CHAPTER III.
THE CHILDHOOD OF DOLORES.
Dolores passed a happy childhood in the Chateau de Chamondrin, where shewas loved, petted and caressed as if she had been the little Marthawhose loss had deprived the Marquise of reason for many dreary months.Nothing was left undone to render the illusion complete in the eyes ofthe members of the household and in her own. The first companion of herchildish play was Philip, who called her sister; and she pillowed herfair head on the bosom of the Marquise without a shadow of fear andfondly called her mother. The Marquise loved her as devotedly as she hadloved her own daughter; Coursegol regarded her with an affection whosefervor was mingled with the deference he owed to the children of hismaster. As for the servants, they treated Philip and Dolores with equalrespect; and there were no relatives or friends of the family who didnot take pleasure in exhibiting their fondness for the little creaturewhose presence had cured the Marquise of the most terrible of maladies.
It is true that Dolores was such a lovely child no one could help lovingher. She promised to resemble her mother. She had the same luxuriantgolden hair, the same large, dark eyes, the same energy, the samesweetness of disposition and of voice. The Marquis and Coursegol, whohad seen the gypsy, and who still remembered her, were often struck bythe strong resemblance that seemed to make Tiepoletta live again inDolores. The child also possessed the same tender heart, vividimagination and honorable instincts. Her mind absorbed with marvellousfacility the instruction which she received from the Marquis and whichshe shared with his son. She had a wonderful memory, and what shelearned seemed to be indelibly imprinted upon her mind. She was lovingin disposition, docile and sweet-tempered, and had already won the loveof all who came in contact with her.
Philip actually worshipped his little sister. He was five years hersenior, a large, noisy, almost coarse boy, rather vain of his birth andof the authority which enabled him to lord it over the little peasantswho sometimes played with him. But these faults, which were destined tobe greatly modified by time, concealed a thoroughly good heart anddisappeared entirely when he was with Dolores.
It was amusing to see the tenderness and care with which he surroundedher. If they were walking together in the park, he removed all thestones which might hurt her tiny feet or cause her to stumble. If adainty morsel fell to his share at the table, he transferred it from hisplate to that of Dolores. If they dressed her in any new garment, he wasnever weary of admiring her, of telling her how beautiful she was, andof fondling her luxuriant golden curls. If it was necessary to punishPhilip, they had only to deprive him of the society of Dolores. Butunfortunately this punishment, the most severe that could be inflictedupon him, grieved his sister as much as it did him, so it was usedrarely and only in grave cases. One of the favorite amusements of thetwo children was to walk with Coursegol, and this was not a delight tothem alone, for that faithful fellow was never so happy as when rovingabout the fields with them.
Often, during those lovely spring mornings that are so charming in thesouth, they descended the hill and strolled along the banks of theGarden. The delicately-tinted willows that grew on the banks droopedover the stream, caressing it with their flexible branches. Above thewillows, fig trees, olives and vineyards covered the base of the hillwith foliage of a darker hue, which in turn contrasted with the stilldeeper green of the cypress trees and pines that grew upon the rockysides of the cliff. This luxuriant vegetation, of tints as varied asthose of an artist's palette, mirrored itself in the clear waters belowtogether with the arches of the massive Pont du Gard, whose bold yetgraceful curves were festooned with a dense growth of creeping vines.
Coursegol called the children's attention to the beauties of the scene,thus awakening in their young hearts appreciation of the countlesscharms of nature. They played in the sand; they fished for silver carp;hunted for birds' nests among the reeds. There were merry shouts oflaughter, continual surprises and numberless questions. In answeringthese, all Coursegol's rather primitive but trusty knowledge onscientific subjects was called into requisition. When they returnedhome they were obliged to pass the cave, and Dolores, who knew nothingof her history, often entered it in company with Philip if they found itunoccupied by the much-dreaded gypsies.
At certain seasons of the year, early in the spring and late in thesummer, roving bands of Bohemians encamped on the banks of the Gardon,and Philip and Dolores took good care not to approach them, especiallyafter an evening when an old gypsy woman, struck perhaps by the child'sresemblance to Tiepoletta, pointed Dolores out to some of the tribe whowent into ecstasies over her beauty. One of the gypsies approached thechildren to beg, which so terrified them that they clung frantically toCoursegol, who found it difficult to reassure them.
These pleasant rambles, the lessons which she recited to her adoptedfather, the religious instruction she received from the Marquise andlong hours of play with Philip made up the life of Dolores. Daysucceeded day without bringing anything to break the pleasant monotonyof their existence, for the capture of a mischievous fox, an encounterwith some harmless snake, or the periodical overflow of the Gardon couldscarcely be dignified by the name of an event: yet these, or similarincidents furnished the children with topics of conversation for weekstogether.
They took little interest in the news that came from Paris, and thoughthey sometimes observed a cloud on the brow of the Marquis, or tears inthe eyes of his wife, they were ignorant of the cause. Nor was itpossible for them to understand the gravity of the political situationor the well-founded fears of the Royalists, which were frequentlymentioned in the letters received at the chateau.
Thirteen serene and happy years passed after Dolores became the adopteddaughter of the Marquis de Chamondrin, before she made her firstacquaintance with real sorrow. She had grown rapidly and her mentalprogress had kept pace with her physical development. She promised to bean honor to her parents and to justify them in their determination tokeep her with them always.
But the Marquis had not lost sight of the projects formed years beforein relation to his son's future. As we have previously stated, theMarquis, even before the birth of his son, dreamed of restoring in himand through him the glory of the house of Chamondrin--a glory which hadsuffered an eclipse for more than a quarter of a century. It was nowtime to carry these plans into execution. Philip was eighteen, avigorous youth, already a man in stature and in bearing, endowed withall the faults and virtues of his race, but possessed of more virtuesthan faults and especially of an incontestable courage and a profoundreverence for the name he bore. The Marquis had about decided that thetime to send him to Paris had come. He had been preparing for this eventfor some months and, thanks to the economy in which he had been soadmirably seconded by his wife, he had laid by a very considerableamount; enough to supply Philip's wants for five years at least--thatis, until he would be in a position to obtain some office at court or acommand in the army.
But the Marquis had taken other measures to insure his son's success. Hehad appealed to family friends, and through the Chevalier de Florian, anoccasional guest at the chateau, he had received an assurance thatPhilip would find an earnest champion in the Duke de Penthieore. Fortuneseemed inclined to smile on the young man; nevertheless the Marquis wasbeset with doubts, for all this occurred in the year 1783, just as thehostility to the king was beginning to manifest itself in an alarmingmanner, and the Marquis asked himself again and again if this was apropitious moment to send so young a man, almost a boy, into a dividedand disaffected court--a court, too, that was subjected to the closestespionage on the part of a people already deeply incensed and irritatedby the scandal and debauchery of the nobility, and utterly insensible tothe king's well-meant efforts to institute a much-needed reform.
But the birth of the Dauphin, which occurred that same year, dissipatedM. de Chamondrin's doubts. He was completely reassured by the enthusiasmof a nation, which, even in its dire extremity, broke into songs ofrejoicing over the new-born heir. Philip's departure was decided upon.
The young people had been aware of their father's intentions for sometime. They knew the hour of separation was approaching, and the tearssprang to their eyes whenever any allusion to Philip's intendeddeparture was made in their presence; but, with the characteristiclight-heartedness of youth, they dismissed the unwelcome thought fromtheir minds, and in present joys forgot the sorrow the future held instore for them. But the flight of time is rapid, and that which causesus little anxiety because it was the future, that is, a possibility,becomes the present, in other words, reality. One day the Marquis, notwithout emotion, made known his plans to his wife and afterwards to hisson. Philip was to start for Paris at the close of autumn, or in abouttwo months, and Coursegol was to accompany him. This news carrieddespair to the heart of Dolores, for she loved Philip devotedly. Had henot been her brother, her protector, and the sharer of all her joyssince she was old enough to talk? Could it be she was about to lose him?
In spite of all their efforts to conceal the fact, the grief wasgeneral. The departure of Philip would be a sore trial to all theinmates of the chateau. Dolores was inconsolable. A dozen times a day,the Marquise, conquering her own sadness, endeavored to console Doloresby descanting on the advantages Philip would derive from this journey;but the poor girl could understand but one thing--that her brother wasto leave her for an indefinite time. For several days before hisdeparture she scarcely left his side. How many plans were made to becarried into execution on his return! How many bright hopes were mingledwith the sadness of those last hours! Philip, who had become grave andserious as befitted his new role, declared that he would never forgetDolores--that he should love her forever. The hours flew swiftly by andthe day appointed for the separation came all too quickly for those whowere awaiting and dreading it.
The morning that Philip was to start his father sent for him. The youngman was in the court-yard, superintending the preparations fordeparture. The servants, superintended by Coursegol, were fastening thetrunks upon the carriage that was to convey the travellers and theirbaggage to Avignon, where places had been bespoken for them in the coachwhich was then the only mode of conveyance between Marseilles and Paris.
Dolores was standing near Coursegol. Her red eyes, still moist withtears, and her pale face showed that her sorrow had made sleepimpossible during the previous night; but, in spite of this, she lookedso lovely that Philip was more deeply impressed by her beauty than hehad ever been before. He kissed her tenderly, as he tried to consoleher.
"Ah! Philip, why do you leave us?" she exclaimed, reproachfully.
"Because it is necessary both for your sake and mine," he responded. "Doyou not know my father's plans? And if he commands me to go, must I notobey?"
"That is what I was just telling mademoiselle," began Coursegol. "Iexplained to her that the Marquis, your father, was acting wisely insending you to court. You will soon make a fortune there, and then youwill return to us laden with laurels and with gold. Shall we not behappy then, mademoiselle?"
Even while speaking thus, Coursegol found it very difficult to concealhis own emotion, for though he was pleased to accompany Philip, it costhim a bitter pang to part with Dolores. Rescued by him, reared under hisvery eyes, he loved her as devotedly as he would have loved a child ofhis own, had the thought of any other family than that of his masterever occurred to him.
But his words and Philip's caresses seemed to comfort Dolores. Her sobsceased and she dried her tears; but, as Philip was about to leave her inobedience to a summons from his father, she suddenly exclaimed:
"Will you not forget me in the midst of the splendor that will surroundyou? Will you not cease to love me?"
"Forget you! Cease to love you!" replied Philip, with a shudder, as ifsuch a fear expressed at such a moment was an evil omen. "I shall neverforget you! I shall never cease to love you!"
He was about to say still more when he saw his mother approaching. Heled Dolores gently to her, kissed them both, and hastened to join hisfather.
The latter was pacing to and fro in his chamber, thoughtful and sad, forthe departure of his son made his heart heavy with grief.
"You sent for me, father," said Philip.
"Yes, my son," responded the Marquis, seating himself and motioning hisson to a chair beside him. "I wish to say a few words to you. You areabout to leave me, Philip. In a few hours you will be your own master. Ishall no longer be near you; nor will your mother be at hand to adviseyou. Moreover, you are deprived of our counsel and experience just whenyou most need them, at a time when your life must undergo a radicalchange and you are beset with difficulties. I have decided thatCoursegol shall accompany you, for his judgment may be of service to youin the absence of ours. You must regard his advice as that of a friendrather than of a servant; but do not accept his counsels or the counselsof any other person without reflection. There are cases, it is true, inwhich one must decide hastily. If you have not time to consult those inwhom you repose confidence, you must be guided by your own judgment; andin order that you may not err, engrave upon your heart the words I amabout to utter."
The Marquis paused a moment, then resumed:
"'God, your country and the king'--this should be your motto. You areabout to go out into the world. You will meet many fanatics, atheistsand libertines. Shun their example; do not be led astray by theirsophistries, and before you speak or act, ask yourself if what you areabout to say or do does not conflict with the respect you owe to yourreligion, to France and to your king."
This was the general tenor of the conversation, which lasted nearly anhour. His father, it is true, told him nothing he had not heard already.His advice was nothing more than a resume of the lessons he had alwaystaught him; but Philip was deeply moved, and he promised with an emotionclosely akin to ardent enthusiasm that he would never depart from theline of conduct his father had marked out for him.
Then the Marquis, with a sudden change of tone, said to his son:
"Since you are about to leave home, perhaps for several years, I willtell you a secret which I should no longer withhold."
"What is it?" demanded Philip, in surprise.
"Dolores is not your sister!"
"Dolores not my sister! Then--"
Philip paused. He dare not utter the thought that had suddenly enteredhis mind. On hearing the Marquis' words and learning the truth in regardto Dolores from his lips, he had experienced an emotion of joy. If hehad given expression to what was passing in his soul, his father wouldhave heard these words:
"Dolores not my sister! Then she shall be my wife!"
But he controlled himself and his father little suspected the emotioncaused by this revelation. The Marquis related the history of Dolores indetail, and Philip could scarcely believe his ears when he heard thatthe charming girl was the offspring of one of those Bohemians he hadfrequently seen by the roadside.
"You must not love her the less," said the Marquis in conclusion. "Shehas filled Martha's place in our hearts; we owe to her your mother'srestoration to reason. We should always love and cherish her. She has nosuspicion of the truth; and I wish her to remain in ignorance until Ithink proper to acquaint her with the facts."
"Oh! I shall never cease to love her," replied Philip, quickly, thusrepeating to his father the promise he had made to Dolores a few momentsbefore.
Then, agitated by the news he had heard, he left the Marquis andrejoined Dolores. He wished to see her alone once more before hisdeparture. When he approached her, his heart throbbed wildly.
"She is not my sister," he said to himself, exultantly.
She seemed to him an entirely different being. For the first time heobserved that she had exquisitely formed hands of marvellous whitenessfor the first time he shrank from the light of the dark eyes uplifted tohis. He wished that Dolores knew the secret of her birth, and that shecould hear him once again say:
"I love you!"
It was a new emotion to the pure and artless heart of an eighteen-yearold lad; and, yielding to its influence, Philip threw his arms
aboutDolores, and, pressing her to his heart, said tenderly:
"I shall always love you--always--I swear it! Remember this promise.Some day you will understand it better."
Dolores looked at him in astonishment. Though she was deeply moved shemade no reply, but throwing her arms around his neck she kissed himagain and again, thus unconsciously arousing a new passion in what hadbeen the soul of a child only a few moments before, but what hadsuddenly become the soul of a man.
But the hour of departure had come. The char-a-banc drawn by two stronghorses was in waiting at the base of the hill. They were to walk downthe hill with Philip and bid him farewell there. Philip gave his arm tohis mother; Dolores walked between Coursegol and the Marquis, with anexpression of profound sorrow upon her features.
An air of sadness and gloom pervaded everything. It was the close ofautumn; the air was full of withered leaves; they rustled beneath thetread at every step, and the wind moaned drearily through the pines.
"Take care of your health," said the Marquise.
"Write to me," pleaded Dolores.
"Be brave and upright," said the father; then all three, turning as ifwith one accord to Coursegol, placed Philip under his protection.
Again they embraced their beloved; again they wept; then one moreembrace, one last kiss, and he was gone. The carriage that bore him awaywas hidden from their sight by clouds of dust, and the loving heartsleft behind sadly wondered if this cruel parting was not, after all, adream.
Dolores, in spite of her earnest efforts to fill the void that had beenmade in her life, spent a month in tears. A deep despair seemed to havetaken possession of her heart. In vain her adopted parents endeavored todivert her mind; in vain they concealed their own grief to console her;in vain they lavished a wealth of tenderness upon her; she would not beconsoled and her silent sorrow revealed a soul peculiarly sensitive tosuffering.
It was Philip who persuaded her to conquer this despondency; for he,even at a distance, exerted a much more powerful influence over herthan either the Marquis or his wife. His first letter, which arrivedabout a month after his departure, was more potent in its effects thanall the efforts of her adopted parents. It was to Dolores that Philiphad written. He described his journey to Paris; the cordial welcome hehad received from the Duke de Penthieore and the Princess de Lamballe,to whom he had been presented by the Chevalier de Florian; thecondescension this Princess had displayed in taking him to Versailles,and in commending him to the kindly notice of Marie Antoinette and LouisXVI.; the promises made by their majesties, and lastly the promptitudewith which the Duke, as a proof of his interest, had attached him to hisown household. So Philip was on the highway to wealth and honor at last.The Princess de Lamballe had evinced a very decided interest in him; heenjoyed the friendship of the Chevalier de Florian and would soonaccompany the Duke de Penthieore to Brittany. Moreover, these kindfriends were only waiting until he should attain the age of twenty torequest the king to give him command of a company in one of hisregiments.
This good news filled the heart of the Marquis with joy. He immediatelywrote to the Duke, thanking him for his kindness, and that gentleman inhis reply, manifested such an earnest desire to insure Philip's successthat the Marquis and his wife were consoled for their son's absence bythe thought of the brilliant career that seemed to be in store for him.As for Dolores, what comforted her was not so much her brother'ssuccess as the expressions of affection with which his letter wasfilled. All his happiness and all his good fortune were to be sharedwith her. It was for her sake he desired fame, in order that he mightmake her proud and happy. Thus Philip expressed the still confusedsentiments that filled his young heart, though he did not betray thesecret that his father had confided to him.
This letter seemed to restore to Dolores the natural light-heartednessof youth. She no longer lamented her brother's absence, but spent mostof her time in writing to him, and in perusing and re-perusing hisletters. The months passed, but brought nothing to disturb thetranquillity of this monotonous existence. At the end of two yearsPhilip announced that he had been appointed to the command of a companyof dragoons. This appointment, which he owed entirely to the kindness ofthe Princess de Lamballe and the Duke de Penthieore, was only the firststep. The queen had promised not to forget him and to prove her interestin some conclusive manner. That he might not be obliged to leave hisyoung master, Coursegol asked and obtained permission to enlist in thesame regiment.
Two more years passed.
It would be a difficult task to describe Dolores as she appeared inthose days. The cleverest pen would be powerless to give an adequateconception of her charms. Her simple country life had made her as strongand vigorous as the sturdy young trees that adorned the landscape everbeneath her eyes. In health and strength she was a true daughter of theBohemians, a race whose vigor has never been impaired by the luxuriesand restraints of civilization. She had not the olive complexion andfiery temper of her father, but she had inherited from her mother thatdelicate beauty and that refinement of manner which made it almostimpossible for one to believe that Tiepoletta was the daughter ofCorcovita.
Dolores was as energetic as her father and as lovely as her mother. Herbrilliant dark eyes betrayed an ardent temperament and unusual power ofwill. She was no fragile creature, but a healthy, spirited, beautifulyoung girl, the robust scion of a hardy and fruitful tree. Had she beenreared among the gypsies, she might have been coarsely handsome; buteducation had softened her charms while it developed her intellect, andthough but seventeen she was already one of those dazzling beauties whodefy description and who eclipse all rivals whenever they appear. Thesoul was worthy of the casket that enshrined it; and the reader whofollows this narrative to its close cannot fail to acknowledge theinherent nobility of this young girl, who was destined to play a role asheroic as it was humble in the great drama of the Revolution, and whosedevotion, purity, unselfishness and indomitable courage elevated herhigh above the plane of poor, erring humanity.
Had it not been for Philip's prolonged absence, Dolores would have beenperfectly happy at this period of her life. Separated from their son,the Marquis and his wife seemed to regard her with redoubledtenderness. Her wishes were their law. To amuse her, they took her toNimes, to Montpellier and to Avignon; and she was everywhere welcomed asthe daughter of the great house of Chamondrin, whose glory had beenveiled in obscurity for a quarter of a century, only to emerge againmore radiant than ever. Dolores was really happy. She was lookingforward to a speedy meeting with her beloved Philip; and he shared thishope, for had he not written in a recent letter: "I expect to see youall soon and to spend several weeks at Chamondrin, as free from care andas happy as in days gone by?" In a still later letter Philip said: "I ameager to start for home, but sometimes the journey seems to be attendedby many difficulties. Should it prove an impossibility, I shall expectto see you all in Paris."
So either in Chamondrin, or in Paris, Dolores would soon embrace herbrother. This thought intoxicated her with happiness, and her impatienceled her to interrogate the Marquis.
"Why does Philip speak of his return as impossible?" she asked again andagain. "What does he fear?"
"There may be circumstances that will detain him at his post near theking," replied the Marquis, sadly, but evasively.
In the letters which he, himself, received from his son, the latterspoke freely of the danger that menaced the throne. There was, indeed,abundant cause of alarm to all thoughtful and observant minds, andespecially to men who were living like the Marquis in the heart of theprovinces, and who were consequently able to judge understandingly ofthe imminence of the peril. Of course, no person could then foresee thecatastrophes which were to succeed one another so rapidly for severalyears; but a very general and undeniable discontent prevailed throughoutthe entire kingdom, a discontent that could not fail to engendermisfortunes without number.
The year 1788 had just opened under the most unfavorable auspices.Marepas, Turgot, Necker and Calonne had held the reins of power in t
urn,without being able to restore the country to peace and prosperity. Theirefforts proving powerless from divers causes they had been dismissed indisgrace; some through the intrigues of the court; some by reason oftheir own incapacity. Brienne was now in office; but he was no morefortunate than his predecessors. Instead of subsiding, the discord wascontinually on the increase.
The convention of leading men, upon which Calonne had based suchflattering hopes, adjourned without arriving at any satisfactory result.The treasury was empty; and, as the payment of government obligationswas consequently suspended, the murmurs of the people became long andloud. Parliament refused to notice the royal edicts, and the army showedopen hostility to the court. In the provinces, poverty everywhereprevailed; and the dissatisfaction was steadily increasing.
The condition of affairs in Southern France was extremely ominous. AtNimes, the religious factions, which were as bitterly at variance asthey had been at the time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes hadarrayed themselves in open warfare one against the other. Avignon, eagerto shake off the pontifical yoke and annex itself to France, was thescene of daily outbreaks. As the Chateau de Chamondrin was situatedbetween these two cities, its inmates could not fail to be aware ofthese dissensions.
Conventions were held in most of the large towns, and the situation ofthe country was discussed with much heat and bitterness. The nobilityand clergy, who trembled for their threatened privileges, and thepeople, who had suffered so long and so uncomplainingly, took part inthese discussions; and their utterances betrayed great intolerance onthe one side and excessive irritation on the other. The discontent hadreached a class which, up to that date, had been allowed no voice in themanagement of affairs; but now, the peasants, oppressed by taxes asexorbitant as they were unjust, began to cast angry and envious glancesat the nobility. The hovel was menacing the castle; and France seemed tobe on the watch for some great event.
In the midst of this general perturbation, the king, anxious andundecided, was running from one adviser to another, listening to allkinds of counsel, consenting to all sorts of intrigues and making athousand resolutions without possessing the requisite firmness to carryany good one into execution.
The Marquis de Chamondrin was a witness to some of these facts. Theletters of his son revealed others. He was extremely anxious in regardto the future, and more than once Dolores and his wife saw his browovercast and his eyes gloomy.
A letter received from Philip early in May, 1788, increased hisdisquietude. It was written on the day following the arrest ofEspremenil. Philip had witnessed the disturbance; had seen the peopleapplaud the officers of the municipal government, and insult therepresentatives of royal authority. He described the scene in his letterto his father. The Marquis, at the solicitation of Dolores, read herPhilip's letter and made her the confidante of his fears. She understoodnow why Philip's return had been postponed. After this, she took a deepinterest in the progress of events not so much on account of theirgravity, which she did not comprehend as clearly as her adopted parents,but because Philip was a witness of them, and because his returndepended upon a peaceful solution of the difficulty. She could notforesee that an event, as sorrowful as it was unexpected, would soonrecall him to Chamondrin.
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