THE CHILDHOOD OF DOLORES.
Dolores passed a happy childhood in the Château de Chamondrin, where she
was loved, petted and caressed as if she had been the little Martha
whose loss had deprived the Marquise of reason for many dreary months.
Nothing was left undone to render the illusion complete in the eyes of
the members of the household and in her own. The first companion of her
childish play was Philip, who called her sister; and she pillowed her
fair head on the bosom of the Marquise without a shadow of fear and
fondly called her mother. The Marquise loved her as devotedly as she had
loved her own daughter; Coursegol regarded her with an affection whose
fervor was mingled with the deference he owed to the children of his
master. As for the servants, they treated Philip and Dolores with equal
respect; and there were no relatives or friends of the family who did
not take pleasure in exhibiting their fondness for the little creature
whose 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 loving
her. She promised to resemble her mother. She had the same luxuriant
golden hair, the same large, dark eyes, the same energy, the same
sweetness of disposition and of voice. The Marquis and Coursegol, who
had seen the gypsy, and who still remembered her, were often struck by
the strong resemblance that seemed to make Tiepoletta live again in
Dolores. The child also possessed the same tender heart, vivid
imagination and honorable instincts. Her mind absorbed with marvellous
facility the instruction which she received from the Marquis and which
she shared with his son. She had a wonderful memory, and what she
learned seemed to be indelibly imprinted upon her mind. She was loving
in disposition, docile and sweet-tempered, and had already won the love
of all who came in contact with her.
Philip actually worshipped his little sister. He was five years her
senior, a large, noisy, almost coarse boy, rather vain of his birth and
of the authority which enabled him to lord it over the little peasants
who sometimes played with him. But these faults, which were destined to
be greatly modified by time, concealed a thoroughly good heart and
disappeared entirely when he was with Dolores.
It was amusing to see the tenderness and care with which he surrounded
her. If they were walking together in the park, he removed all the
stones which might hurt her tiny feet or cause her to stumble. If a
dainty morsel fell to his share at the table, he transferred it from his
plate to that of Dolores. If they dressed her in any new garment, he was
never weary of admiring her, of telling her how beautiful she was, and
of fondling her luxuriant golden curls. If it was necessary to punish
Philip, they had only to deprive him of the society of Dolores. But
unfortunately this punishment, the most severe that could be inflicted
upon him, grieved his sister as much as it did him, so it was used
rarely and only in grave cases. One of the favorite amusements of the
two children was to walk with Coursegol, and this was not a delight to
them alone, for that faithful fellow was never so happy as when roving
about the fields with them.
Often, during those lovely spring mornings that are so charming in the
south, they descended the hill and strolled along the banks of the
Garden. The delicately-tinted willows that grew on the banks drooped
over the stream, caressing it with their flexible branches. Above the
willows, fig trees, olives and vineyards covered the base of the hill
with foliage of a darker hue, which in turn contrasted with the still
deeper green of the cypress trees and pines that grew upon the rocky
sides of the cliff. This luxuriant vegetation, of tints as varied as
those of an artist's palette, mirrored itself in the clear waters below
together with the arches of the massive Pont du Gard, whose bold yet
graceful 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 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 pass 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 reassure 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 château.
Thirteen serene and happy years passed 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 château, he had received an assurance 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 nobility, and utterly insensible to
the king's well-meant efforts to institute a much-needed reform.
But the birth of the Dauphin, which occurred that same year, dissipated
M. de Chamondrin's doubts. He was completely reassured 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 château. 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 rôle, 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 Marseilles 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:
"'God, 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 resumé 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 passing 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 passion 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.
Dolores, in spite of her earnest efforts to fill the void that had been
made in her life, spent a month in tears. A deep despair seemed to have
taken possession of her heart. In vain her adopted parents endeavored to
divert 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 be
consoled and her silent sorrow revealed a soul peculiarly sensitive to
suffering.
It was Philip who persuaded her to conquer this despondency; for he,
even at a distance, exerted a much more powerful influence over her
than either the Marquis or his wife. His first letter, which arrived
about a month after his departure, was more potent in its effects than
all the efforts of her adopted parents. It was to Dolores that Philip
had written. He described his journey to Paris; the cordial welcome he
had received from the Duke de Penthieore and the Princess de Lamballe,
to whom he had been presented by the Chevalier de Florian; the
condescension this Princess had displayed in taking him to Versailles,
and in commending him to the kindly notice of Marie Antoinette and Louis
XVI.; the promises made by their majesties, and lastly the promptitude
with which the Duke, as a proof of his interest, had attached him to his
own 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; he
enjoyed the friendship of the Chevalier de Florian and would soon
accompany the Duke de Penthieore to Brittany. Moreover, these kind
friends were only waiting until he should attain the age of twenty to
request the king to give him command of a company in one of his
regiments.
This good news filled the heart of the Marquis with joy. He immediately
wrote to the Duke, thanking him for his kindness, and that gentleman in
his reply, manifested such an earnest desire to insure Philip's success
that the Marquis and his wife were consoled for their son's absence by
the 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's
success as the expressions of affection with which his letter was
filled. All his happiness and all his good fortune were to be shared
with her. It was for her sake he desired fame, in order that he might
make her proud and happy. Thus Philip expressed the still confused
sentiments that filled his young heart, though he did not betray the
secret that his father had confided to him.
This letter seemed to restore to Dolores the natural light-heartedness
of youth. She no longer lamented her brother's absence, but spent most
of her time in writing to him, and in perusing and re-perusing his
letters. The months passed, but brought nothing to disturb the
tranquillity of this monotonous existence. At the end of two years
Philip announced that he had been appointed to the command of a company
of dragoons. This appointment, which he owed entirely to the kindness of
the Princess de Lamballe and the Duke de Penthieore, was only the first
step. The queen had promised not to forget him and to prove her interest
in some conclusive manner. That he might not be obliged to leave his
young master, Coursegol asked and obtained permission to enlist in the
same regiment.
Two more years passed.
It would be a difficult task to describe Dolores as she appeared in
those days. The cleverest pen would be powerless to give an adequate
conception of her charms. Her simple country life had made her as strong
and vigorous as the sturdy young trees that adorned the landscape ever
beneath her eyes. In health and strength she was a true daughter of the
Bohemians, a race whose vigor has never been impaired by the luxuries
and restraints of civilization. She had not the olive complexion and
fiery temper of her father, but she had inherited from her mother that
delicate beauty and that refinement of manner which made it almost
impossible for one to believe that Tiepoletta was the daughter of
Corcovita.
Dolores was as energetic as her father and as lovely as her mother. Her
brilliant dark eyes betrayed an ardent temperament and unusual power of
will. She was no fragile creature, but a healthy, spirited, beautiful
young girl, the robust scion of a hardy and fruitful tree. Had she been
reared among the gypsies, she might have been coarsely handsome; but
education had softened her charms while it developed her intellect, and
though but seventeen she was already one of those dazzling beauties who
defy description and who eclipse all rivals whenever they appear. The
soul was worthy of the casket that enshrined it; and the reader who
follows this narrative to its close cannot fail to acknowledge the
inherent nobility of this young girl, who was destined to play a rôle as
heroic as it was humble in the great drama of the Revolution, and whose
devotion, purity, unselfishness and indomitable courage elevated her
high above the plane of poor, erring humanity.
Had it not been for Philip's prolonged absence, Dolores would have been
perfectly happy at this period of her life. Separated from their son,
the Marquis and his wife seemed to regard her with redoubled
tenderness. Her wishes were their law. To amuse her, they took her to
Nîmes, to Montpellier and to Avignon; and she was everywhere welcomed as
the daughter of the great house of Chamondrin, whose glory had been
veiled in obscurity for a quarter of a century, only to emerge again
more radiant than ever. Dolores was really happy. She was looking
forward to a speedy meeting with her beloved Philip; and he shared this
hope, for had he not written in a recent letter: "I expect to see you
all soon and to spend several weeks at Chamondrin, as free from care and
as happy as in days gone by?" In a still later letter Philip said: "I am
eager to start for home, but sometimes the journey seems to be attended
by many difficulties. Should it prove an impossibility, I shall expect
to see you all in Paris."
So either in Chamondrin, or in Paris, Dolores would soon embrace her
brother. This thought intoxicated her with happiness, and her impatience
led her to interrogate the Marquis.
"Why does Philip speak of his return as impossible?" she asked again and
again. "What does he fear?"
"There may be circumstances that will detain him at his post near the
king," replied the Marquis, sadly, but evasively.
In the letters which he, himself, received from his son, the latter
spoke freely of the danger that menaced the throne. There was, indeed,
abundant cause of alarm to all thoughtful and observant minds, and
especially to men who were living like the Marquis in the heart of the
provinces, and who were consequently able to judge understandingly of
the imminence of the peril. Of course, no person could then foresee the
catastrophes which were to succeed one another so rapidly for several
years; but a very general and undeniable discontent prevailed throughout
the entire kingdom, a discontent that could not fail to engender
misfortunes 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 turn,
without being able to restore the country to peace and prosperity. Their
efforts proving powerless from divers causes they had been dismissed in
disgrace; some through the intrigues of the court; some by reason of
their own incapacity. Brienne was now in office; but he was no more
fortunate than his predecessors. Instead of subsiding, the discord was
continually on the increase.
The convention of leading men, upon which Calonne had based such
flattering hopes, adjourned without arriving at any satisfactory result.
The treasury was empty; and, as the payment of government obligations
was consequently suspended, the murmurs of the people became long and
loud. Parliament refused to notice the royal edicts, and the army showed
open hostility to the court. In the provinces, poverty everywhere
prevailed; and the dissatisfaction was steadily increasing.
The condition of affairs in Southern France was extremely ominous. At
Nîmes, the religious factions, which were as bitterly at variance as
they had been at the time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes had
arrayed themselves in open warfare one against the other. Avignon, eager
to shake off the pontifical yoke and annex itself to France, was the
scene of daily outbreaks. As the Château de Chamondrin was situated
between these two cities, its inmates could not fail to be aware of
these dissensions.
Conventions were held in most of the large towns, and the situation of
the country was discussed with much heat and bitterness. The nobility
and clergy, who trembled for their threatened privileges, and the
people, who had suffered so long and so uncomplainingly, took part in
these discussions; and their utterances betrayed great intolerance on
the one side and excessive irritation on the other. The discontent had
reached a class which, up to that date, had been allowed no voice in the
management of affairs; but now, the peasants, oppressed by taxes as
exorbitant as they were unjust, began to cast angry and envious glances
at the nobility. The hovel was menacing the castle; and France seemed to
be on the watch for some great event.
In the midst of this general perturbation, the king, anxious and
undecided, was running from one adviser to another, listening to all
kinds of counsel, consenting to all sorts of intrigues and making a
thousand resolutions without possessing the requisite firmness to carry
any good one into execution.
The Marquis de Chamondrin was a witness to some of these facts. The
letters of his son revealed others. He was extremely anxious in regard
to the future, and more than once Dolores and his wife saw his brow
overcast and his eyes gloomy.
A letter received from Philip early in May, 1788, increased his
disquietude. It was written on the day following the arrest of
Esprémenil. Philip had witnessed the disturbance; had seen the people
applaud the officers of the municipal government, and insult the
representatives of royal authority. He described the scene in his letter
to his father. The Marquis, at the solicitation of Dolores, read her
Philip's letter and made her the confidante of his fears. She understood
now why Philip's return had been postponed. After this, she took a deep
interest in the progress of events not so much on account of their
gravity, which she did not comprehend as clearly as her adopted parents,
but because Philip was a witness of them, and because his return
depended upon a peaceful solution of the difficulty. She could not
foresee that an event, as sorrowful as it was unexpected, would soon
recall him to Chamondrin.