the last solemn rites his absence had been
unnoticed.
His first emotion was one of natural terror. But this passed as quickly
as it came. Life had ceased to be so very precious to him; and if it were
his fate to die at Julie's side, was not that the fulfilment of the desire
which he had expressed to himself a hundred times that morning? What
did it matter, a few years sooner or later? He must lay down the burden
at last. Why not then? A pang of self-reproach followed they thought.
Could he so lightly throw aside the love that had bent over his cradle.
The sacred name of mother rose involuntarily to his lips. Was it not
cowardly to yield up without a struggle the life when he should guard
for her sake? Was it not his duty to the living and the dead to face the
difficulties of his position, and overcome them if it were within human
power?
With an organization as delicate as a woman's he had that spirit which,
however sluggish in repose, leaps with a kind of exultation to measure
its strength with disaster.
The vague fear of the supernatural, that would affect most men in a
similar situation, found no room in his heart. He was simply shut in a
chamber from which it was necessary that he should obtain release

within a given period. That this chamber contained the body of the
woman he loved, so far from adding to the terror of the case, was a
circumstance from which he drew consolation. She was a beautiful
white statue now. Her soul was far hence; and if that pure spirit could
return, would it not be to shield him with her love? It was impossible
that the place should not engender some thought of the kind. He did not
put the thought entirely