The Story of Christine Rochefort

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PRINTED FROM AMERICAN PLATES AT THE ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS. BY (^ HELEN CHOATE PRINCE Nos maux font nos 'biens LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1895 All rights reserved OVERTURE And what is writ is writ, — Would it were worthier ! Childe Harold. To the imaginative traveller there are few places that appeal more to the heart and intellect than the little gray town of Blois, nestling on the banks of the blue Loire, and surrounded by its noble forests. The kings that gave it fame in the far-off years have passed away, but the courtly robe they threw over their favorite place, though frayed and faded, is still worn with a regal air, and to the " inward eye " and ear shadows and echoes of the past are more real than the affairs of to-day. The garden attached to the Bishop's Palace, built on high stone terraces, commands a view of the old moss-covered roofs at its base belonging to the houses of the lower town close by the river ; beyond them is the water flowing with quiet dignity under the arches of the bridge, and beyond that, again, are still stretches of emerald-green meadows fading into misty blue distances, where clumps of trees shelter the placid herds.

As one walks through this garden, between the gnarled trunks of the ilexes, he meets many a priest hastening on churchly errands ; here strolls a Franciscan monk in his brown robes, and there consult two Sisters of Mercy dressed in their fresh gray gowns, the crucifix conspicuous against the pure white kerchiefs covering their shoulders. Passing through the arched gateway, the cathedral rises majestically on the left, the principal tower piercing the blue sky and sheltering the jackdaws, who chuckle busily as they fly about it, perching on the grim gargoyles. Then the road lies down a steep paved way to the lower town, flanked by overhanging houses whose oak beams bear many a mark of primitive carving ; and at the foot of the hill, across the busy street where commerce tries to jostle history aside, and pretends that it only is real, and the other a dream, stands the tower of gold, where the counts of Blois used to coin their own money.

Again the narrow ways twist and turn, and at last we stand breathless at the top of a steep flight of stone steps, and there, at the other end of the spacious place, is the Chateau de Blois, silent, except for the gurgling of the blackbirds in the massive chestnut-trees in front of it. And now the shadowy curtains left by succeed ing centuries roll away, as one sees an August mist at sea dispelled by the sun, and clearer, yet more clear, stand out the actors who played their parts on this stage in days gone by ; and the quaint wing of the " Father of his people," the sumptuous addition of the splendor-loving Fran cois, and the arrogant encroachment of Gaston d'Orleans become merely stage-settings as the comedies and tragedies of history pass before the wondering eye. How rich we moderns are !

Chapter I

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, Tlie devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow ! i Shelley. In one of the large gray houses, almost a chateau, standing in its sjiacious gardens, and facing the river, lived the Countess d'Arey, with her two daughters, Christine and Blanche, and her mother, the Marquise dti Chatelet. When Christine, the elder by three years, was fifteen, her father died, and the property, which had always seemed to be sufficiently ample, proved to be comprised only in their country-place, the small hotel in Paris, and the home in Blois. Madame d'Arey found she could barely manage to live by selling the Paris property, and renting the country-place, which, for tunately for her, was much sought after on account of its situation in the centre of a hunting commu nity.

The hitherto despised mansion in Blois opened its arms to the bereft family, and the countess summoned up courage to write to her mother, asking her to share it with them. The Marquise du Chatelet, who twelve years before this had quarrelled with her son-in-law, allowed her heart to soften towards her widowed and im poverished daughter, and after a delay, calculated to increase the delight of her accepting the in vitation, she arrived, accompanied by her maid, her old laces, and her naughty novels. Six weeks in Paris in the spring would compensate her a little for the dull life she entered, and Christine saw with troubled surprise a merry smile on her mother's worn face, for the first time in her life, when the marquise was safely installed. The girl had adored her gay, handsome father, and could not understand the evident relief his death had brought to her mother, accompanied as it was by the loss of all she herself had most loved.

In her youthful ignorance she blamed the living, and then suffered that any one she loved deserved blame. It was not the lack of money in their new mode of life that fretted her, for she hardly noticed any difference. Madame du Chatelet shared all ex penses, and kept her carriage and pair. The most essential of the old servants stayed on with them, and as Christine and Blanche had always dressed simply she missed no luxuries in that line. But it was her old home for which she longed so hopelessly : the trees, each one of them a friend ; the dogs, who used to come bounding to her in an ecstasy when she took her walks in the free, open air life. Now she was limited bythe boundaries of a large village. AVhen the familyr was established in Blois, the sisters were sent as day-scholars to the Ursuline Convent, where day by day the peaceful monotony became dear to Christine ; too dear, her grandmother thought.

One afternoon, when the marquise was seated as usual by the crackling wood fire, with a yellow-covered book in her hand, she called her daughter from her desk, where, with troubled brows, she was adding up two long col umns of figures. " Annette," said the older woman, " leave that uninteresting ciphering and come here. I wish to speak to you about Christine. I am troubled about the child." Madame d'Arcy's anxious face took on added lines of worry as she came quickly across the room. "What do you mean, mamma? She is quite well. What are you thinking of? " " I am thinking of this : Christine, with her wonderful beauty, is drifting every day nearer a nun's veil, and if you wish to see me laid in my tomb be fore my time, you will encourage her in this idea." " But, oh dear, I never imagined such a thing ; what has made you ?

Christine has always been strange and different, somehow — but — oh, how you have upset me ! " Madame du Chatelet's keen old eyes gleamed brightly as she said, — "Don't blame me, idiot; thank me for seeing a yard before me, and let us think of a way to stop such a calamity'. Religion is all very well for old maids aud octogenarians, but Heaven forbid that Christine should take to it." " Oh, mamma, how can you say such awful thing's ? " " Yes, yes, I understand it all. It is the fash ion to be religious in Blois. I suppose because there is nothing else to do. I sometimes wonder whether, if Monseigneur were old and snuffy instead of having such a fine presence, that woidd change things ? Never mind me, Annette ; I promise you to confess all my sins and give a candle to St. Joseph into the bargain to relieve you.

At my age, with a husband twenty years in his grave, it is quite safe to make up to St. Joseph, though I think he gets a good deal too much petting and gratitude. However, of all the wretched babies he sends into the world, probably one half curse him for his interference before they are through with it ; so I fancy lie averages the good with the bad. But now about Christine." " Yes," said Madame d'Arey eagerly, " tell me what has given you this idea, mamma. You know she has always been odd and unlike other girls, and I fancy you do not quite understand her." " How do you mean she is unlike other girls ? " asked Madame du Chatelet. " I mean she has always had strange thoughts, and has never been content with her dolls, as Blanche was, but would go dreaming off into the woods by herself ; and sometimes she would say the trees were her friends, and each had a soul that talked to her through its leaves.

Then Heaven only knows what I suffered with the child over her fidgets about animals snffering ; she would sob and cry when the sheep and pigs were sent to mar ket, and nothing woidd ever induce her to eat one of our own chickens or pigeons. She has always been a great comfort to me in a religious way, though, for she is very devout. Her character is peculiar ; I don't see where she got it." " Her kindness from dear Rene, perhaps, and her reverence from me," returned the marquise, her black eyes twinkling with malice, for the late count's brutality to his wife had been the cause of her estrangement from him. She repented her saying when she saw her daughter flush painfully and turn away her head. " Listen, Annette, dear child ; I did not think you would mind my little joke ; and to prove it to you, I mean to try and prepare for that everlasting tomb you carry in your mind whenever I say any thing wicked."

" Oh, mamma," interrupted Madame d'Arey, " I cannot understand your putting such undaugh terly things into my mouth." She was really shocked, and her mother was enchanted. " There, there, let me have my say. To please you I will confess to-morrow, if you will see it is a clean one, and that it has not eaten garlic for breakfast." " It? " asked Madame d'Arey innocently. " Yes, yes, the priest, or abbe", or cure, or what ever it may be. You cannot call those petticoated creatures he, nor yet she. But you have my word, and I will go to confession to-morrow ; though I tell you frankly that no one can absolve me for the only deed in my life I really regret, and that is, your existence." The conversation had gone to a point that was embarrassing to the younger woman, and she adroitly changed it by saying, " But all this has nothing to do with Christine."

"Ah, yes, the child," returned Madame du Cha telet dreamily. "The girl worries me, Annette. It is best to speak openly in these matters," she added, with a sudden change of tone. " You know as well as I do that there will be hardly enough money out of all your hoardings and economies to give one a respectable dowryr, not to mention two. Now Blanche is well enough in her way, and may grow up fairly good looking, but she will need a sugar coating before any one will swallow her ; while Christine has very uncommon beauty, of a kind as unaccountable as her disposition, for no one I ever saw or heard of in either our family or that of the d'Arcys had the striking golden hair and fair skin she has. We must consider her looks of value in a money sense, and we must marry her, without a dot, in such a way that she can aid her sister.

But if the little fool becomes a nun, as I more than suspect from my conversations with her when she had no idea I was drawing her out, she will spoil all our plans." " But what would you do, dear mamma? " asked Madame d'Arey helplessly. All her energy was for tangible affairs, those of mind or spirit being vaguely impenetrable to her, " I have mapped out a campaign,", answered the old marquise, aroused and entertained by the shadow of an intrigue. " You remember when your second cousin Hortense married the English artist, Richard Huntley ? Very well, I helped that match on ; in fact, they could not have taken tlie first step without me. I did it to spite Hortense's mother, whom I never liked, and who had managed to get your grandmother to leave her the set of pearls which I, as her son's wife, should have had ; but Hortense never suspected such a thing, and writes me every now and then how happy she is, and reiterating her gratitude.

Huntley unexpect edly inherited something handsome from an uncle, which very likely has a good deal to do with her happiness, but that is neither here nor there. My plan is that I shall write to Hortense, asking her to invite Christine to London for a long visit ; and it is my impression that the luxurious, artistic life they lead will make the convent look a trifle color less." " Christine . is very young ; she will not be seven teen for two more months," said Madame d'Arey doubtfully, when her mother stopped speaking. But a few more arguments convinced her that the idea was a good one, and the grandmother's none too well filled purse was generously opened to send the young girl to a land where she might be con verted to irreligion. The change was great and bewildering to Chris tine, who had always lived in seclusion, and at first she felt she could never be reconciled to leave her family for an indefinite time ; but when Mrs. Huntley 's warmly welcoming letter was read, thanking them for sending a young life into her childless home, she felt a thrill of friendship for the writer, and in the few hurried days intervening between the receipt of this letter and her depar ture she was saddened to feel her heart beating with impatience to be off.

Her grandmother had only half divined her wish to be a nun, which had scarcely taken a definite shape in her own mind. The truth was, the girl was unhappy at home. Her mother's conduct since her father's death shocked her by the lack of grief it showed. Madame d'Ar cy's crepe was as abundant as the strictest dress maker in Blois could wish, but the dailv evidence that she was happier living in a restricted manner without her husband than she had been when surrounded by the show of wealth with him, cut Christine to the heart, and, being ignorant of the fear and repulsion her mother had felt for her father, she sat in reproachful judgment, silently condemning every smile. The unwonted excite ment of travel, the hearty affection accorded her by her distant cousin, first for her grandmother's sake, but soon for her own, drove troublous ideas from her mind, and in the artistic atmosphere of the Huntleys' home a new life opened to her.

She had always been a passionate lover of nature, but as no one had ever given her any sympathy she had locked up her enthusiasms in her own heart, and now for the first time she saw the same love of the beautiful recognized and encouraged. For two years she stayed in England, loving and loved by her hosts. Her bright beauty received a fitting frame in their charming house, and her mind opened and expanded under the judicious guidance of her cousin. Mr. Huntley taught her to love the literature of his country, and took an ever fresh delight in moving her to tears or laugh ter over the books he read aloud to her. The best people met in his studio, and Christine learned much from them, as she sat, modest and un assuming1, listening to the clever talk. She learned much in another way, also, from daily contact with two people who honestly loved each other ; but this was not the lesson her grandmother had in tended.

It was early in March when the decisive letter canie, calling her back to Blois, and this parting had more real pain in it than the last one. Ma dame d'Arey met her in Paris, where some friends of Mr. Huntley's had travelled with her, and in the confusion of saying good-by and thanking them, finding her two small trunks, and securing a cab to take them from one station to the other, there was scant time for greetings between the mother and daughter. Once fairly rolling along they clasped each other in a warm embrace, and the instinctive love, always there, asserted itself. " You have changed, Christine ; you look older, but — very well." Madame d'Arey had been almost •1 dazzled by the girl's beauty, but she was discreet. " And you have changed, mamma ; only you look younger and prettier." As the train drew near Blois, Christine's heart began to beat at the thought of being once more at home, and seeing Blanche and her grandmother.

She looked eagerly, front the window, at the castle and at her dear cathedral, and felt a thrill as she pictured the meeting await ing her. Madame du Chatelet's carriage was standing at the station door, and as, all impatience, she was about to enter, she heard her mother give an address to the coachman. "Where are you going?" she asked, surprised. " To the dressmaker's at once. Monseigneur has been kind enough to invite you to collect the offer tory next Sunday, and as this is Tuesday there is no time to spare, for you must be suitably dressed for it." "But Blanche — but grandmamma" — faltered Christine. " I am so anxious to see them." " There will be plenty of time for that," an swered her mother, and the girl felt she had come back to the town of small things. She was right ; no one asked her any questions, and the great event of the coming Sunday was the only thing spoken of.

Blanche told her she envied her this honor more than any of the fun she had had in England ; Madame du Chatelet was evidently as much pleased as her daughter at the compliment paid the family, although she tried to conceal it under her usual scoffing tone. old marquise was the only one who looked just as she had two years before. Blanche had grown taller and had acquired a certain air of dis tinction, and Madame d'Arey was stouter and more placid looking than Christine remembered her ; but her grandmother, sitting in the same high-backed chair, the window behind her, the fire in front, made it difficult to realize that a day had passed over her since the parting. She was small and slight, always dressed in a soft silk brocade she im ported yearly from China, of the darkest shade of purple plum, with soft creamy falls of old lace at her throat and wrists ; her abundant silvery hair was exquisitely arranged, a bit of lace giving the effect of a cap without its heaviness ; her finely cut features and small sparkling black eyes bore little impress of age.

Her hands, even in her youth her chief beauty, were still a source of vanity to her, and she loved to look at them, examining the pink, almond - shaped nails, the rosy palms, and the dimples that marked the knuckles, with childish pleasure, — these small, idle hands, that had never done anything harder than cut the leaves of a new novel. She owned many rings, but never wore more than one at a time, and Blanche found un failing interest in examining each in turn. To Christine's eyes the house looked a little more used, a trifle shabbier, but on the whole de pressingly the same. The family portraits were in their old places, the ornaments were arranged in the same order on table and mantelpiece. With exception of a volume by Guy de Maupassant on her grandmother's lap, there was not a book in sight.

Madame d'Arcy's cross-stitch tapestry was the only sign of occupation in the drawing-room, where they habitually sat. At first the girl did not quite know what she missed, but she felt suffocated, as though she were shut in a box. After the continual movement of life at the Huntleys', where the every-day talk was of the great things of the world, it was like sitting beside a stagnant, moss-green moat, instead of rambling by a rushing mountain stream. Christine was for bidden to leave the garden until Sunday was a thing of the past. " I want my friends to have their first impression of you in the most advantageous light," her mother told her solemnly. " Your friends !" exclaimed Madame du Chate let. " Say your one friend and a half, if you wish to speak the truth. I do not believe there are more than six families your mother is on speaking terms with in the whole town, but all six call on her every Monday, and she returns the calls during the week ; so you will find ample occupation in accompanying her, and never realize what dullness means."

Christine's heart grew heavy this first evening at home, and a reproachful sadness took possession of her as she realized she was longing and grieving for one moment in London. She half shut her eyes, and the studio was before her. At this time her cousins had finished dinner, and were sitting before the crackling logs in the great fireplace. The lamp at Mr. Huntley 's elbow threw out a small circle of light on his book, and the moon was casting cold reflections on the floor through the high windows. There was a mingled odor of roses, violets, and cigarette smoke ; the mastiff on the rug was sleeping with a small black kitten between his paws, and every now and then cousin Hortense would interrupt her husband in his reading to ask him if they were not adorable. Later, one or two friends would drop in, each with something to say of interest or amusement, and the hours would seem all too short for the group round the fire. " You look tired, Christine ; yrou ought to go to bed, after such a long journey," said her mother. And so the day ended.

Chapter II

The many still must labor for the one. The Corsair. There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him. The Prisoner of Chillon. Palm Sunday dawned clear and crisp ; by ten o'clock the streets were gay with throngs of church goers, and the cathedral bells boomed out a welcome to all. Although the social laws at Blois are inex orable, separating Royalist and Republican, noble and merchant, civil and military, as totally as if they lived hundreds of miles instead of hundreds of feet apart, there were many friendlyr greetings this bright morning, aud two people walking a little apart from the rest received bows of that peculiar gloom and offishness by which we mean to convey the feeling of sympathy for a bereavement. They were the widow and only son of the great chocolate manufacturer, Monsieur Rochefort, who had died a fortnight before, and this was the first time they had appeared in public.

It can hardly be said with truth that Madame Rochefort appeared now, for her intimate friends might have been puzzled to tell who the person was moving beneath the canopy of crepe ; but her son Gaston, on whose arm she leaned, was the object of close scrutiny and much admiration. His mother, in spite of her recent loss, could not repress a feeling of pride as she looked at her handsome boy, and told herself for the thousandth time that his heart matched his body. Even one who was not his mother could find a pleasure in seeing his clear, fresh face, his honest gray eyes, and his round, well-shaped, and slightly aggressive head. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and evidently in good training, having that unmis takable look of health and alertness that marks the athlete. His father had made a large fortune in his business, where he had worked his way from employee to master, and by judicious and not over scrupulous methods had trebled it.

He was feared by his workmen, disliked by his associates, and, when Gaston was but a boyr, had made up his mind to give him a gentleman's education, and in order to accomplish this had sent him to an English cler gyman, who fitted boys for Cambridge while giving them the advantages of home-life. It is difficult to tell what had suggested this idea to Monsieur Rochefort, but its result, as far as it went, was good. Gaston learned to read a little Latin, and less Greek, to row in good form, play an average game of cricket, and to become an apprecia tive friend of horses. He went even further than this, for his teacher, a muscular Christian of the Hughes and Kingsley type, impressed on him an ad miration for love of justice and fair play that was rather remarkable in his father's sou ; and although at times he felt impelled to punch any British head that was handy, to prove they were not monopolists of these attributes, as is often asserted in England, he was always ready with generous applause at any display of them.

When his fellow-students departed for the university', he remained a year longer in the parsonage, and then, after a brief visit to his parents, entered upon his term of army service in a cavalry regi ment. During this time he made many friends among his brother officers, and his leaves of absence were claimed by them, so he saw very little of his home, and was almost a stranger in Blois. His father, growing steadily in wealth, was more feared and disliked year by year ; recognizing this fact, which, excepting in so far as it concerned Gaston, made no impression on him, he wished his son to avoid anything that might prove unpleasant, and expressed his wish to have him live in Paris after his duty to his country was at an end. The young man was obedient, and showed himself most filial in helping his father choose a small but ex quisitely appointed apartment in one of the most sought for quarters of the city, hired a convenient stable, and even took advice from him in picking out four half-bred coach horses and one or two others of purer blood.

He was grateful for the generosity shown him, and looked forward with unmixed pleasure to a life of freedom ; Monsieur Rochefort's only command being that when he was tired of amusement he should marry into a good family. For the next two years there was no question of being tired of anything ; essentially a man's man, he found increasing interest in his horses, his athletic pursuits, and his club friends. Under all the froth and foam he knew there was solid stuff, and sometimes a bourgeois longing for work came to him. All these influences served to make him what is called a man of the world. But he had never had his education finished by that most finishing process, familiar intercourse, friendly or otherwise, with a woman of the world ; consequently he retained the obstinate arrogance of a schoolboy as far as womankind went, and though he revered and idolized the best of them, there was a feudal ring even in his praises.

In Paris social lines are not drawn as sharply as in the provinces, and he had a good position there, holding his own with the best ; for, wealth apart, his pluck, generosity, and real kindness of heart made him popular with high and low, while an indomitable mixture of obstinacy and pugnacity obtained for him respect. There was always a vague idea in his mind that after a little he would go home and hel}_> the gov ernor in his work, although the parental wishes to the contrary had been vigorously expressed ; but when the news of his father's illness and death came to him in quick succession, giving him no sufficient warning so that he might for the last time express his gratitude, if not his love, towards the old man, vague ideas had to be abandoned, and practical ones put in their places.

He did not commit himself before carefully ex amining his affairs. He found himself the owner of a property, large, to be sure, but shrunken somewhat during the last months before Monsieur Rochefort's death, and not colossal when his mother's share of it would have been paid over to her. The chocolate manufactory had always been the source of a handsome yearly sum, and Gaston found that money matters in France were in such a poor condition that it would be difficult to sell the business unless he almost gave it away. There was the alternative before him of shutting down the works and living on his income, which would en able him to more than maintain his former state in Paris, or keeping on in his father's track as a man ufacturer. He shut himself in his own room, and by the time he had smoked a bunch of cigarettes his mind was made up : he would go on with the business.