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.