Which? Part 2

One night the Marquise volunteered to watch while her husband slept, and, in administering some medicine to her child, mistook the vial and poisoned her. Martha died and it was impossible to conceal the cause of her death from the grief-stricken mother. Her despair was even more poignant than that of her husband for with hers was mingled a frightful remorse which all the tenderness of the Marquis could not a.s.suage. This despair caused an attack of fever from which she recovered, but which left her in a still more pitiable condition. A profound calm had succeeded the paroxysms of fever; and her sorrow no longer betrayed itself in sobs and lamentations, but only in silent tears and heart-breaking sighs. These alarming symptoms soon revealed the truth: reason had fled. For hours at a time poor Edmee rocked to and fro, with a bundle of rags clasped tightly to her breast, crooning over it the same lullaby she had been wont to sing over her sleeping child.

Physicians summoned from Avignon, Nimes and Montpellier tried in vain to overcome this deep despondency, which was far more dangerous than frenzy. Their skill was powerless; they could not give the Marquis even the slightest ray of hope. It was not long before the Marquise became frightfully pale and emaciated, while her mind was more than ever under the control of the monomania which saw her daughter in all the objects that surrounded her. She took, by turns, flowers, articles of clothing and of furniture, lavis.h.i.+ng every mark of affection upon them and calling them by the most endearing names until their insensibility dispelled the illusion and she cast them aside with loathing to seek elsewhere the child for which she mourned.

These afflictions, the rapidity with which they had followed one another and their magnitude impaired the health of the Marquis. He fell ill in his turn, and for more than a month Coursegol thought the shadow of death was hovering over his master. But the Marquis was young and strong; and the thought that if he succ.u.mbed his son would be left an orphan produced a salutary reaction. He was soon on his feet again, and, though he was always sad, he accepted his misfortunes bravely and resolved to live for his son's sake.

These events occurred about a year before Tiepoletta dragged herself to the door of the chateau to die in Coursegol's arms, confiding her daughter to his care.

After he had prayed for the departed, Coursegol rose, took up little Dolores and went out into the court-yard, calling:

"Master Philip! Master Philip!"

The little fellow, who was playing in charge of one of the servant-maids, came running to answer the summons. He was now four years old. His pretty and rather delicate face was surrounded by a profusion of brown curls, and his large eyes revealed an intelligence and thoughtfulness unusual in a child of his age. He talked well enough to make himself clearly understood, and understood all that was said to him in reply.

"See this pretty baby!" said Coursegol, displaying Dolores.

"A doll!" exclaimed Philip, clapping his hands in rapture.

"Yes, in flesh and blood," replied Coursegol; "a doll that cries, that will grow and talk to you and amuse you."

"When?" demanded Philip.

"When she grows up."

"Then make her grow up immediately," ordered the little autocrat.

Then, seizing Coursegol's hand, he dragged him to the kitchen, for he wished to show every one his newfound treasure without delay. A crowd of servants soon gathered around Philip and Coursegol. The latter was explaining how the infant had come into his possession, and every one was marvelling at the strangeness of the adventure, when the Marquise suddenly appeared. The poor creature was always closely followed by a woman who was ordered never to lose sight of her mistress. She wandered about the chateau, never noisy or troublesome, but recognizing no one, not even her husband or her own child. She now advanced towards the little group which respectfully divided to make way for her. One could scarcely imagine a more pitiable sight than that presented by this beautiful young woman, whose haggard eyes, unbound hair and disordered garments revealed her insanity in spite of her attendant's efforts to keep her neatly dressed. At that moment, she was holding a piece of wood tightly to her bosom, and was singing softly as she advanced with measured steps as if trying to lull this supposed child to sleep.

Suddenly she paused, threw the fragment of wood far from her and burst into tears.

All the spectators of this scene stood motionless, overcome with pity, though they witnessed a similar spectacle each day and many times a day.

Little Philip in his terror clung closely to Coursegol. The Marquise pa.s.sed, looked at him, and, shaking her head, murmured:

"That is not what I am looking for!" Suddenly she stopped as if riveted to the spot. Her eyes had fallen upon the sleeping Dolores cradled in Coursegol's arms. There was such an intentness in her gaze, she was regarding the child with so much persistence, that a strange thought flashed through the mind of the faithful servant.

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, "might it be possible? Retire," he said, hastily, addressing those around him; "take Master Philip away and call the Marquis."

They obeyed: all the servants vanished; the Marquise alone remained.

Then Coursegol deposited the child upon a wide bench that stood against the wall, and, departing in his turn, ran to conceal himself behind a window where he could see his mistress without being seen. It was there the Marquis found him.

"Ah! sir," exclaimed Coursegol on beholding his master, "I believe madame is saved. Heaven has inspired me. But what if I am mistaken?" he added, anxiously. "What if she should kill the poor little thing?"

"What do you say? What have you done? Run and take the child from her.

Have we not had misfortunes enough already? Go, I tell you!"

"It is too late!" replied Coursegol, terribly excited. "Look!"

After devouring Dolores with her eyes for several moments, the Marquise gently approached her with outstretched arms, her face strangely altered by the emotion that filled her heart. Curiosity, surprise and fear were imprinted upon her features. She leaned over the child and scrutinized it anew; then, with an eager movement, seized it, pressed it to her bosom and started as if to run away with it. But when she had gone perhaps twenty paces, she paused and looked around as if to a.s.sure herself that no one was following her. The Marquis and Coursegol were standing at the half-open window, not daring to breathe, so great was their anxiety. Suddenly they saw the Marquise press little Dolores still closer to her heart, and imprint frenzied kisses upon her brow, while for the first time for many a long month beneficent tears flowed from her eyes. At the same time she exclaimed in a clear, strong voice:

"Hector, my daughter! I have found my daughter!"

The agitated Marquis sprang towards her. She saw him approaching and advanced to meet him, laughing and crying and displaying the child; then, overcome by the violence of her emotion, she fell in his extended arms, devoid of consciousness.

"She is saved!"' said Coursegol, who had followed his master.

"Ah, Coursegol, can it be true?" demanded the Marquis, who could scarcely believe his own eyes.

"Did she not recognize you? Did she not speak to you? Her madness disappeared as soon as her maternal instincts were re-awakened."

They carried the Marquise to her chamber and laid her upon the bed. In obedience to Coursegol's directions a cradle was placed in her room and the infant deposited in it; then the devoted servant mounted a horse and started for Nimes in quest of a physician.

When he returned at the end of three hours, accompanied by the doctor, the Marquise had regained consciousness. They had shown her the sleeping Dolores and, rea.s.sured by the sight of the child, she had fallen asleep.

Occasionally she roused a little and those around her heard her murmur:

"My daughter! my daughter!"

Then, raising herself upon her elbow, she watched the babe in silent ecstasy until overcome with exhaustion she again closed her eyes in slumber.

"I can be of no service here," said the physician. "Her reason has returned unquestionably; and her weakness will be overcome by good care and absolute quiet."

It was in this way that the Marquise was restored to her right mind.

From that day her hold upon life slowly but surely strengthened; she recognized her husband and her son, and it was not long before they could without danger reveal the circ.u.mstances attendant upon Dolores'

arrival at the chateau. Three months later her recovery was complete.

One morning the Marquis sent for Coursegol.

"I gave you Dolores," said he, abruptly; "will you not return her to me?

Henceforth she shall be my daughter."

"She is my daughter as well," replied Coursegol, "but you may take her, sir. Though I relinquish her to you, I do not lose her since I shall live near her, and we can both love her."

The Marquis de Chamondrin offered his hand to Coursegol, thus consenting to the compact that gave Dolores two protectors; and so the daughter of the gypsy, though she had lost her parents, was not an orphan.

CHAPTER III.

THE CHILDHOOD OF DOLORES.

Dolores pa.s.sed a happy childhood in the Chateau de Chamondrin, where she was loved, petted and caressed as if she had been the little Martha whose loss had deprived the Marquise of reason for many dreary months.

Nothing was left undone to render the illusion complete in the eyes of the members of the household and in her own. The first companion of her childish play was Philip, who called her sister; and she pillowed her fair head on the bosom of the Marquise without a shadow of fear and fondly called her mother. The Marquise loved her as devotedly as she had loved her own daughter; Coursegol regarded her with an affection whose fervor was mingled with the deference he owed to the children of his master. As for the servants, they treated Philip and Dolores with equal respect; and there were no relatives or friends of the family who did not take pleasure in exhibiting their fondness for the little creature whose presence had cured the Marquise of the most terrible of maladies.

It is true that Dolores was such a lovely child no one could help loving her. She promised to resemble her mother. She had the same luxuriant golden hair, the same large, dark eyes, the same energy, the same sweetness of disposition and of voice. The Marquis and Coursegol, who had seen the gypsy, and who still remembered her, were often struck by the strong resemblance that seemed to make Tiepoletta live again in Dolores. The child also possessed the same tender heart, vivid imagination and honorable instincts. Her mind absorbed with marvellous facility the instruction which she received from the Marquis and which she shared with his son. She had a wonderful memory, and what she learned seemed to be indelibly imprinted upon her mind. She was loving in disposition, docile and sweet-tempered, and had already won the love of all who came in contact with her.

Philip actually wors.h.i.+pped his little sister. He was five years her senior, a large, noisy, almost coa.r.s.e boy, rather vain of his birth and of the authority which enabled him to lord it over the little peasants who sometimes played with him. But these faults, which were destined to be greatly modified by time, concealed a thoroughly good heart and disappeared entirely when he was with Dolores.

It was amusing to see the tenderness and care with which he surrounded her. If they were walking together in the park, he removed all the stones which might hurt her tiny feet or cause her to stumble. If a dainty morsel fell to his share at the table, he transferred it from his plate to that of Dolores. If they dressed her in any new garment, he was never weary of admiring her, of telling her how beautiful she was, and of fondling her luxuriant golden curls. If it was necessary to punish Philip, they had only to deprive him of the society of Dolores. But unfortunately this punishment, the most severe that could be inflicted upon him, grieved his sister as much as it did him, so it was used rarely and only in grave cases. One of the favorite amus.e.m.e.nts of the two children was to walk with Coursegol, and this was not a delight to them alone, for that faithful fellow was never so happy as when roving about the fields with them.

Often, during those lovely spring mornings that are so charming in the south, they descended the hill and strolled along the banks of the Garden. The delicately-tinted willows that grew on the banks drooped over the stream, caressing it with their flexible branches. Above the willows, fig trees, olives and vineyards covered the base of the hill with foliage of a darker hue, which in turn contrasted with the still deeper green of the cypress trees and pines that grew upon the rocky sides of the cliff. This luxuriant vegetation, of tints as varied as those of an artist's palette, mirrored itself in the clear waters below together with the arches of the ma.s.sive Pont du Gard, whose bold yet graceful curves were festooned with a dense growth of creeping vines.