PERTAINING TO LOVE MATTERS.
A fortnight later, Philip, who was stationed at Versailles with his
command, received the following letter from Dolores:
"It is my sad duty, my dear Philip, to inform you of the
irreparable misfortune which has just befallen us. Summon all your
fortitude, my dear brother. Your mother died yesterday. The blow
was so sudden, the progress of the malady so rapid, that we could
not warn you in time to give you the supreme consolation of
embracing for the last time her whom we mourn, and who departed
with the name of her son upon her lips.
"Only four days ago she was in our midst, full of life, of strength
and of hope. She was talking of your speedy return, and we rejoiced
with her. One evening she returned from her accustomed walk a
trifle feverish and complaining of the cold. It was a slight
indisposition which was, unfortunately, destined to become an
alarming illness by the following day. All our efforts to check the
disease were unavailing; and we could only weep and bow in
submission to the hand that had smitten us.
"Weep then, my dear Philip, but do not rebel against the will of
God. Be resigned. You will have strength, if you will but remember
the immortal life in which we shall be united forever. It is this
blessed hope that has given me strength to overcome my own sorrow,
to write to you, and to bestow upon your father the consolation of
which he stands so sorely in need. Still, I shall be unable to
assuage his grief if his son does not come to my assistance. You
must lose no time, Philip. The Marquis needs you. In his terrible
affliction, he calls for you. Do not delay.
"Now to you, whom I called my brother only yesterday, I owe an
avowal. Perhaps you have already learned my secret. I know the
truth in regard to my birth. Before her death, the Marquise told me
the details of that strange adventure which threw me, an orphan and
a beggar, upon the mercy of your parents. Just as she breathed her
last sigh, your father threw himself in my arms, weeping and
moaning. He called me by the tenderest names, as if wishing to find
solace for his grief in the caresses of his child. I fell at his
feet.
"'I know all, sir,' I cried.
"'What! She has told you!' he exclaimed. 'Ah, well! Would you
refuse me your affection at a moment like this?'
"'Never!' I cried, clasping my arms about his neck.
"'I shall never leave him, Philip. I will do my best to make his
old age happy and serene, and since I continue to be his daughter,
it is for you to decide whether or not I shall still be your
sister.
"DOLORES."
A few hours after the receipt of this letter, which carried desolation
to his heart, Philip, accompanied by Coursegol, left Versailles for
Chamondrin. In spite of the ever increasing gravity of the political
situation it had not been difficult for him to obtain leave of absence
for an indefinite time on account of the bereavement that summoned him
to his father's side and might detain him there. He made the journey in
a post-chaise, stopping only to change horses.
Dolores was little more than a child when they parted and they had been
separated more than four years, but absence had not diminished the love
that was first revealed to him on the day he left the paternal roof, and
the thought of meeting her again made his pulses quicken their
throbbing. Time and change of scene had proved powerless against the
deep love and devotion that filled his heart, and he was more than ever
determined to wed the companion of his youth; and now that she was no
longer ignorant of the truth concerning her birth, he could press his
suit as a lover. As the decisive moment approached, the moment when
Dolores' answer would make or mar the happiness of his life, he
experienced a profound emotion which was increased by the host of
memories that crowd in upon a man when he returns to his childhood's
home after a long absence to find some one of those he loved departed
never to return.
Philip thought of the mother he would never see again, of his father,
heart-broken and desolate, of Dolores, whose grief he understood. His
sadness increased in proportion as he approached the Pont du Gard. Yet
the road was well-known to him; the trees seemed to smile upon their old
companion as if in greeting, and the sun shone with more than its usual
brightness as if to honor his return. How many times he had journeyed
from Avignon to Chamondrin on such a day as this! Every object along the
roadside awakened some pleasant recollection; but the joy of again
beholding his beloved home and these familiar scenes was clouded by
regret, doubts and uncertainty; and Philip was far from happy. During
their journey, Coursegol had done his best to cheer his young master,
but as they neared Chamondrin he, too, became a victim to the melancholy
he had endeavored to dissipate.
At last the post-chaise rolled noisily under one of the arches of the
Pont du Gard, and a few moments later the horses, panting and covered
with foam after climbing the steep ascent, entered the court-yard of the
château.
The Marquis and Dolores, who were waiting for supper to be served, had
seated themselves on the terrace overlooking the park. The sound of
carriage wheels drew them into the court-yard just as Philip and
Coursegol were alighting. There was a cry of joy, and then the long
separated friends embraced one another. It would be impossible to
describe this meeting and the rapture of this return.
It was Dolores whom Philip saw first. Her wonderful beauty actually
startled him. Four years had transformed the child into an exquisitely
and lovely young girl. Her delicate features, her golden hair, her
lustrous dark eyes, her vermillion lips, her musical yet penetrating
voice, her willowy figure and her beautifully shaped hands aroused
Philip's intense admiration. A pure and noble love had filled his heart
during his absence, and had exerted a powerful and restraining influence
over his actions, his thoughts, his hopes and his language. He had
endowed his idol with beauty in his fancy, but, beautiful as he had
pictured her, he was obliged to confess on beholding her that the
reality surpassed his dreams, and he loved her still more ardently.
The Marquis led his son to the drawing-room. He, too, wished to observe
the changes that time had wrought in Philip. He scrutinized him closely
by the light of the candles, embraced him, and then looked at him again
admiringly. His son was, indeed, the noble heir of an illustrious race.
They talked of the past and of the dead. They wept, but these were not
the same bitter tears the Marquis had shed after his bereavement. The
joy of seeing his son consoled him in a measure, and death seemed to him
less cruel because, when he was surrounded by his children, his faith
and his hope gathered new strength.
The first evening flew by on wings. Philip, to divert his father,
described the stirring events and the countless intrigues of which the
court had been the theatre; and together they talked of the hopes and
the fears of the country. Philip spoke in the most enthusiastic terms of
the kind-hearted Duke de Penthieore who had aided him so much in life,
of the Chevalier de Florian, and of the charming Princess de Lamballe
who had become the favorite friend of the queen. Dolores did not lose a
word of the conversation, and gave her love and homage unquestioningly
to those Philip praised even though they were strangers to her. She
admired the soundness of judgment her adopted brother displayed in his
estimate of people and of things, and the eloquence with which he
expressed his opinions.
Coursegol was present. Often by a word he completed or rectified the
statements of his young master, and Dolores loved him for the devotion
testified by his every word. As for him, notwithstanding the familiarity
which had formerly characterized his daily relations with the girl, he
felt rather intimidated by her presence, though his affection for her
was undiminished.
About eleven o'clock the Marquis rose and, addressing his son, said:
"Do you not feel the need of rest?"
"I am so happy to see you all again that I am not sensible of the
slightest fatigue," replied Philip, "and I have so many things to tell
and to ask Dolores that I am not at all sleepy."
"Ah, well, my dear children, talk at your ease. As for me, I will
retire."
And the Marquis, after tenderly embracing them, quitted the room,
followed by Coursegol. Philip and Dolores were left alone together.
There was a long silence. Seated beside an open window, Dolores, to
conceal her embarrassment, fixed her eyes upon the park and the fields
that lay quiet and peaceful in the bright moonlight of the clear and
balmy summer evening. Philip, even more agitated, paced nervously to and
fro, seeking an opportunity to utter the avowal that was eager to leave
his lips. At last, he summoned the necessary courage, and, seating
himself opposite Dolores, he said:
"You wrote me a long letter. You asked me to bring you the response.
Here it is."
Dolores looked up and perceived that he was greatly agitated. This
discovery increased her own embarrassment, and she could not find a word
to say in reply. Philip resumed:
"But, first, explain the cause of the coldness betrayed by that letter.
Why did you address me so formally? Why did you not call me your brother
as you had been accustomed to do in the past?"
"How was I to know that you would not regard me as a stranger, as an
intruder?" responded Dolores, gently.
"An intruder! You!" exclaimed Philip, springing up. "I have known the
truth for more than four years and never have I loved you so fondly!
What am I saying? I mean that from the day I first knew the truth I have
loved you with a far greater and entirely different love!"
Dolores dare not reply. How could she confess that she, too, since she
learned she was not his sister, had experienced a similar change of
feeling? Philip continued:
"You asked me if I would consent to still regard you as a sister. My
sister, no! Not, as my sister, but as my wife, if you will but consent!"
"Your wife!" exclaimed Dolores, looking up at him with eyes radiant with
joy.
Then, as if fearing he would read too much there, she hastily covered
them with her trembling hands. The next instant Philip was on his knees
before her, saying, eagerly:
"I have cherished this hope ever since the day that my father made me
acquainted with your history. I told myself that we would never part,
that I should always have by my side the loved one I had so long called
sister, the gentle girl who had restored my mother's reason, who had
cheered her life, consoled her last moments, and comforted my desolate
father in his bereavement! Dolores, do not refuse me; it would break my
heart!"
She could not believe her ears. She listened to Philip's pleading as if
in a dream, and he, alarmed by her silence, added:
"If my mother were here, she would entreat you to make me happy."
Suddenly Dolores remembered the projects which had been confided to her
by the Marquis, who had often made her his confidante--those projects in
which Philip's marriage with a rich heiress of illustrious birth played
such an important part. And yet, in the presence of the profound love
she had inspired and which she shared, she had not courage to make
Philip wretched by an immediate refusal, or to renounce the hope that
had just been aroused in her heart.
"In pity, say no more!" she exclaimed, hastily. "We are mad!"
"Why is it madness to love you?" demanded Philip.
"Listen," she replied. "I cannot answer you now. Wait a little--I must
have time to think--to consult my conscience and my heart. You also must
have time for reflection."
"I have reflected for four years."
"But I have never before thought of the new life you are offering me."
"Do you not love me?"
"As a sister loves a brother, yes; but whether the love I bear you is of
a different character I do not yet know. Go now, my dear Philip," she
added, endeavoring by calming herself to calm him; "give me time to
become accustomed to the new ideas you have awakened in my mind. They
will develop there, and then you shall know my answer. Until that time
comes, I entreat you to have pity on my weakness, respect my silence and
wait."
Philip instantly rose and said:
"The best proof of love that I can give you is obedience. I will wait,
Dolores, I will wait, but I shall hope."
Having said this he retired, leaving her oppressed by a vague sorrow
that sleep only partially dispelled.
During the days that followed this conversation, Philip, faithful to his
promise, made no allusion to the scene we have just described. For four
years he had buried his secret so deeply in his own heart that even
Coursegol had not suspected it, so he did not find it difficult to
continue this rôle under the eyes of his father; and, though the burden
he imposed upon himself had become much heavier by reason of the
presence of Dolores, his hopes supplied him with strength to endure it.
For his hopes were great! Youthful hearts have no fear. He was not
ignorant of his father's plans; but he told himself that his father
loved him too much to cause him sorrow, and that he would probably be
glad to sacrifice his ambitious dreams if he could ensure the happiness
of both his children. Philip was sure of this. If he invoked the memory
of his mother and the love she bore Dolores, the Marquis could not
refuse his consent. He confidently believed that before six mouths had
elapsed he should be married and enjoying a felicity so perfect as to
leave nothing more to be desired. Cheered by this hope, he impatiently
awaited the decision of Dolores, happy, however, in living near her, in
seeing her every day, in listening to her voice and in accompanying her
on her walks. He watched himself so carefully that no word revealed the
real condition of his mind, and not even the closest observer of his
language and actions could have divined the existence of the sentiments
upon which he was, at that very moment, basing his future happiness.
Dolores was grateful to him for his delicacy and for the faithfulness
with which he kept his promise. She appreciated Philip's sacrifice the
more because she was obliged to impose an equally powerful restraint
upon herself in order to preserve her own secret. She loved him. All
the aspirations of an ardent and lofty soul, all the dreams of a pure
felicity based upon a noble affection were hers; and Philip's avowal,
closely following the revelations of the dying Marquise, had convinced
her that her happiness depended upon a marriage in accordance with the
dictates of her heart, and that the one being destined from all eternity
to crown her life with bliss unspeakable was Philip. Reared together,
they thoroughly understood and esteemed each other; they had shared the
same joys and the same impressions. There was a bond between them which
nothing could break, and which made their souls one indissolubly. In her
eyes, Philip was the handsomest, the most honorable, the most noble and
the most perfect of men. Was not this love? Why then did Dolores persist
in her silence when her lover was anxiously waiting to learn his fate?
Simply because she feared to displease the Marquis. She owed everything
to his generosity. She had no fortune. If she became Philip's wife, she
could confer upon the house of Chamondrin none of those advantages which
the Marquis hoped to gain from a grand alliance, and for the sake of
which he had condemned himself to a life of obscurity and privation.
Would he ever consent to a marriage that so ruthlessly destroyed his
ambitious dreams? And if he did not consent, how terrible would be her
position when compelled to choose between the love of the son and the
wrath of the father! And, even if he consented, would it not cost him
the most terrible of sacrifices? Shattered already by the untimely death
of his wife, would he survive this blow to his long-cherished hopes?
Such were the sorrowful thoughts that presented themselves to the mind
of Dolores and deprived her of the power to speak. She dare not make
Philip a confidant of her fears; and to declare that she did not love
him was beyond her strength. Even when the impossibility of this
marriage became clearly apparent to her, she had not courage to lie to
her lover and to trample her own heart underfoot. One alternative
remained: to reveal the truth to the Marquis. But this would imperil
all. A secret presentiment warned her if she, herself, disclosed the
truth, that it would be to her that the Marquis would appeal in order to
compel Philip to renounce his hopes, since it was in her power to
destroy them by a single word. Day followed day, and Dolores, beset
alternately by hopes and fears, was waiting for fate to solve the
question upon which her future happiness depended.
Two mouths later, the Marquis was summoned to Marseilles by a cousin,
who was lying at the point of death. He departed immediately,
accompanied by Philip. This cousin was the Count de Mirandol. The master
of a large fortune which he had accumulated in the colonies, a widower
of long standing and the father of but one child, a girl of eighteen,
who would inherit all his wealth, he had returned to France, intending
to take up his permanent abode there. He had been afflicted for years by
a chronic malady, contracted during his long sea voyages, and he
returned to his native land with the hope that he should find there
relief from his sufferings. But he had scarcely landed at Marseilles
when he was attacked by his old malady in an aggravated form. He could
live but a few days, and realizing his condition, and desiring to find a
protector for his daughter, his thoughts turned to his cousin, the
Marquis de Chamondrin. Although he had scarcely seen the Marquis for
thirty years, he knew him sufficiently well not to hesitate to entrust
his daughter to his cousin's care.
The Marquis did not fail him. He accepted the charge that his relative
confided to him, closed the eyes of the dying man, and a few days
afterwards he and Philip returned to the château, accompanied by a young
girl clad in mourning. The stranger was Mademoiselle Antoinette de
Mirandol.
Endowed with a refined and singularly expressive face, Antoinette,
without possessing any of those charms which imparted such an
incomparable splendor to the beauty of Dolores, was very attractive. She
was a brunette, rather frail in appearance and small of stature; but
there was such a gentle, winning light in her eyes that when she lifted
them to yours you were somehow penetrated and held captive by them; in
other words, you were compelled to love her.
"I bring you a sister," the Marquis said to Dolores, as he presented
Antoinette. "She needs your love and sympathy."
The two girls tenderly embraced each other. Dolores led her guest to the
room which they were to share, and lavished comforting words and
caresses upon her, and from that moment they loved each other as fondly
as if they had been friends all their lives.
Cruelly tried by the loss of her benefactress and by her mental
conflicts on the subject of Philip, Dolores forgot her own sorrows and
devoted herself entirely to the task of consoling Antoinette. It was not
long before the latter became more cheerful. This was the work of
Dolores. They talked of their past, and Dolores concealed nothing from
her new friend. She confessed, without any false shame or false modesty,
that she had entered the house of the Marquis as a beggar. Antoinette,
in her turn, spoke of herself. She knew nothing of France. Her childhood
had been spent in Louisiana; and she talked enthusiastically of the
lovely country she had left. Dolores, to divert her companion's thoughts
from grief, made Philip tell her what he knew about Paris Versailles and
the court, and the Marquis, not without design probably, did his best to
place in the most favorable light those attributes of mind and of heart
that made Philip the most attractive of men. Like another Desdemona
charmed by the eloquence of Othello, it was while listening to Philip
that Antoinette first began to love him.
After a month's sojourn at Chamondrin, she came to the conclusion that
Philip was kind, good, irresistible in short; and she was by no means
unwilling to become the Marquise de Chamondrin. Nor did she conceal
these feelings from Dolores, little suspecting, how she was torturing
her friend by these revelations. It was then that the absolute
impossibility of a marriage with Philip first became clearly apparent
to Dolores. Antoinette's confession was like the flash of lightning
which suddenly discloses a yawning precipice to the traveller on a dark
and lonely road. She saw the insurmountable barrier between them more
distinctly than ever before. Could she compete with Antoinette? Yes; if
her love and that of Philip were to be considered. No; if rank, wealth,
all the advantages that Antoinette possessed, and which the Marquis
required in his son's bride, were to be taken into consideration.
What a terrible night Dolores spent after Antoinette's confession! How
she wept! What anguish she endured! The young girls occupied the same
room and if one was unconscious of the sufferings of her companion, it
was only because Dolores stifled her sobs. She was unwilling to let
Antoinette see what she termed "her weakness." She felt neither hatred
nor envy towards her friend, for she knew that Antoinette was not to
blame. She wept, not from anger or jealousy, but from despair.
Since she had been aware of Philip's affection for her, she had
cherished a secret hope in spite of the numerous obstacles that stood in
the way of their happiness. Time wrought so many changes! The bride whom
the Marquis was seeking for his son had not yet been found. She had
comforted herself by reflections like these. Now, these illusions had
vanished. The struggle was terrible. One voice whispered: "You love; you
are beloved. Fight for your rights, struggle, entreat--second Philip's
efforts, work with him for the triumph of your love. Resist his
father's will, and, though you may not conquer at once, your labors will
eventually be crowned with success." But another voice said: "The
Marquis was your benefactor, the Marquise filled your mother's place.
Had it not been for them you would have been reared in shame, in
ignorance and in depravity. You would never have known parental
tenderness, the happiness of a home or the comforts and luxuries that
have surrounded you from your childhood. Is it too much to ask that you
should silence the pleadings of your heart in order not to destroy their
hopes?" The first voice retorted: "Philip will be wretched if you desert
him. He will regret you, he will curse you and you will spend your life
in tears, blaming yourself for having sacrificed his happiness and yours
to exaggerated scruples." But the second voice responded: "Antoinette
will console Philip. If he curses you at first, he will bless you later
when he learns the cause of your refusal. As for you, though you may
weep bitterly, you will be consoled by the thought that you have done
your duty." Such were the conflicts through which Dolores passed; but
before morning came she had resolved to silence her imagination and the
pleadings of her heart. Resigned to her voluntary defeat, she decided
not to combat this growing passion on the part of Antoinette, but to
encourage it. She believed that Philip would not long remain insensible
to the charms of her friend, and in that case she could venture to
deceive him and to declare that she did not love him.
Three months passed in this way; then Philip, weary of waiting for the
reply that was to decide his fate, but not daring to break his promise
and interrogate Dolores directly, concluded to at least make an attempt
to obtain through Antoinette the decision that would put an end to his
intolerable suspense. Knowing how fondly these young girls loved each
other, and how perfect was their mutual confidence, he felt sure that
Antoinette would not refuse to intercede for him.
This project once formed, he began operations by endeavoring to
ingratiate himself into the good graces of Mademoiselle de Mirandol. Up
to this time, he had treated her rather coolly, but he now changed his
tactics and showed her many of those little attentions which he had
hitherto reserved for his adopted sister. It was just as Antoinette was
becoming too much interested in Philip for her own peace of mind that
she noticed his change of manner. She misunderstood him. Who would not
have been deceived? During their rambles, Philip seemed to take pleasure
in walking by her side. Every morning she found beside her plate a
bouquet which he had culled. He never went to Avignon or to Nîmes
without bringing some little souvenir for her. What interpretation could
she place upon these frequent marks of interest? Her own love made her
credulous. After receiving many such attentions from him, she fancied
she comprehended his motive.
"He loves me," she said one evening to Dolores.
The latter thought her bereft of her senses. Could it be possible that
Philip had forgotten his former love so soon? Was he deceiving her when
he pressed his suit with such ardor? Impossible! How could she suppose
it even for a moment? Still Dolores could not even imagine such a
possibility without a shudder. After the struggle between her conscience
and her heart, she had secretly resolved that Philip should cease to
love her, that she would sacrifice herself to Mademoiselle de Mirandol,
to whose charms he could not long remain insensible and whom he would
eventually marry. Yes; she was ready to see her own misery consummated
without a murmur; but to be thus forgotten in a few weeks seemed
terrible.
"If this is really so," she thought, "Philip is as unworthy of
Antionette as he is of me. But it cannot be. She is mistaken."
Was Antoinette deceiving herself? To set her mind at rest upon this
point, Dolores questioned her friend in regard to the acts and words
which she had interpreted as proofs of Philip's love for her.
Mademoiselle de Mirandol revealed them to her friend; and Dolores was
reassured. The attentions that had been bestowed upon the ward of the
Marquis de Chamondrin by that gentleman's son did not assume in the eyes
of Dolores that importance which had been attributed to them by her more
romantic and enthusiastic companion; nevertheless, she was careful not
to disturb a conviction that caused Antoinette so much happiness.
The following day, as Mademoiselle de Mirandol was leaving her room, she
encountered Philip in the hall.
"I wish to speak with you," he said, rapidly and in low tones as he
passed her. "I will wait for you in the park near the Buissieres."
His pleasant voice rung in Antoinette's ears long after he had
disappeared, leaving her in a state of mingled ecstasy and confusion.
Her cheeks were flushed and her heart throbbed violently. She hurried
away to conceal her embarrassment from Dolores, who was following her,
and soon went to join Philip at the Buissieres. This was the name they
had bestowed upon a hedge of tall bushes to the left of the park, and
which enclosed as if by two high thick walls a quiet path where the
sun's rays seldom or never found their way. It was to this spot that
Antoinette directed her steps, reproaching herself all the while for the
readiness with which she obeyed Philip, and looking back every now and
then to see if any one was observing her.
She soon arrived at the Buissieres; Philip was awaiting her. On seeing
her approach, he came forward to meet her. She noticed that his manner
was perfectly composed, that his features betrayed no emotion, and that
he was smiling as if to assure her that what he desired to tell her was
neither solemn nor frightful in its nature. Antoinette was somewhat
disappointed. She had expected to find him pale and nervous, and with
his hair disordered like the lovers described in the two or three
innocent romances that had chanced to fall into her hands.
"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, for troubling you," began Philip, without the
slightest hesitation; "but the service you can render me is of such
importance to me, and the happiness of my whole life is so dependent
upon it, that I have not scrupled to appeal to your generosity."
"In what way can I serve you?" inquired Mademoiselle de Mirandol, whose
emotion had been suddenly calmed by this preamble, so utterly unlike
anything she had expected to hear.
"I am in love!" began Philip.
She trembled, her embarrassment returned and her eyes dropped. Philip
continued:
"She whom I love is charming, beautiful and good, like yourself. You
surely will not contradict me, for it is Dolores whom I love!"
Why Antoinette did not betray her secret, she, herself, could not
understand when she afterwards recalled the circumstances of this
interview. She did, however, utter a stifled cry which Philip failed to
hear. She felt that she turned very pale, but her change of color was
not discernible in the shadow. It was with intense disappointment that
she listened to Philip's confession. He told her that he had loved
Dolores for more than four years, but that she had known it only a few
months, and that she hod made no response to his declaration of love. He
had waited patiently for her answer, but he could endure this state of
cruel uncertainty no longer, and he entreated Mademoiselle de Mirandol
to intercede for him, and to persuade Dolores to make known her decision
to her adorer. Antoinette promised to fulfil his request. She promised,
scarcely knowing what she said, so terrible was the anguish that filled
her heart. She desired only one thing--to make her escape that she might
be at liberty to weep. How wretched he was! Coming to this rendezvous
with a heart full of implicit confidence, she had met, instead of the
felicity she expected, the utter ruin of her hopes. This revulsion of
feeling proved too much for a young girl who was entirely unaccustomed
to violent emotions of any kind. She blamed herself bitterly,
reproaching herself for her love as if it had been a crime, and regarded
her disappointment as a judgment upon her for having allowed herself to
think of Philip so soon, after her father's death.
At last Philip left her, and she could then give vent to her sorrow.
Soon jealously took possession of her heart. Incensed at Dolores, who
had received her confidence without once telling her that Philip's love
had long since been given to her, Antoinette hastened to her rival to
reproach her for her duplicity.
"Antoinette, what has happened?" exclaimed Dolores, seeing her friend
enter pale and in tears.
"I have discovered my mistake. It is not I who am beloved, it is you;
and he has been entreating me to plead his cause and to persuade you to
give him an answer that accords with his wishes! What irony could be
more bitter than that displayed by fate in making me the advocate to
whom Philip has applied for aid in winning you? Ah! how deeply I am
wounded! How terrible is my shame and humiliation! You would have spared
me this degradation if you had frankly told me that Philip loved you
when I first confided my silly fancies to you. Why did you not confess
the truth? It was cruel, Dolores, and I believed you my friend, my
sister!"
Sobs choked her utterance and she could say no more. Dolores, who had
suffered and who was still suffering the most poignant anguish,
nevertheless felt the deepest sympathy for her unhappy friend. She
approached her, gently wiped away her tears and said:
"It is true that Philip loves me, that he quite recently avowed his love
and that I refused to engage myself to him until I had had time for
reflection; but it is equally true that after an examination of my heart
I cannot consent to look upon him as other than a brother. I shall never
be his wife; and if I have postponed the announcement of my decision, it
was only because I dislike to pain him by destroying the hopes to which
he still seemed to cling."
"What! he loves you and you will not marry him?" cried Antoinette,
amazed at such an avowal.
"I shall not marry him," replied Dolores. "And now will you listen to my
confession? On seeing you arrive at the château, I said to myself: 'Here
is one who will be a suitable wife for Philip; and if my refusal renders
him unhappy, the love of Antionette will console him!'"
"You thought that!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, throwing her
arms around her friend's neck. "And I have so cruelly misjudged you!
Dolores, can you ever forgive me?"
A brave smile, accompanied by a kiss, was the response of Dolores; then
she added:
"I not only forgive you, but I will do my best to insure your
happiness. Philip shall love you."
"Alas!" said Antoinette, "how can he love me when his heart is full of
you, when his eyes follow you unceasingly? You are unconsciously a most
formidable rival, for Philip will never love me while you are by my side
and while he can compare me with you."
"I will go away if necessary."
"What, leave your home! Do you think I would consent to that? Never!"
cried Antoinette.
"But I can return to it the very day your happiness is assured. When you
are Philip's wife you will go to Paris with him, and I can then return
to my place beside the Marquis."
"Dolores! How good you are, and how much I love you!" exclaimed
Mademoiselle de Mirandol, clasping her friend in her arms.
The words of Dolores had reassured her, had revived her hopes and dried
her tears. When left alone, Dolores, exhausted by the ordeal through
which she had just passed, could at first form no plans for the future.
She comprehended but one thing--she was still beloved. Philip's
faithfulness and the intensity of the love which had just been revealed
to her rendered the sacrifice still more difficult. It seemed to her she
would never have strength to accomplish it.
"It must be done," she said to herself, finally.
And shaking off her weakness, she went in search of the Marquis. They
had a long conversation together. Dolores told him the whole truth. It
was through her that the Marquis learned that she was loved by Philip,
and that she loved him in return, but, being unwilling to place any
obstacle in the way of the plans long since formed with a view to the
restoration of the glory of the house of Chamondrin, she had renounced
her hopes and yielded her place and her rights to Antoinette. The
Marquis had not the courage to refuse the proffered sacrifice, though he
fully realized the extent of it. His dearest wishes were about to be
realized. While he lamented the fate to which Dolores had condemned
herself, he was grateful for a decision that spared him the
unpleasantness of a contest with his son, and which insured that son's
marriage to a rich heiress. Still, when Dolores told him that she had
decided to leave Chamondrin not to return until after Philip's marriage,
he refused at first to consent to a separation.
"But it is necessary," replied Dolores. "So long as Philip sees me here,
he will not relinquish his hopes. I am certain that he will not consent
to renounce me unless he believes there is an impassable barrier between
us, unless he believes me dead to the world and to love. Besides, you
would surely not require me to live near one whom I wish to forget. I
shall spend two years in a convent, and then I will return to you."
M. de Chamondrin, touched by this heroism whose grandeur Dolores, in her
simplicity, did not seem to comprehend, pressed her to his heart in a
long embrace, covering her face with kisses and murmuring words of
tenderness and gratitude in her ears. When they separated, he was not
the least moved of the two. Dolores next went in search of Philip. She
found him at the Buissieres, the same place where he had entreated
Antoinette to intercede for him a few hours before.
He saw her approaching.
"She is coming to pronounce my sentence," he thought.
She was very calm. The sadness imprinted on her face did not mar its
serenity.
"Antoinette has spoken to me," she said, firmly, but quietly. "The fear
of making you unhappy has until now deterred me from giving you the
answer for which you have been waiting; but after the events of this
morning, I must speak frankly."
This introduction left Philip no longer in doubt. He uttered a groan, as
with bowed head he awaited the remainder of his sentence.
"Courage, Philip," Dolores continued: "Do not add to my sorrow by making
me a witness of yours. Since the day you opened your heart that I might
read there the feelings that burdened it, I have been carefully
examining mine. I wished to find there signs of a love equal to yours; I
have sought for them in vain. I love you enough to give you my blood and
my happiness, my entire life. I have always loved you thus--loved you
with that sisterly devotion that is capable of any sacrifice. But is
this the love you feel? Is this the love you would bestow upon me? No;
and, as you see, my heart has remained obstinately closed against the
passion which I have inspired in you, and it would ever remain closed
even if I consented to unite myself with you more closely by the bonds
of marriage. If I was weak enough to listen to you and to yield to your
wishes, I should only bring misery upon both of us."
"Alas!" murmured Philip, "I cannot understand this."
"How can I forget that for eighteen long years I have regarded you as a
brother?" said Dolores, vainly endeavoring to console him. "Moreover,
such a marriage would be impossible! Would it not be contrary to the
wishes of your father? Would it not detract from the glory of the name
you bear?"
"And what do the glory of my name and the wishes of my father matter to
me?" exclaimed Philip, impetuously. "Was I brought into the world to be
made a victim to such absurd prejudices? For four years I have lived
upon this hope. It has been destroyed to-day. What have I to look
forward to now? There is nothing to bind me to life, for, if your
decision is irrevocable, I shall never be consoled."
"Do not forget those who love you."
"Those who love me! Where are they? I seek for them in vain. Do you mean
my father, who has reared me with a view to the gratification of his own
selfish ambition? Is it you, Dolores, who seem to take pleasure in my
sufferings? My mother, the only human being who would have understood,
sustained and consoled me, she is no longer here to plead my cause."
Wild with grief and despair, he was about to continue his reproaches,
but Dolores, whose powers of endurance were nearly exhausted, summoned
all her courage and said coldly, almost sternly:
"You forget yourself, Philip! You are ungrateful to your father and to
me; but even if you doubt our affection, can you say the same of
Antoinette?"
"Antoinette!"
"She loves you with the tenderest, most devoted affection. She has said
as much to me, and now that you know it, will you still try to convince
yourself that there are only unfeeling hearts around you?"
Philip, astonished by this revelation, became suddenly silent. He
recollected that he had confided his hopes and fears to Mademoiselle de
Mirandol that very morning; and when he thought of the trying position
in which he had placed her, and of what she must have suffered, his pity
was aroused.
"If her sorrow equals mine, she is, indeed, to be pitied," he said,
sadly.
"Why do you not try to assuage your own sorrow by consoling her?" asked
Dolores, gently.
These words kindled Philip's anger afresh.
"What power have I to annihilate the memory of that which at once charms
and tortures me?" he exclaimed. "Can I tear your image from its shrine
in my heart and put that of Antoinette in its place? Do you think that
your words will suffice to destroy the hopes I have cherished so long?
Undeceive yourself, Dolores. I am deeply disappointed, but I will not
give you up. I will compel you to love me, if it be only through the
pity which my despair will inspire in your heart."
These frenzied words caused Dolores the most poignant anguish without
weakening her determination in the least. She felt that she must destroy
the hope to which Philip had just alluded--that this was the only means
of compelling him lo accept the love of Antoinette; so she said,
gravely:
"I love you too much, Philip, to desire to foster illusions which will
certainly never be realized. My decision is irrevocable; and if you
still doubt the truth of my words, I will frankly tell you all. I am
promised----"
"Promised!" exclaimed Philip, with a menacing gesture for the unknown
man who had dared to become his rival. "Promised!" he repeated. "To
whom?"
"To God!" responded Dolores, gently. "I have just informed your father
of my determination to enter a convent!"
Philip recoiled in horror and astonishment; then covering his face with
his hands he fled through the lonely park, repeating again and again the
name of her whom he so fondly loved but who would soon be lost to him
forever. For some moments, Dolores remained motionless on the spot where
she had just renounced her last hope of earthly happiness. Her eyes
followed Philip in his frenzied flight, and, when he disappeared, she
stretched out her hands with a gesture of mingled longing and despair.
But the weakness that had made this courageous soul falter for an
instant soon vanished. She lifted her eyes toward Heaven as if imploring
strength from on high and then walked slowly in the direction of the
château. Suddenly, at a turn in the path, she met Coursegol. She had not
time to conceal her face and he saw her tears. The memory of the past
and the affection that filled his heart emboldened him to question one
whom he regarded in some degree, at least, as his own child.
"Why do you weep, my dear Mademoiselle?" he asked, with anxious
solicitude.
This question did not wound Dolores; on the contrary it consoled her.
She had found some one in whom she could confide. There are hours when
the heart longs to pour out its sorrows to another heart that
understands and sympathizes with its woes. Coursegol made his appearance
at a propitious moment. Dolores regarded him with something very like
filial affection; she had loved him devotedly even when she supposed
herself the daughter of the Marquis de Chamondrin, and now that she knew
her origin she regarded the son of a peasant as equal in every respect
to a descendent of the gypsies, so she did not hesitate to open her soul
to him. She told him of the conflicts through which she had passed and
the suffering they had caused her. She acknowledged the ardent love that
had given her courage and strength to sacrifice her own happiness; and
she wept before the friend of her childhood as unrestrainedly as she
would have wept before her own father.
"I have been expecting this," said Coursegol, sadly. "Poor children, the
truth was revealed too soon. You should have been left in ignorance
until one of you was married. Then you would not have thought of
uniting your destinies. Your mutual friendship would not have been
transformed into an unfortunate passion and all this misery would have
been avoided."
"It would have been far better," replied Dolores.
"And now what do you intend to do?" inquired Coursegol.
"I shall enter a convent and remain there until Philip marries."
"You in a convent! You, who are so gay, so full of life and health and
exuberant spirits, immure yourself in a cloister! Impossible!"
"There is no alternative," said Dolores, repeating to Coursegol what she
had already said to the Marquis.
"I see that you must leave this house, but why do you select a cloister
for your retreat?"
"Where else could I, alone and unprotected, find a refuge?"
"Do you not know that Coursegol is your friend, and that he is ready to
leave everything and follow you? Where do you wish to go? I will
accompany you; I will serve and defend you. I have some little property
and it is entirely at your disposal."
He made this offer very simply, but in a tone that left no possible
doubt of his sincerity. Though she was touched by his devotion, Dolores
firmly refused. She explained that his place was at the château, and
that, as she expected to return there herself after Philip's marriage, a
convent would be the safest and most dignified retreat she could enter.
"So be it, then," responded Coursegol; "but should you ever change your
plans, remember that my life, my little fortune and my devotion are
yours, to use as you see fit."
His emotion, as he spoke, was even greater than hers.
Early in the year 1789 Dolores entered the convent of the Carmelites in
Arles, not as a postulant--for she did not wish to devote herself to a
religious life--but as a boarder, which placed a barrier between her and
Philip for the time being, but left her free to decide upon her future.
Her departure filled Philip with despair. The death of Dolores could not
have caused him more intense sorrow. For was she not dead to him? She
had carefully concealed the fact that her sojourn at the convent would
not be permanent. He supposed she had buried herself there forever. He
mourned for her as we weep for those that death wrests from us,
destroying their lives and our happiness at a single blow; but the very
violence of his grief convinced his father that he was not inconsolable.
There are sorrows that kill; but, if they do not kill when they first
fall upon us, we recover; and this would be the case with Philip. The
certainty that Dolores would never belong to another, that she had
refused him only to give herself to God, was of all circumstances the
one most likely to console him. The presence of Antoinette--who honestly
believed all Dolores had said concerning the state of her heart and the
purely sisterly affection she felt for her adopted brother--and the
timid, shrinking love of the young girl also aided not a little in
assuaging his grief. However ardent your passion may be, you become
reconciled to disappointment when the object of your love refuses your
affection only to consecrate herself to God, and when she leaves with
you as a comforter a companion who is her equal in gentleness and in
goodness, if not in energy and nobility of character. Without entering
into other details, this sufficiently explains how Philip's passionate
grief came to abate in violence.
He wished to leave Chamondrin the very next day after the departure of
Dolores, and to return to Versailles where his regiment was still
stationed; but his father's entreaties induced him to abandon this
project. The Marquis assured him that he could not live abandoned by
both Dolores and his son, so Philip remained. This was one advantage
gained for the Marquis. The causes previously referred to and
Antoinette's charms accomplished the rest. Philip began to regard their
marriage without aversion; but he would not consent to abruptly cast off
one love for another. Time was needed for the transition. Even as he
would have mourned for Dolores dead, he wished to mourn the Dolores he
had lost, and to wait until his wounded heart was healed. He gave his
father and also Mademoiselle de Mirandol to understand that, while he
did not reject the idea of this union which seemed so pleasing to them,
he must be allowed to fix the date of it. His will was law with both;
the Marquis wisely concealed his impatience; Antoinette displayed great
discretion, and matters were moving along smoothly when political events
which had become more and more grave in character suddenly complicated
the situation.