THE CHATEAU DE CHAMONDRIN.
The man who appeared at the door was young, and, in spite of his swarthy
complexion and formidable moustache, his features and the expression of
his eyes indicated frankness and benevolence. His garb was that of a
soldier rather than a servant, but the arms of the Marquis de
Chamondrin, the owner of the château, were embroidered in silver upon
it. On seeing the unconscious Tiepoletta and the child so quietly
sleeping beside her, he could not repress a cry of astonishment and
dismay.
"What is it, Coursegol?" inquired a gentleman who had followed him.
"Look, sir," replied Coursegol, pointing to Tiepoletta.
"Is she dead?" exclaimed the Marquis, springing forward; then, deeply
impressed by the beauty of the unconscious girl, he knelt beside her and
placed his hand upon her heart. It still throbbed, but so feebly that he
could scarcely count its pulsations. The Marquis rose.
"She lives," said he, "but I do not know that we shall save her. Quick,
Coursegol, have her and her child brought in and apply restoratives."
"Oh, the child is doing very well," replied the servitor. "All it needs
is a little milk; for to-day, one of our goats must be its nurse."
As he spoke Coursegol summoned a servant to whom he confided the infant;
then, taking the mother in his strong arms, he carried her up-stairs and
placed her on a bed.
Coursegol was thirty years of age. Born in the château, where his father
and his grandfather before him had served the Marquis de Chamondrin, he
had shared the childish sports of the lad who afterwards became his
master. He absolutely worshipped the Marquis, regarding him with a
veritable idolatry that was compounded of respect and of love. Outside
of the château and its occupants, there was nothing that could interest
or attract this honest fellow. His heart, his intelligence and his life
were consecrated to his master's service. In the neighboring villages he
so lauded the name of Chamondrin that no one dared to let fall in his
presence any word that did not redound to the glory and honor of
Coursegol's idolized master. He had no particular office at the château,
but he superintended everything, assuming the duties of lodge-keeper,
gardener, major-domo and not unfrequently those of cook. It was he who
instructed the son of the Marquis in the arts of horsemanship and of
fencing, for he had served two years in His Majesty's cavalry and
thoroughly understood these accomplishments. He was also an adept in the
manufacture of whistles from willow twigs, in the training of dogs,
falcons and ferrets, in snaring birds, in the capture of butterflies and
in skipping stones.
He had already begun to teach Philip--his master's son, a bright boy of
five--all these accomplishments. He had some knowledge of medicine also;
and, as he had spent much of his life in the fields, he had become
acquainted with the names and properties of many plants and herbs; and
this knowledge had often been called into requisition for the benefit of
many of the people as well as the animals of the neighborhood. Never had
his skill been needed more than now, for poor Tiepoletta had not
recovered consciousness, and her rigidity and the ghastly pallor which
had overspread her features seemed to indicate that she had already been
struck with death.
Anxious to resuscitate her, Coursegol set energetically to work, but not
without emotion. It was the first time he had ever exercised his skill
on a woman, and this pure and lovely face had made a deep impression on
his heart. He would willingly have given a generous share of his own
blood to hear Tiepoletta speak, to see her smile upon him.
"Look, sir," said he, "how beautiful she is! She certainly cannot be
twenty years old. Her skin is as fine as satin, and what hair! Could
anything be more lovely?"
While he spoke, Coursegol was endeavoring to unclose the teeth of the
gypsy in order to introduce a few drops of warm, sweetened wine through
her pallid lips. Then he rubbed the feet of the unfortunate woman
vigorously with hot flannels.
"They are sore and swollen!" he added. "She must have come a long
distance!"
"Is she recovering?" asked the Marquis, who stood by, watching
Coursegol's efforts.
"I do not know; but see, sir, it seemed to me that she moved."
The Marquis came nearer. As he did so Tiepoletta opened her eyes. She
looked anxiously about her, then faintly murmured a few words in a
strange tongue.
"She speaks," said the Marquis, "but what does she say? She seems
frightened and distressed."
"She wishes to see her child," exclaimed Coursegol, departing on the
run.
During his absence Tiepoletta regained her senses sufficiently to
recollect what had happened; but she was so weak that she could scarcely
speak. Still, when Coursegol appeared with the child in his arms, she
smiled and extended her hands.
"Kiss her, but do not take her," said the Marquis. "You are not strong
enough for that yet."
Tiepoletta understood and obeyed. Then she said gently in bad French:
"My Dolores."
"Dolores! That is a pretty name!" remarked Coursegol, pleased to hear
the poor woman speak.
"You will keep her, will you not?" said Tiepoletta, entreatingly. "You
will not give her to those who will maltreat her? Make an honest girl of
her. Teach her not to scorn the poor gypsies. Tell her that her father
and her mother belonged to that despised race."
She uttered these phrases slowly, speaking, not without difficulty,
French words that would clearly express her meaning.
"Have no fears," replied Coursegol. "The child shall want for nothing.
Rest in peace."
"Yes," she repeated, "rest in death."
"She talks of dying!" exclaimed the Marquis. The words had hardly left
his lips when the woman rose and extended her arms. Her features
contracted; her large eyes seemed to start from her head; she placed her
hand upon her heart, uttered a shrill cry and fell back upon the bed. It
was the work of an instant. Coursegol and the Marquis both sprang
forward, lifted her, and endeavored to restore her, but in vain. The
unfortunate Tiepoletta was dead. Her heart had broken like a fragile
vase, shattered by the successive misfortunes she had undergone. A great
tear fell from the eyes of Coursegol.
"Poor woman!" said he.
"What shall we do with the child?" inquired the Marquis. "I would like
to keep her and rear her. Heaven has sent her here; but who will act as
a mother to the poor little waif? The condition of the Marquise renders
it impossible for her to do so."
As he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion. It was not only because he
was touched by the sight before him, but because the words he had
uttered reminded him of his own misfortunes.
"If Monsieur le Marquis would but grant my request," said Coursegol,
timidly.
"What is your request?"
"I have no wife, no child. The little apartment that I occupy is very
gloomy when M. Philip is not with me. If you will consent to it, Dolores
shall be my daughter."
"Your daughter, but who would take care of her?"
"Oh! I will attend to that. I know some very worthy people in Remoulins.
The woman has a young child. She will have milk enough for this little
thing too. I will entrust the child to her for a time."
"Very well; I have no objection, Coursegol," replied the Marquis. "Take
the child, if you wish. As for the mother, may her soul rest in peace!
She probably had no faith in religion; but I am sure she was guilty of
no sin. I shall request the curé of Remoulins to allow her body to
repose in his cemetery. I will now inform the authorities of what has
occurred."
With these words, the Marquis left the room; and Coursegol, after
covering the face of the dead with reverent hands, knelt and prayed for
her as well as for the orphan who had been confided to his care.
The Château de Chamondrin was scarcely a century old. Erected on the
site of a feudal castle which had been demolished because it threatened
to fall into ruins, the present structure was destitute of the massive
towers, moats and drawbridges that characterize the ancient castle. The
building was square and enclosed an immense court; it was only two
stories high, and the upper story was surrounded by a veranda. Such had
been the very simple plan executed by the architect; and the result had
been an unpretentious abode, but one to which the color of the bricks
used in its construction, the delicate columns that supported the
windows and doors and the graceful pavilions placed at each of the four
corners lent an air of extreme elegance.
The building occupied the entire plateau on the brow of the hill and
commanded a superb view of the Garden; while the park and farm-lands,
vineyards and forests pertaining to the château covered the hill itself.
This property was now the only possession of the house of Chamondrin,
one of the oldest in Languedoc and Provence. It was not always thus.
There had been a time when "As rich as a Chamondrin" was a proverb in
the region thereabout. In those days this illustrious family had
countless vassals and unbounded wealth, and enjoyed an income that
enabled it for many successive generations to play a conspicuous rôle,
first at the Court of Provence and later at the Court of France. The
grandfather and father of the present Marquis lived to see the end of
this proverbial opulence. They both led careers of extravagance and
dissipation, taking part in all the gayeties and follies of the court.
The grandfather was one of the favorite companions of Philippe
d'Orleans; and wine, cards and women killed him when he should have been
still in the prime of life.
His son did not learn wisdom from his father's example. He in his turn
became the friend of the Regent, and to repair his shattered fortunes he
engaged, at the advice of Lau, in those disastrous financial enterprises
that paved the way for the Revolution. He failed completely in his
ventures, left Paris insolvent, and took refuge in the Château de
Chamondrin, where he hoped to escape the wrath of his creditors. But
they complained to the king, and brought such influence to bear upon him
that Louis XV., the Well-beloved, who had just ascended the throne,
informed the Marquis de Chamondrin that he would allow him three months
in which to choose between the payment of his debts and incarceration in
the Bastile. The Marquis did not hesitate long. He sold all his property
with the exception of this château and paid his debts. But when this
plebeian duty was accomplished, it left him in receipt of an extremely
modest income. Poverty had fallen upon this house at the very time that
the favor of the king was withdrawn from it, and this two-fold
misfortune was quickly followed by the birth of a son and the loss of
his wife.
These afflictions completely prostrated this man who was wholly
unprepared to meet them. He shut himself up in his château, and there,
far from the pleasures for which he pined, far from the friends who had
forgotten him, cursing God and man for his misfortunes, he lapsed into a
misanthropy that rendered him nervous and eccentric almost to madness.
He lived twenty years in this way, apparently taking no pleasure or
interest in his son, whose youth was gloomy and whose education was
entrusted entirely to the curé of a neighboring village. He died in
1765, in the middle of the eighteenth century, the first half of which
had proved so fatal to the prosperity of his house.
His son, Hector--the same who had sheltered Tiepoletta--found himself,
when he became of age, the owner of a name famous in the courts of
Europe and upon many a field of battle, of an income of five thousand
pounds and of the Château de Chamondrin. He was a gentle, serious young
man of very simple tastes. He quickly resigned himself to the
situation. After a close examination of the condition of affairs, he
resolved to devote his life and all his efforts to the restoration of
the glory of his name. He married, two years after the death of his
father, the daughter of an impoverished Provençal nobleman, a lady whose
domestic virtues seemed likely to aid him in the execution of his plans.
He brought his wife home the day after their marriage and then said to
her:
"My dear Edmée, you have entered a family which for the past forty years
has been subjected to reverses which can only be repaired by great
self-denial on our part. We cannot hope to enjoy the fruits of our
labors ourselves, but our children, should God grant us any, may enjoy
them, and it is for their sakes that we must endeavor to restore the
house of Chamondrin to its former splendor and opulence; and since you
have consented to share my humble lot I hope that you will unite your
efforts with mine to lay aside each year a sum that will enable our
oldest son, when he arrives at the age of manhood, to make a respectable
appearance at court where he will perhaps be fortunate enough to win the
king's favor, our only hope."
"You will ever find me ready to second you in your efforts," replied the
young wife.
A son and a daughter were born to them during the two years that
followed. Nor were these their only blessings. The crops were abundant
and their savings considerable. The life of the young couple was serene
and happy. The Marquis was hopeful; the Marquise, a charming and most
lovable creature, shared his hopes. Undoubtedly their life in this
isolated château was often lonely and monotonous. The winters were very
long; but the Marquis read a great deal, hunted and superintended his
farms with the diligence of a peasant. The Marquise, too, was obliged to
have a finger in the pie, to use a common expression. She directed the
affairs of her household with as much care and economy as the plainest
bourgeoise and seemed to live only to second the efforts of her husband.
If resignation is the chief element of happiness, they were happy at the
Château de Chamondrin.
Four years passed in this way. Little Philip was growing finely; he had
passed safely through the perils of teething and was beginning to talk.
"We will make a fine gentleman of him," said the Marquis. "He will
create a sensation at court; the king will give him command of a
regiment, and he will marry some rich heiress. As for this young lady,"
he added, caressing his daughter who was named Martha, "if we cannot
give her a dowry we will obtain an appointment as lady abbess for her."
The Marquise encouraged her dear Hector in these projects with her
sweetest smile; but a terrible accident, followed by a catastrophe no
less horrible, destroyed these delightful dreams and brought desolation
to this happy home.
Towards the close of the year 1769, Martha, the youngest child, began to
lose her fine color and faded so rapidly that her parents became
alarmed. They passed long nights at the bedside of the little sufferer,
who seemed to be a victim of a sort of nervous debility or exhaustion.
One night the Marquise volunteered to watch while her husband slept,
and, in administering some medicine to her child, mistook the vial and
poisoned her. Martha died and it was impossible to conceal the cause of
her death from the grief-stricken mother. Her despair was even more
poignant than that of her husband for with hers was mingled a frightful
remorse which all the tenderness of the Marquis could not assuage. This
despair caused an attack of fever from which she recovered, but which
left her in a still more pitiable condition. A profound calm had
succeeded the paroxysms of fever; and her sorrow no longer betrayed
itself in sobs and lamentations, but only in silent tears and
heart-breaking sighs. These alarming symptoms soon revealed the truth:
reason had fled. For hours at a time poor Edmée rocked to and fro, with
a bundle of rags clasped tightly to her breast, crooning over it the
same lullaby she had been wont to sing over her sleeping child.
Physicians summoned from Avignon, Nîmes and Montpellier tried in vain to
overcome this deep despondency, which was far more dangerous than
frenzy. Their skill was powerless; they could not give the Marquis even
the slightest ray of hope. It was not long before the Marquise became
frightfully pale and emaciated, while her mind was more than ever under
the control of the monomania which saw her daughter in all the objects
that surrounded her. She took, by turns, flowers, articles of clothing
and of furniture, lavishing every mark of affection upon them and
calling them by the most endearing names until their insensibility
dispelled the illusion and she cast them aside with loathing to seek
elsewhere the child for which she mourned.
These afflictions, the rapidity with which they had followed one another
and their magnitude impaired the health of the Marquis. He fell ill in
his turn, and for more than a month Coursegol thought the shadow of
death was hovering over his master. But the Marquis was young and
strong; and the thought that if he succumbed his son would be left an
orphan produced a salutary reaction. He was soon on his feet again, and,
though he was always sad, he accepted his misfortunes bravely and
resolved to live for his son's sake.
These events occurred about a year before Tiepoletta dragged herself to
the door of the château to die in Coursegol's arms, confiding her
daughter to his care.
After he had prayed for the departed, Coursegol rose, took up little
Dolores and went out into the court-yard, calling:
"Master Philip! Master Philip!"
The little fellow, who was playing in charge of one of the
servant-maids, came running to answer the summons. He was now four years
old. His pretty and rather delicate face was surrounded by a profusion
of brown curls, and his large eyes revealed an intelligence and
thoughtfulness unusual in a child of his age. He talked well enough to
make himself clearly understood, and understood all that was said to him
in reply.
"See this pretty baby!" said Coursegol, displaying Dolores.
"A doll!" exclaimed Philip, clapping his hands in rapture.
"Yes, in flesh and blood," replied Coursegol; "a doll that cries, that
will grow and talk to you and amuse you."
"When?" demanded Philip.
"When she grows up."
"Then make her grow up immediately," ordered the little autocrat.
Then, seizing Coursegol's hand, he dragged him to the kitchen, for he
wished to show every one his newfound treasure without delay. A crowd of
servants soon gathered around Philip and Coursegol. The latter was
explaining how the infant had come into his possession, and every one
was marvelling at the strangeness of the adventure, when the Marquise
suddenly appeared. The poor creature was always closely followed by a
woman who was ordered never to lose sight of her mistress. She wandered
about the château, never noisy or troublesome, but recognizing no one,
not even her husband or her own child. She now advanced towards the
little group which respectfully divided to make way for her. One could
scarcely imagine a more pitiable sight than that presented by this
beautiful young woman, whose haggard eyes, unbound hair and disordered
garments revealed her insanity in spite of her attendant's efforts to
keep her neatly dressed. At that moment, she was holding a piece of wood
tightly to her bosom, and was singing softly as she advanced with
measured steps as if trying to lull this supposed child to sleep.
Suddenly she paused, threw the fragment of wood far from her and burst
into tears.
All the spectators of this scene stood motionless, overcome with pity,
though they witnessed a similar spectacle each day and many times a day.
Little Philip in his terror clung closely to Coursegol. The Marquise
passed, looked at him, and, shaking her head, murmured:
"That is not what I am looking for!" Suddenly she stopped as if riveted
to the spot. Her eyes had fallen upon the sleeping Dolores cradled in
Coursegol's arms. There was such an intentness in her gaze, she was
regarding the child with so much persistence, that a strange thought
flashed through the mind of the faithful servant.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, "might it be possible? Retire," he said,
hastily, addressing those around him; "take Master Philip away and call
the Marquis."
They obeyed: all the servants vanished; the Marquise alone remained.
Then Coursegol deposited the child upon a wide bench that stood against
the wall, and, departing in his turn, ran to conceal himself behind a
window where he could see his mistress without being seen. It was there
the Marquis found him.
"Ah! sir," exclaimed Coursegol on beholding his master, "I believe
madame is saved. Heaven has inspired me. But what if I am mistaken?" he
added, anxiously. "What if she should kill the poor little thing?"
"What do you say? What have you done? Run and take the child from her.
Have we not had misfortunes enough already? Go, I tell you!"
"It is too late!" replied Coursegol, terribly excited. "Look!"
After devouring Dolores with her eyes for several moments, the Marquise
gently approached her with outstretched arms, her face strangely altered
by the emotion that filled her heart. Curiosity, surprise and fear were
imprinted upon her features. She leaned over the child and scrutinized
it anew; then, with an eager movement, seized it, pressed it to her
bosom and started as if to run away with it. But when she had gone
perhaps twenty paces, she paused and looked around as if to assure
herself that no one was following her. The Marquis and Coursegol were
standing at the half-open window, not daring to breathe, so great was
their anxiety. Suddenly they saw the Marquise press little Dolores still
closer to her heart, and imprint frenzied kisses upon her brow, while
for the first time for many a long month beneficent tears flowed from
her eyes. At the same time she exclaimed in a clear, strong voice:
"Hector, my daughter! I have found my daughter!"
The agitated Marquis sprang towards her. She saw him approaching and
advanced to meet him, laughing and crying and displaying the child;
then, overcome by the violence of her emotion, she fell in his extended
arms, devoid of consciousness.
"She is saved!"' said Coursegol, who had followed his master.
"Ah, Coursegol, can it be true?" demanded the Marquis, who could
scarcely believe his own eyes.
"Did she not recognize you? Did she not speak to you? Her madness
disappeared as soon as her maternal instincts were re-awakened."
They carried the Marquise to her chamber and laid her upon the bed. In
obedience to Coursegol's directions a cradle was placed in her room and
the infant deposited in it; then the devoted servant mounted a horse and
started for Nîmes in quest of a physician.
When he returned at the end of three hours, accompanied by the doctor,
the Marquise had regained consciousness. They had shown her the sleeping
Dolores and, reassured by the sight of the child, she had fallen asleep.
Occasionally she roused a little and those around her heard her murmur:
"My daughter! my daughter!"
Then, raising herself upon her elbow, she watched the babe in silent
ecstasy until overcome with exhaustion she again closed her eyes in
slumber.
"I can be of no service here," said the physician. "Her reason has
returned unquestionably; and her weakness will be overcome by good care
and absolute quiet."
It was in this way that the Marquise was restored to her right mind.
From that day her hold upon life slowly but surely strengthened; she
recognized her husband and her son, and it was not long before they
could without danger reveal the circumstances attendant upon Dolores'
arrival at the château. Three months later her recovery was complete.
One morning the Marquis sent for Coursegol.
"I gave you Dolores," said he, abruptly; "will you not return her to me?
Henceforth she shall be my daughter."
"She is my daughter as well," replied Coursegol, "but you may take her,
sir. Though I relinquish her to you, I do not lose her since I shall
live near her, and we can both love her."
The Marquis de Chamondrin offered his hand to Coursegol, thus consenting
to the compact that gave Dolores two protectors; and so the daughter of
the gypsy, though she had lost her parents, was not an orphan.