Which? Or, Between Two Women

by Ernest Daudet

  CHAPTER IV.

  PERTAINING TO LOVE MATTERS.

  A fortnight later, Philip, who was stationed at Versailles with hiscommand, 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 desolationto his heart, Philip, accompanied by Coursegol, left Versailles forChamondrin. In spite of the ever increasing gravity of the politicalsituation it had not been difficult for him to obtain leave of absencefor an indefinite time on account of the bereavement that summoned himto his father's side and might detain him there. He made the journey ina post-chaise, stopping only to change horses.

  Dolores was little more than a child when they parted and they had beenseparated more than four years, but absence had not diminished the lovethat was first revealed to him on the day he left the paternal roof, andthe thought of meeting her again made his pulses quicken theirthrobbing. Time and change of scene had proved powerless against thedeep love and devotion that filled his heart, and he was more than everdetermined to wed the companion of his youth; and now that she was nolonger ignorant of the truth concerning her birth, he could press hissuit as a lover. As the decisive moment approached, the moment whenDolores' answer would make or mar the happiness of his life, heexperienced a profound emotion which was increased by the host ofmemories that crowd in upon a man when he returns to his childhood'shome after a long absence to find some one of those he loved departednever 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. Hissadness increased in proportion as he approached the Pont du Gard. Yetthe road was well-known to him; the trees seemed to smile upon their oldcompanion as if in greeting, and the sun shone with more than its usualbrightness as if to honor his return. How many times he had journeyedfrom Avignon to Chamondrin on such a day as this! Every object along theroadside awakened some pleasant recollection; but the joy of againbeholding his beloved home and these familiar scenes was clouded byregret, doubts and uncertainty; and Philip was far from happy. Duringtheir journey, Coursegol had done his best to cheer his young master,but as they neared Chamondrin he, too, became a victim to the melancholyhe had endeavored to dissipate.

  At last the post-chaise rolled noisily under one of the arches of thePont du Gard, and a few moments later the horses, panting and coveredwith foam after climbing the steep ascent, entered the court-yard of thechateau.

  The Marquis and Dolores, who were waiting for supper to be served, hadseated themselves on the terrace overlooking the park. The sound ofcarriage wheels drew them into the court-yard just as Philip andCoursegol were alighting. There was a cry of joy, and then the longseparated friends embraced one another. It would be impossible todescribe this meeting and the rapture of this return.

  It was Dolores whom Philip saw first. Her wonderful beauty actuallystartled him. Four years had transformed the child into an exquisitelyand lovely young girl. Her delicate features, her golden hair, herlustrous dark eyes, her vermillion lips, her musical yet penetratingvoice, her willowy figure and her beautifully shaped hands arousedPhilip's intense admiration. A pure and noble love had filled his heartduring his absence, and had exerted a powerful and restraining influenceover his actions, his thoughts, his hopes and his language. He hadendowed his idol with beauty in his fancy, but, beautiful as he hadpictured her, he was obliged to confess on beholding her that thereality surpassed his dreams, and he loved her still more ardently.

  The Marquis led his son to the drawing-room. He, too, wished to observethe changes that time had wrought in Philip. He scrutinized him closelyby the light of the candles, embraced him, and then looked at him againadmiringly. 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 notthe same bitter tears the Marquis had shed after his bereavement. Thejoy of seeing his son consoled him in a measure, and death seemed to himless cruel because, when he was surrounded by his children, his faithand 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 thecourt had been the theatre; and together they talked of the hopes andthe fears of the country. Philip spoke in the most enthusiastic terms ofthe kind-hearted Duke de Penthieore who had aided him so much in life,of the Chevalier de Florian, and of the charming Princess de Lamballewho had become the favorite friend of the queen. Dolores did not lose aword of the conversation, and gave her love and homage unquestioninglyto those Philip praised even though they were strangers to her. Sheadmired the soundness of judgment her adopted brother displayed in hisestimate of people and of things, and the eloquence with which heexpressed his opinions.

  Coursegol was present. Often by a word he completed or rectified thestatements of his young master, and Dolores loved him for the devotiontestified by his every word. As for him, notwithstanding the familiaritywhich had formerly characterized his daily relations with the girl, hefelt rather intimidated by her presence, though his affection for herwas 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 theslightest fatigue," replied Philip, "and I have so many things to telland to ask Dolores that I am not at all sleepy."

  "Ah, well, my dear children, talk at your ease. As for me, I willretire."

  And the Marquis, a
fter 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, toconceal her embarrassment, fixed her eyes upon the park and the fieldsthat lay quiet and peaceful in the bright moonlight of the clear andbalmy summer evening. Philip, even more agitated, paced nervously to andfro, seeking an opportunity to utter the avowal that was eager to leavehis lips. At last, he summoned the necessary courage, and, seatinghimself 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. Thisdiscovery increased her own embarrassment, and she could not find a wordto 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 brotheras you had been accustomed to do in the past?"

  "How was I to know that you would not regard me as a stranger, as anintruder?" responded Dolores, gently.

  "An intruder! You!" exclaimed Philip, springing up. "I have known thetruth 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 haveloved you with a far greater and entirely different love!"

  Dolores dare not reply. How could she confess that she, too, since shelearned she was not his sister, had experienced a similar change offeeling? Philip continued:

  "You asked me if I would consent to still regard you as a sister. Mysister, 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 withjoy.

  Then, as if fearing he would read too much there, she hastily coveredthem with her trembling hands. The next instant Philip was on his kneesbefore her, saying, eagerly:

  "I have cherished this hope ever since the day that my father made meacquainted 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 calledsister, the gentle girl who had restored my mother's reason, who hadcheered her life, consoled her last moments, and comforted my desolatefather in his bereavement! Dolores, do not refuse me; it would break myheart!"

  She could not believe her ears. She listened to Philip's pleading as ifin 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 herby the Marquis, who had often made her his confidante--those projects inwhich Philip's marriage with a rich heiress of illustrious birth playedsuch an important part. And yet, in the presence of the profound loveshe had inspired and which she shared, she had not courage to makePhilip wretched by an immediate refusal, or to renounce the hope thathad 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 musthave time to think--to consult my conscience and my heart. You also musthave 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 ofa different character I do not yet know. Go now, my dear Philip," sheadded, endeavoring by calming herself to calm him; "give me time tobecome accustomed to the new ideas you have awakened in my mind. Theywill develop there, and then you shall know my answer. Until that timecomes, I entreat you to have pity on my weakness, respect my silence andwait."

  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 sorrowthat sleep only partially dispelled.

  During the days that followed this conversation, Philip, faithful to hispromise, made no allusion to the scene we have just described. For fouryears he had buried his secret so deeply in his own heart that evenCoursegol had not suspected it, so he did not find it difficult tocontinue this role under the eyes of his father; and, though the burdenhe imposed upon himself had become much heavier by reason of thepresence of Dolores, his hopes supplied him with strength to endure it.

  For his hopes were great! Youthful hearts have no fear. He was notignorant of his father's plans; but he told himself that his fatherloved him too much to cause him sorrow, and that he would probably beglad to sacrifice his ambitious dreams if he could ensure the happinessof both his children. Philip was sure of this. If he invoked the memoryof his mother and the love she bore Dolores, the Marquis could notrefuse his consent. He confidently believed that before six mouths hadelapsed he should be married and enjoying a felicity so perfect as toleave nothing more to be desired. Cheered by this hope, he impatientlyawaited the decision of Dolores, happy, however, in living near her, inseeing her every day, in listening to her voice and in accompanying heron her walks. He watched himself so carefully that no word revealed thereal condition of his mind, and not even the closest observer of hislanguage and actions could have divined the existence of the sentimentsupon which he was, at that very moment, basing his future happiness.

  Dolores was grateful to him for his delicacy and for the faithfulnesswith which he kept his promise. She appreciated Philip's sacrifice themore because she was obliged to impose an equally powerful restraintupon herself in order to preserve her own secret. She loved him. Allthe aspirations of an ardent and lofty soul, all the dreams of a purefelicity based upon a noble affection were hers; and Philip's avowal,closely following the revelations of the dying Marquise, had convincedher that her happiness depended upon a marriage in accordance with thedictates of her heart, and that the one being destined from all eternityto crown her life with bliss unspeakable was Philip. Reared together,they thoroughly understood and esteemed each other; they had shared thesame joys and the same impressions. There was a bond between them whichnothing could break, and which made their souls one indissolubly. In hereyes, Philip was the handsomest, the most honorable, the most noble andthe most perfect of men. Was not this love? Why then did Dolores persistin her silence when her lover was anxiously waiting to learn his fate?Simply because she feared to displease the Marquis. She owed everythingto his generosity. She had no fortune. If she became Philip's wife, shecould confer upon the house of Chamondrin none of those advantages whichthe Marquis hoped to gain from a grand alliance, and for the sake ofwhich he had condemned himself to a life of obscurity and privation.Would he ever consent to a marriage that so ruthlessly destroyed hisambitious dreams? And if he did not consent, how terrible would be herposition when compelled to choose between the love of the son and thewrath of the father! And, even if he consented, would it not cost himthe most terrible of sacrifices? Shattered already by the untimely deathof his wife, would he survive this blow to his long-cherished hopes?Such were the sorrowful thoughts that presented themselves to the mindof Dolores and deprived her of the power to speak. She dare not makePhilip a confidant of her fears; and to declare that she did not lovehim was beyond her strength. Even when the impossibility of thismarriage became clearly apparent to her, she had not courage to lie toher lover and to trample her own heart underfoot. One alternativeremained: to reveal the truth to the Marquis. But this would imperilall. A secret presentiment warned her if she, herself, disclosed thetruth, that it would be to her that the Marquis would appeal in order tocompel Philip to renounce his hopes, since it was in her power todestroy them by a single word. Day followed day, and Dolores, besetalternately by hopes and fears, was waiting for fate to solve thequestion 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,acco
mpanied by Philip. This cousin was the Count de Mirandol. The masterof a large fortune which he had accumulated in the colonies, a widowerof long standing and the father of but one child, a girl of eighteen,who would inherit all his wealth, he had returned to France, intendingto take up his permanent abode there. He had been afflicted for years bya chronic malady, contracted during his long sea voyages, and hereturned to his native land with the hope that he should find thererelief from his sufferings. But he had scarcely landed at Marseilleswhen he was attacked by his old malady in an aggravated form. He couldlive but a few days, and realizing his condition, and desiring to find aprotector for his daughter, his thoughts turned to his cousin, theMarquis de Chamondrin. Although he had scarcely seen the Marquis forthirty years, he knew him sufficiently well not to hesitate to entrusthis daughter to his cousin's care.

  The Marquis did not fail him. He accepted the charge that his relativeconfided to him, closed the eyes of the dying man, and a few daysafterwards he and Philip returned to the chateau, accompanied by a younggirl clad in mourning. The stranger was Mademoiselle Antoinette deMirandol.

  Endowed with a refined and singularly expressive face, Antoinette,without possessing any of those charms which imparted such anincomparable splendor to the beauty of Dolores, was very attractive. Shewas a brunette, rather frail in appearance and small of stature; butthere was such a gentle, winning light in her eyes that when she liftedthem to yours you were somehow penetrated and held captive by them; inother words, you were compelled to love her.

  "I bring you a sister," the Marquis said to Dolores, as he presentedAntoinette. "She needs your love and sympathy."

  The two girls tenderly embraced each other. Dolores led her guest to theroom which they were to share, and lavished comforting words andcaresses upon her, and from that moment they loved each other as fondlyas if they had been friends all their lives.

  Cruelly tried by the loss of her benefactress and by her mentalconflicts on the subject of Philip, Dolores forgot her own sorrows anddevoted herself entirely to the task of consoling Antoinette. It was notlong before the latter became more cheerful. This was the work ofDolores. They talked of their past, and Dolores concealed nothing fromher 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 childhoodhad been spent in Louisiana; and she talked enthusiastically of thelovely country she had left. Dolores, to divert her companion's thoughtsfrom grief, made Philip tell her what he knew about Paris Versailles andthe court, and the Marquis, not without design probably, did his best toplace in the most favorable light those attributes of mind and of heartthat made Philip the most attractive of men. Like another Desdemonacharmed by the eloquence of Othello, it was while listening to Philipthat Antoinette first began to love him.

  After a month's sojourn at Chamondrin, she came to the conclusion thatPhilip was kind, good, irresistible in short; and she was by no meansunwilling to become the Marquise de Chamondrin. Nor did she concealthese feelings from Dolores, little suspecting, how she was torturingher friend by these revelations. It was then that the absoluteimpossibility of a marriage with Philip first became clearly apparentto Dolores. Antoinette's confession was like the flash of lightningwhich suddenly discloses a yawning precipice to the traveller on a darkand lonely road. She saw the insurmountable barrier between them moredistinctly than ever before. Could she compete with Antoinette? Yes; ifher love and that of Philip were to be considered. No; if rank, wealth,all the advantages that Antoinette possessed, and which the Marquisrequired in his son's bride, were to be taken into consideration.

  What a terrible night Dolores spent after Antoinette's confession! Howshe wept! What anguish she endured! The young girls occupied the sameroom and if one was unconscious of the sufferings of her companion, itwas only because Dolores stifled her sobs. She was unwilling to letAntoinette see what she termed "her weakness." She felt neither hatrednor envy towards her friend, for she knew that Antoinette was not toblame. She wept, not from anger or jealousy, but from despair.

  Since she had been aware of Philip's affection for her, she hadcherished a secret hope in spite of the numerous obstacles that stood inthe way of their happiness. Time wrought so many changes! The bride whomthe Marquis was seeking for his son had not yet been found. She hadcomforted herself by reflections like these. Now, these illusions hadvanished. The struggle was terrible. One voice whispered: "You love; youare beloved. Fight for your rights, struggle, entreat--second Philip'sefforts, work with him for the triumph of your love. Resist hisfather's will, and, though you may not conquer at once, your labors willeventually be crowned with success." But another voice said: "TheMarquis was your benefactor, the Marquise filled your mother's place.Had it not been for them you would have been reared in shame, inignorance and in depravity. You would never have known parentaltenderness, the happiness of a home or the comforts and luxuries thathave surrounded you from your childhood. Is it too much to ask that youshould silence the pleadings of your heart in order not to destroy theirhopes?" The first voice retorted: "Philip will be wretched if you deserthim. He will regret you, he will curse you and you will spend your lifein tears, blaming yourself for having sacrificed his happiness and yoursto exaggerated scruples." But the second voice responded: "Antoinettewill console Philip. If he curses you at first, he will bless you laterwhen he learns the cause of your refusal. As for you, though you mayweep bitterly, you will be consoled by the thought that you have doneyour duty." Such were the conflicts through which Dolores passed; butbefore morning came she had resolved to silence her imagination and thepleadings of her heart. Resigned to her voluntary defeat, she decidednot to combat this growing passion on the part of Antoinette, but toencourage it. She believed that Philip would not long remain insensibleto the charms of her friend, and in that case she could venture todeceive him and to declare that she did not love him.

  Three months passed in this way; then Philip, weary of waiting for thereply that was to decide his fate, but not daring to break his promiseand interrogate Dolores directly, concluded to at least make an attemptto obtain through Antoinette the decision that would put an end to hisintolerable suspense. Knowing how fondly these young girls loved eachother, and how perfect was their mutual confidence, he felt sure thatAntoinette would not refuse to intercede for him.

  This project once formed, he began operations by endeavoring toingratiate himself into the good graces of Mademoiselle de Mirandol. Upto this time, he had treated her rather coolly, but he now changed histactics and showed her many of those little attentions which he hadhitherto reserved for his adopted sister. It was just as Antoinette wasbecoming too much interested in Philip for her own peace of mind thatshe noticed his change of manner. She misunderstood him. Who would nothave been deceived? During their rambles, Philip seemed to take pleasurein walking by her side. Every morning she found beside her plate abouquet which he had culled. He never went to Avignon or to Nimeswithout bringing some little souvenir for her. What interpretation couldshe place upon these frequent marks of interest? Her own love made hercredulous. After receiving many such attentions from him, she fanciedshe comprehended his motive.

  "He loves me," she said one evening to Dolores.

  The latter thought her bereft of her senses. Could it be possible thatPhilip had forgotten his former love so soon? Was he deceiving her whenhe pressed his suit with such ardor? Impossible! How could she supposeit even for a moment? Still Dolores could not even imagine such apossibility without a shudder. After the struggle between her conscienceand her heart, she had secretly resolved that Philip should cease tolove her, that she would sacrifice herself to Mademoiselle de Mirandol,to whose charms he could not long remain insensible and whom he wouldeventually marry. Yes; she was ready to see her own misery consummatedwithout a murmur; but to be thus forgotten in a few weeks seemedterrible.

  "If this is really so," she thought, "Philip is as unworthy ofAntionette as
he is of me. But it cannot be. She is mistaken."

  Was Antoinette deceiving herself? To set her mind at rest upon thispoint, Dolores questioned her friend in regard to the acts and wordswhich she had interpreted as proofs of Philip's love for her.Mademoiselle de Mirandol revealed them to her friend; and Dolores wasreassured. The attentions that had been bestowed upon the ward of theMarquis de Chamondrin by that gentleman's son did not assume in the eyesof Dolores that importance which had been attributed to them by her moreromantic and enthusiastic companion; nevertheless, she was careful notto disturb a conviction that caused Antoinette so much happiness.

  The following day, as Mademoiselle de Mirandol was leaving her room, sheencountered Philip in the hall.

  "I wish to speak with you," he said, rapidly and in low tones as hepassed her. "I will wait for you in the park near the Buissieres."

  His pleasant voice rung in Antoinette's ears long after he haddisappeared, leaving her in a state of mingled ecstasy and confusion.Her cheeks were flushed and her heart throbbed violently. She hurriedaway to conceal her embarrassment from Dolores, who was following her,and soon went to join Philip at the Buissieres. This was the name theyhad bestowed upon a hedge of tall bushes to the left of the park, andwhich enclosed as if by two high thick walls a quiet path where thesun's rays seldom or never found their way. It was to this spot thatAntoinette directed her steps, reproaching herself all the while for thereadiness with which she obeyed Philip, and looking back every now andthen to see if any one was observing her.

  She soon arrived at the Buissieres; Philip was awaiting her. On seeingher approach, he came forward to meet her. She noticed that his mannerwas perfectly composed, that his features betrayed no emotion, and thathe was smiling as if to assure her that what he desired to tell her wasneither solemn nor frightful in its nature. Antoinette was somewhatdisappointed. She had expected to find him pale and nervous, and withhis hair disordered like the lovers described in the two or threeinnocent romances that had chanced to fall into her hands.

  "Excuse me, Mademoiselle, for troubling you," began Philip, without theslightest hesitation; "but the service you can render me is of suchimportance to me, and the happiness of my whole life is so dependentupon it, that I have not scrupled to appeal to your generosity."

  "In what way can I serve you?" inquired Mademoiselle de Mirandol, whoseemotion had been suddenly calmed by this preamble, so utterly unlikeanything she had expected to hear.

  "I am in love!" began Philip.

  She trembled, her embarrassment returned and her eyes dropped. Philipcontinued:

  "She whom I love is charming, beautiful and good, like yourself. Yousurely will not contradict me, for it is Dolores whom I love!"

  Why Antoinette did not betray her secret, she, herself, could notunderstand when she afterwards recalled the circumstances of thisinterview. She did, however, utter a stifled cry which Philip failed tohear. She felt that she turned very pale, but her change of color wasnot discernible in the shadow. It was with intense disappointment thatshe listened to Philip's confession. He told her that he had lovedDolores for more than four years, but that she had known it only a fewmonths, and that she hod made no response to his declaration of love. Hehad waited patiently for her answer, but he could endure this state ofcruel uncertainty no longer, and he entreated Mademoiselle de Mirandolto intercede for him, and to persuade Dolores to make known her decisionto her adorer. Antoinette promised to fulfil his request. She promised,scarcely knowing what she said, so terrible was the anguish that filledher heart. She desired only one thing--to make her escape that she mightbe at liberty to weep. How wretched he was! Coming to this rendezvouswith a heart full of implicit confidence, she had met, instead of thefelicity she expected, the utter ruin of her hopes. This revulsion offeeling proved too much for a young girl who was entirely unaccustomedto violent emotions of any kind. She blamed herself bitterly,reproaching herself for her love as if it had been a crime, and regardedher disappointment as a judgment upon her for having allowed herself tothink 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, whohad received her confidence without once telling her that Philip's lovehad long since been given to her, Antoinette hastened to her rival toreproach her for her duplicity.

  "Antoinette, what has happened?" exclaimed Dolores, seeing her friendenter 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 togive him an answer that accords with his wishes! What irony could bemore bitter than that displayed by fate in making me the advocate towhom Philip has applied for aid in winning you? Ah! how deeply I amwounded! How terrible is my shame and humiliation! You would have sparedme this degradation if you had frankly told me that Philip loved youwhen I first confided my silly fancies to you. Why did you not confessthe truth? It was cruel, Dolores, and I believed you my friend, mysister!"

  Sobs choked her utterance and she could say no more. Dolores, who hadsuffered and who was still suffering the most poignant anguish,nevertheless felt the deepest sympathy for her unhappy friend. Sheapproached her, gently wiped away her tears and said:

  "It is true that Philip loves me, that he quite recently avowed his loveand that I refused to engage myself to him until I had had time forreflection; but it is equally true that after an examination of my heartI cannot consent to look upon him as other than a brother. I shall neverbe his wife; and if I have postponed the announcement of my decision, itwas only because I dislike to pain him by destroying the hopes to whichhe 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 myconfession? On seeing you arrive at the chateau, I said to myself: 'Hereis one who will be a suitable wife for Philip; and if my refusal rendershim unhappy, the love of Antionette will console him!'"

  "You thought that!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Mirandol, throwing herarms 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; thenshe added:

  "I not only forgive you, but I will do my best to insure yourhappiness. Philip shall love you."

  "Alas!" said Antoinette, "how can he love me when his heart is full ofyou, when his eyes follow you unceasingly? You are unconsciously a mostformidable rival, for Philip will never love me while you are by my sideand 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 youare Philip's wife you will go to Paris with him, and I can then returnto my place beside the Marquis."

  "Dolores! How good you are, and how much I love you!" exclaimedMademoiselle de Mirandol, clasping her friend in her arms.

  The words of Dolores had reassured her, had revived her hopes and driedher tears. When left alone, Dolores, exhausted by the ordeal throughwhich she had just passed, could at first form no plans for the future.She comprehended but one thing--she was still beloved. Philip'sfaithfulness and the intensity of the love which had just been revealedto her rendered the sacrifice still more difficult. It seemed to her shewould 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. Theyhad a long conversation together. Dolores told him the whole truth. Itwas through her that the Marquis learned that she was loved by Philip,and that she loved him in return, but, being unwilling to place anyobstacle in the way of the plans long since formed with a view to therestoration of the glory of the house of Chamondrin, she had renouncedher hopes and yielded her place and her rights
to Antoinette. TheMarquis had not the courage to refuse the proffered sacrifice, though hefully realized the extent of it. His dearest wishes were about to berealized. While he lamented the fate to which Dolores had condemnedherself, he was grateful for a decision that spared him theunpleasantness of a contest with his son, and which insured that son'smarriage to a rich heiress. Still, when Dolores told him that she haddecided 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 consentto renounce me unless he believes there is an impassable barrier betweenus, unless he believes me dead to the world and to love. Besides, youwould surely not require me to live near one whom I wish to forget. Ishall spend two years in a convent, and then I will return to you."

  M. de Chamondrin, touched by this heroism whose grandeur Dolores, in hersimplicity, did not seem to comprehend, pressed her to his heart in along embrace, covering her face with kisses and murmuring words oftenderness and gratitude in her ears. When they separated, he was notthe least moved of the two. Dolores next went in search of Philip. Shefound him at the Buissieres, the same place where he had entreatedAntoinette 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 itsserenity.

  "Antoinette has spoken to me," she said, firmly, but quietly. "The fearof making you unhappy has until now deterred me from giving you theanswer for which you have been waiting; but after the events of thismorning, I must speak frankly."

  This introduction left Philip no longer in doubt. He uttered a groan, aswith bowed head he awaited the remainder of his sentence.

  "Courage, Philip," Dolores continued: "Do not add to my sorrow by makingme a witness of yours. Since the day you opened your heart that I mightread there the feelings that burdened it, I have been carefullyexamining mine. I wished to find there signs of a love equal to yours; Ihave sought for them in vain. I love you enough to give you my blood andmy happiness, my entire life. I have always loved you thus--loved youwith that sisterly devotion that is capable of any sacrifice. But isthis 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 thepassion which I have inspired in you, and it would ever remain closedeven if I consented to unite myself with you more closely by the bondsof marriage. If I was weak enough to listen to you and to yield to yourwishes, 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 abrother?" said Dolores, vainly endeavoring to console him. "Moreover,such a marriage would be impossible! Would it not be contrary to thewishes of your father? Would it not detract from the glory of the nameyou bear?"

  "And what do the glory of my name and the wishes of my father matter tome?" exclaimed Philip, impetuously. "Was I brought into the world to bemade a victim to such absurd prejudices? For four years I have livedupon this hope. It has been destroyed to-day. What have I to lookforward to now? There is nothing to bind me to life, for, if yourdecision 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 meanmy father, who has reared me with a view to the gratification of his ownselfish ambition? Is it you, Dolores, who seem to take pleasure in mysufferings? 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, summonedall her courage and said coldly, almost sternly:

  "You forget yourself, Philip! You are ungrateful to your father and tome; but even if you doubt our affection, can you say the same ofAntoinette?"

  "Antoinette!"

  "She loves you with the tenderest, most devoted affection. She has saidas much to me, and now that you know it, will you still try to convinceyourself that there are only unfeeling hearts around you?"

  Philip, astonished by this revelation, became suddenly silent. Herecollected that he had confided his hopes and fears to Mademoiselle deMirandol that very morning; and when he thought of the trying positionin which he had placed her, and of what she must have suffered, his pitywas 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?" askedDolores, gently.

  These words kindled Philip's anger afresh.

  "What power have I to annihilate the memory of that which at once charmsand tortures me?" he exclaimed. "Can I tear your image from its shrinein my heart and put that of Antoinette in its place? Do you think thatyour words will suffice to destroy the hopes I have cherished so long?Undeceive yourself, Dolores. I am deeply disappointed, but I will notgive you up. I will compel you to love me, if it be only through thepity which my despair will inspire in your heart."

  These frenzied words caused Dolores the most poignant anguish withoutweakening her determination in the least. She felt that she must destroythe hope to which Philip had just alluded--that this was the only meansof compelling him lo accept the love of Antoinette; so she said,gravely:

  "I love you too much, Philip, to desire to foster illusions which willcertainly never be realized. My decision is irrevocable; and if youstill doubt the truth of my words, I will frankly tell you all. I ampromised----"

  "Promised!" exclaimed Philip, with a menacing gesture for the unknownman who had dared to become his rival. "Promised!" he repeated. "Towhom?"

  "To God!" responded Dolores, gently. "I have just informed your fatherof my determination to enter a convent!"

  Philip recoiled in horror and astonishment; then covering his face withhis hands he fled through the lonely park, repeating again and again thename of her whom he so fondly loved but who would soon be lost to himforever. For some moments, Dolores remained motionless on the spot whereshe had just renounced her last hope of earthly happiness. Her eyesfollowed Philip in his frenzied flight, and, when he disappeared, shestretched out her hands with a gesture of mingled longing and despair.But the weakness that had made this courageous soul falter for aninstant soon vanished. She lifted her eyes toward Heaven as if imploringstrength from on high and then walked slowly in the direction of thechateau. Suddenly, at a turn in the path, she met Coursegol. She had nottime to conceal her face and he saw her tears. The memory of the pastand the affection that filled his heart emboldened him to question onewhom he regarded in some degree, at least, as his own child.

  "Why do you weep, my dear Mademoiselle?" he asked, with anxioussolicitude.

  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 whenthe heart longs to pour out its sorrows to another heart thatunderstands and sympathizes with its woes. Coursegol made his appearanceat a propitious moment. Dolores regarded him with something very likefilial affection; she had loved him devotedly even when she supposedherself the daughter of the Marquis de Chamondrin, and now that she knewher origin she regarded the son of a peasant as equal in every respectto a descendent of the gypsies, so she did not hesitate to open her soulto him. She told him of the conflicts through which she had passed andthe suffering they had caused her. She acknowledged the ardent love thathad given her courage and strength to sacrifice her own happiness; andshe wept before the friend of her childhood as unrestrainedly as shewould have wept before her own father.

  "I have been expecting this," said Coursegol, sadly. "Poor children, thetruth was revealed too soon. You should have been left in ignoranceuntil one of you was married. Then you would not have thought ofunit
ing your destinies. Your mutual friendship would not have beentransformed into an unfortunate passion and all this misery would havebeen 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 andexuberant spirits, immure yourself in a cloister! Impossible!"

  "There is no alternative," said Dolores, repeating to Coursegol what shehad already said to the Marquis.

  "I see that you must leave this house, but why do you select a cloisterfor 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 toleave everything and follow you? Where do you wish to go? I willaccompany you; I will serve and defend you. I have some little propertyand it is entirely at your disposal."

  He made this offer very simply, but in a tone that left no possibledoubt of his sincerity. Though she was touched by his devotion, Doloresfirmly refused. She explained that his place was at the chateau, andthat, as she expected to return there herself after Philip's marriage, aconvent would be the safest and most dignified retreat she could enter.

  "So be it, then," responded Coursegol; "but should you ever change yourplans, remember that my life, my little fortune and my devotion areyours, 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 inArles, not as a postulant--for she did not wish to devote herself to areligious life--but as a boarder, which placed a barrier between her andPhilip for the time being, but left her free to decide upon her future.

  Her departure filled Philip with despair. The death of Dolores could nothave caused him more intense sorrow. For was she not dead to him? Shehad carefully concealed the fact that her sojourn at the convent wouldnot be permanent. He supposed she had buried herself there forever. Hemourned for her as we weep for those that death wrests from us,destroying their lives and our happiness at a single blow; but the veryviolence of his grief convinced his father that he was not inconsolable.There are sorrows that kill; but, if they do not kill when they firstfall upon us, we recover; and this would be the case with Philip. Thecertainty that Dolores would never belong to another, that she hadrefused him only to give herself to God, was of all circumstances theone most likely to console him. The presence of Antoinette--who honestlybelieved all Dolores had said concerning the state of her heart and thepurely sisterly affection she felt for her adopted brother--and thetimid, shrinking love of the young girl also aided not a little inassuaging his grief. However ardent your passion may be, you becomereconciled to disappointment when the object of your love refuses youraffection only to consecrate herself to God, and when she leaves withyou as a comforter a companion who is her equal in gentleness and ingoodness, if not in energy and nobility of character. Without enteringinto other details, this sufficiently explains how Philip's passionategrief came to abate in violence.

  He wished to leave Chamondrin the very next day after the departure ofDolores, and to return to Versailles where his regiment was stillstationed; but his father's entreaties induced him to abandon thisproject. The Marquis assured him that he could not live abandoned byboth Dolores and his son, so Philip remained. This was one advantagegained for the Marquis. The causes previously referred to andAntoinette's charms accomplished the rest. Philip began to regard theirmarriage without aversion; but he would not consent to abruptly cast offone love for another. Time was needed for the transition. Even as hewould have mourned for Dolores dead, he wished to mourn the Dolores hehad lost, and to wait until his wounded heart was healed. He gave hisfather and also Mademoiselle de Mirandol to understand that, while hedid 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 greatdiscretion, and matters were moving along smoothly when political eventswhich had become more and more grave in character suddenly complicatedthe situation.