Coursegol called the children's attention to the beauties of the scene, thus awakening in their young hearts appreciation of the countless charms of nature. They played in the sand; they fished for silver carp; hunted for birds' nests among the reeds. There were merry shouts of laughter, continual surprises and numberless questions. In answering these, all Coursegol's rather primitive but trusty knowledge on scientific subjects was called into requisition. When they returned home they were obliged to pa.s.s the cave, and Dolores, who knew nothing of her history, often entered it in company with Philip if they found it unoccupied by the much-dreaded gypsies.

At certain seasons of the year, early in the spring and late in the summer, roving bands of Bohemians encamped on the banks of the Gardon, and Philip and Dolores took good care not to approach them, especially after an evening when an old gypsy woman, struck perhaps by the child's resemblance to Tiepoletta, pointed Dolores out to some of the tribe who went into ecstasies over her beauty. One of the gypsies approached the children to beg, which so terrified them that they clung frantically to Coursegol, who found it difficult to rea.s.sure them.

These pleasant rambles, the lessons which she recited to her adopted father, the religious instruction she received from the Marquise and long hours of play with Philip made up the life of Dolores. Day succeeded day without bringing anything to break the pleasant monotony of their existence, for the capture of a mischievous fox, an encounter with some harmless snake, or the periodical overflow of the Gardon could scarcely be dignified by the name of an event: yet these, or similar incidents furnished the children with topics of conversation for weeks together.

They took little interest in the news that came from Paris, and though they sometimes observed a cloud on the brow of the Marquis, or tears in the eyes of his wife, they were ignorant of the cause. Nor was it possible for them to understand the gravity of the political situation or the well-founded fears of the Royalists, which were frequently mentioned in the letters received at the chateau.

Thirteen serene and happy years pa.s.sed after Dolores became the adopted daughter of the Marquis de Chamondrin, before she made her first acquaintance with real sorrow. She had grown rapidly and her mental progress had kept pace with her physical development. She promised to be an honor to her parents and to justify them in their determination to keep her with them always.

But the Marquis had not lost sight of the projects formed years before in relation to his son's future. As we have previously stated, the Marquis, even before the birth of his son, dreamed of restoring in him and through him the glory of the house of Chamondrin--a glory which had suffered an eclipse for more than a quarter of a century. It was now time to carry these plans into execution. Philip was eighteen, a vigorous youth, already a man in stature and in bearing, endowed with all the faults and virtues of his race, but possessed of more virtues than faults and especially of an incontestable courage and a profound reverence for the name he bore. The Marquis had about decided that the time to send him to Paris had come. He had been preparing for this event for some months and, thanks to the economy in which he had been so admirably seconded by his wife, he had laid by a very considerable amount; enough to supply Philip's wants for five years at least--that is, until he would be in a position to obtain some office at court or a command in the army.

But the Marquis had taken other measures to insure his son's success. He had appealed to family friends, and through the Chevalier de Florian, an occasional guest at the chateau, he had received an a.s.surance that Philip would find an earnest champion in the Duke de Penthieore. Fortune seemed inclined to smile on the young man; nevertheless the Marquis was beset with doubts, for all this occurred in the year 1783, just as the hostility to the king was beginning to manifest itself in an alarming manner, and the Marquis asked himself again and again if this was a propitious moment to send so young a man, almost a boy, into a divided and disaffected court--a court, too, that was subjected to the closest espionage on the part of a people already deeply incensed and irritated by the scandal and debauchery of the n.o.bility, and utterly insensible to the king's well-meant efforts to inst.i.tute a much-needed reform.

But the birth of the Dauphin, which occurred that same year, dissipated M. de Chamondrin's doubts. He was completely rea.s.sured by the enthusiasm of a nation, which, even in its dire extremity, broke into songs of rejoicing over the new-born heir. Philip's departure was decided upon.

The young people had been aware of their father's intentions for some time. They knew the hour of separation was approaching, and the tears sprang to their eyes whenever any allusion to Philip's intended departure was made in their presence; but, with the characteristic light-heartedness of youth, they dismissed the unwelcome thought from their minds, and in present joys forgot the sorrow the future held in store for them. But the flight of time is rapid, and that which causes us little anxiety because it was the future, that is, a possibility, becomes the present, in other words, reality. One day the Marquis, not without emotion, made known his plans to his wife and afterwards to his son. Philip was to start for Paris at the close of autumn, or in about two months, and Coursegol was to accompany him. This news carried despair to the heart of Dolores, for she loved Philip devotedly. Had he not been her brother, her protector, and the sharer of all her joys since 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 was general. The departure of Philip would be a sore trial to all the inmates of the chateau. Dolores was inconsolable. A dozen times a day, the Marquise, conquering her own sadness, endeavored to console Dolores by descanting on the advantages Philip would derive from this journey; but the poor girl could understand but one thing--that her brother was to leave her for an indefinite time. For several days before his departure she scarcely left his side. How many plans were made to be carried into execution on his return! How many bright hopes were mingled with the sadness of those last hours! Philip, who had become grave and serious as befitted his new role, declared that he would never forget Dolores--that he should love her forever. The hours flew swiftly by and the day appointed for the separation came all too quickly for those who were awaiting and dreading it.

The morning that Philip was to start his father sent for him. The young man was in the court-yard, superintending the preparations for departure. The servants, superintended by Coursegol, were fastening the trunks upon the carriage that was to convey the travellers and their baggage to Avignon, where places had been bespoken for them in the coach which was then the only mode of conveyance between Ma.r.s.eilles and Paris.

Dolores was standing near Coursegol. Her red eyes, still moist with tears, and her pale face showed that her sorrow had made sleep impossible during the previous night; but, in spite of this, she looked so lovely that Philip was more deeply impressed by her beauty than he had ever been before. He kissed her tenderly, as he tried to console her.

"Ah! Philip, why do you leave us?" she exclaimed, reproachfully.

"Because it is necessary both for your sake and mine," he responded. "Do you not know my father's plans? And if he commands me to go, must I not obey?"

"That is what I was just telling mademoiselle," began Coursegol. "I explained to her that the Marquis, your father, was acting wisely in sending you to court. You will soon make a fortune there, and then you will return to us laden with laurels and with gold. Shall we not be happy then, mademoiselle?"

Even while speaking thus, Coursegol found it very difficult to conceal his own emotion, for though he was pleased to accompany Philip, it cost him a bitter pang to part with Dolores. Rescued by him, reared under his very eyes, he loved her as devotedly as he would have loved a child of his own, had the thought of any other family than that of his master ever occurred to him.

But his words and Philip's caresses seemed to comfort Dolores. Her sobs ceased and she dried her tears; but, as Philip was about to leave her in obedience to a summons from his father, she suddenly exclaimed:

"Will you not forget me in the midst of the splendor that will surround you? Will you not cease to love me?"

"Forget you! Cease to love you!" replied Philip, with a shudder, as if such a fear expressed at such a moment was an evil omen. "I shall never forget you! I shall never cease to love you!"

He was about to say still more when he saw his mother approaching. He led Dolores gently to her, kissed them both, and hastened to join his father.

The latter was pacing to and fro in his chamber, thoughtful and sad, for the 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 his son to a chair beside him. "I wish to say a few words to you. You are about to leave me, Philip. In a few hours you will be your own master. I shall no longer be near you; nor will your mother be at hand to advise you. Moreover, you are deprived of our counsel and experience just when you most need them, at a time when your life must undergo a radical change and you are beset with difficulties. I have decided that Coursegol shall accompany you, for his judgment may be of service to you in the absence of ours. You must regard his advice as that of a friend rather than of a servant; but do not accept his counsels or the counsels of any other person without reflection. There are cases, it is true, in which one must decide hastily. If you have not time to consult those in whom you repose confidence, you must be guided by your own judgment; and in order that you may not err, engrave upon your heart the words I am about to utter."

The Marquis paused a moment, then resumed:

"'G.o.d, your country and the king'--this should be your motto. You are about to go out into the world. You will meet many fanatics, atheists and libertines. Shun their example; do not be led astray by their sophistries, and before you speak or act, ask yourself if what you are about to say or do does not conflict with the respect you owe to your religion, to France and to your king."

This was the general tenor of the conversation, which lasted nearly an hour. 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 always taught him; but Philip was deeply moved, and he promised with an emotion closely akin to ardent enthusiasm that he would never depart from the line 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 will tell 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 entered his mind. On hearing the Marquis' words and learning the truth in regard to Dolores from his lips, he had experienced an emotion of joy. If he had given expression to what was pa.s.sing in his soul, his father would have heard these words:

"Dolores not my sister! Then she shall be my wife!"

But he controlled himself and his father little suspected the emotion caused by this revelation. The Marquis related the history of Dolores in detail, and Philip could scarcely believe his ears when he heard that the charming girl was the offspring of one of those Bohemians he had frequently seen by the roadside.

"You must not love her the less," said the Marquis in conclusion. "She has filled Martha's place in our hearts; we owe to her your mother's restoration to reason. We should always love and cherish her. She has no suspicion of the truth; and I wish her to remain in ignorance until I think proper to acquaint her with the facts."

"Oh! I shall never cease to love her," replied Philip, quickly, thus repeating to his father the promise he had made to Dolores a few moments before.

Then, agitated by the news he had heard, he left the Marquis and rejoined Dolores. He wished to see her alone once more before his departure. 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 he observed that she had exquisitely formed hands of marvellous whiteness for the first time he shrank from the light of the dark eyes uplifted to his. He wished that Dolores knew the secret of her birth, and that she could hear him once again say:

"I love you!"

It was a new emotion to the pure and artless heart of an eighteen-year old lad; and, yielding to its influence, Philip threw his arms about Dolores, 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 she made no reply, but throwing her arms around his neck she kissed him again and again, thus unconsciously arousing a new pa.s.sion in what had been the soul of a child only a few moments before, but what had suddenly become the soul of a man.

But the hour of departure had come. The char-a-banc drawn by two strong horses was in waiting at the base of the hill. They were to walk down the hill with Philip and bid him farewell there. Philip gave his arm to his mother; Dolores walked between Coursegol and the Marquis, with an expression of profound sorrow upon her features.

An air of sadness and gloom pervaded everything. It was the close of autumn; the air was full of withered leaves; they rustled beneath the tread 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 if with one accord to Coursegol, placed Philip under his protection.

Again they embraced their beloved; again they wept; then one more embrace, one last kiss, and he was gone. The carriage that bore him away was hidden from their sight by clouds of dust, and the loving hearts left behind sadly wondered if this cruel parting was not, after all, a dream.