"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 Nîmes 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, reassured 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 circumstances attendant upon Dolores' arrival at the château. 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 passed a happy childhood in the Château de Chamondrin, where she was loved, petted and caressed as if she had been the little Martha whose loss had deprived the Marquise of reason for many dreary months. Nothing was left undone to render the illusion complete in the eyes of the members of the household and in her own. The first companion of her childish play was Philip, who called her sister; and she pillowed her fair head on the bosom of the Marquise without a shadow of fear and fondly called her mother. The Marquise loved her as devotedly as she had loved her own daughter; Coursegol regarded her with an affection whose fervor was mingled with the deference he owed to the children of his master. As for the servants, they treated Philip and Dolores with equal respect; and there were no relatives or friends of the family who did not take pleasure in exhibiting their fondness for the little creature whose presence had cured the Marquise of the most terrible of maladies.
It is true that Dolores was such a lovely child no one could help loving her. She promised to resemble her mother. She had the same luxuriant golden hair, the same large, dark eyes, the same energy, the same sweetness of disposition and of voice. The Marquis and Coursegol, who had seen the gypsy, and who still remembered her, were often struck by the strong resemblance that seemed to make Tiepoletta live again in Dolores. The child also possessed the same tender heart, vivid imagination and honorable instincts. Her mind absorbed with marvellous facility the instruction which she received from the Marquis and which she shared with his son. She had a wonderful memory, and what she learned seemed to be indelibly imprinted upon her mind. She was loving in disposition, docile and sweet-tempered, and had already won the love of all who came in contact with her.
Philip actually worshipped his little sister. He was five years her senior, a large, noisy, almost coarse boy, rather vain of his birth and of the authority which enabled him to lord it over the little peasants who sometimes played with him. But these faults, which were destined to be greatly modified by time, concealed a thoroughly good heart and disappeared entirely when he was with Dolores.
It was amusing to see the tenderness and care with which he surrounded her. If they were walking together in the park, he removed all the stones which might hurt her tiny feet or cause her to stumble. If a dainty morsel fell to his share at the table, he transferred it from his plate to that of Dolores. If they dressed her in any new garment, he was never weary of admiring her, of telling her how beautiful she was, and of fondling her luxuriant golden curls. If it was necessary to punish Philip, they had only to deprive him of the society of Dolores. But unfortunately this punishment, the most severe that could be inflicted upon him, grieved his sister as much as it did him, so it was used rarely and only in grave cases. One of the favorite amusements of the two children was to walk with Coursegol, and this was not a delight to them alone, for that faithful fellow was never so happy as when roving about the fields with them.
Often, during those lovely spring mornings that are so charming in the south, they descended the hill and strolled along the banks of the Garden. The delicately-tinted willows that grew on the banks drooped over the stream, caressing it with their flexible branches. Above the willows, fig trees, olives and vineyards covered the base of the hill with foliage of a darker hue, which in turn contrasted with the still deeper green of the cypress trees and pines that grew upon the rocky sides of the cliff. This luxuriant vegetation, of tints as varied as those of an artist's palette, mirrored itself in the clear waters below together with the arches of the massive Pont du Gard, whose bold yet graceful curves were festooned with a dense growth of creeping vines.
Coursegol called the children's attention to the beauties of the scene, thus awakening in their young hearts appreciation of the countless charms of nature. They played in the sand; they fished for silver carp; hunted for birds' nests among the reeds. There were merry shouts of laughter, continual surprises and numberless questions. In answering these, all Coursegol's rather primitive but trusty knowledge on scientific subjects was called into requisition. When they returned home they were obliged to pass the cave, and Dolores, who knew nothing of her history, often entered it in company with Philip if they found it unoccupied by the much-dreaded gypsies.
At certain seasons of the year, early in the spring and late in the summer, roving bands of Bohemians encamped on the banks of the Gardon, and Philip and Dolores took good care not to approach them, especially after an evening when an old gypsy woman, struck perhaps by the child's resemblance to Tiepoletta, pointed Dolores out to some of the tribe who went into ecstasies over her beauty. One of the gypsies approached the children to beg, which so terrified them that they clung frantically to Coursegol, who found it difficult to reassure them.
These pleasant rambles, the lessons which she recited to her adopted father, the religious instruction she received from the Marquise and long hours of play with Philip made up the life of Dolores. Day succeeded day without bringing anything to break the pleasant monotony of their existence, for the capture of a mischievous fox, an encounter with some harmless snake, or the periodical overflow of the Gardon could scarcely be dignified by the name of an event: yet these, or similar incidents furnished the children with topics of conversation for weeks together.
They took little interest in the news that came from Paris, and though they sometimes observed a cloud on the brow of the Marquis, or tears in the eyes of his wife, they were ignorant of the cause. Nor was it possible for them to understand the gravity of the political situation or the well-founded fears of the Royalists, which