red to console Dolores
by descanting on the advantages Philip would derive from this journey;
but the poor girl could understand but one thing--that her brother was
to leave her for an indefinite time. For several days before his
departure she scarcely left his side. How many plans were made to be
carried into execution on his return! How many bright hopes were mingled
with the sadness of those last hours! Philip, who had become grave and
serious as befitted his new role, declared that he would never forget
Dolores--that he should love her forever. The hours flew swiftly by and
the day appointed for the separation came all too quickly for those who
were awaiting and dreading it.

The morning that Philip was to start his father sent for him. The young
man was in the court-yard, superintending the preparations for
departure. The servants, superintended by Coursegol, were fastening the
trunks upon the carriage that was to convey the travellers and their
baggage to Avignon, where places had been bespoken for them in the coach
which was then the only mode of conveyance between Marseilles and Paris.

Dolores was standing near Coursegol. Her red eyes, still moist with
tears, and her pale face showed that her sorrow had made sleep
impossible during the previous night; but, in spite of this, she looked
so lovely that Philip was more deeply impressed by her beauty than he
had ever been before. He kissed her tenderly, as he tried to console
her.

"Ah! Philip, why do you leave us?" she exclaimed, reproachfully.

"Because it is necessary both for your sake and mine," he responded. "Do
you not know my father's plans? And if he commands me to go, must I not
obey?"

"That is what I was just telling mademoiselle," began Coursegol. "I
explained to her that the Marquis, your father, was acting wisely in
sending you to court. You will soon make a fortune there, and then you
will return to us laden with laurels and with gold. Shall we not be
happy then, mademoiselle?"

Even while speaking thus, Coursegol found it very difficult to conceal
his own emotion, for though he was pleased to accompany Philip, it cost
him a bitter pang to part with Dolores. Rescued by him, reared under his
very eyes, he loved her as devotedly as he would have loved a child of
his own, had the thought of any other family than that of his master
ever occurred to him.

But his words and Philip's caresses seemed to comfort Dolores. Her sobs
ceased and she dried