APPLE BLOSSOM TIME IN NORMANDY.
After the excitement occasioned by Elise's and Mr. Kinsella's sudden
decision to go to Rome and be married, our friends in the Rue Brea
settled down to weeks of hard work, interspersed with many delightful
jaunts to theaters, picture galleries and places of interest in and near
Paris.
Molly got much from the lectures at the Sorbonne and to her delight
found she could "think in French." They say that is the true test of
whether you know a language.
Judy and Pierce worked diligently at their respective art schools and
made great progress. Judy took no more trips to the country alone. She
said she was big enough, old enough, and ugly enough to take care of
herself, but she was afraid she did not have sense enough.
Mrs. Brown was enjoying herself quite as much as the young people. Her
cousin, the marchioness, looked to it that she did not become lonesome,
including her in all of her plans, taking her shopping, to clubs and
lectures, to teas and receptions. The Marquis d'Ochtè and his son
Philippe were always delighted when the American cousins were able to
dine with them, and they had many charming evenings in their company.
Philippe was a faithful courier, holding himself in readiness to conduct
them any and everywhere. He confided to his mother that he could not
decide which girl, Molly or Judy, he loved most.
"How happy could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away," he
sighed.
"Well, my opinion is you will fall between two stools if you can't
decide which one you want," answered his mother a little sharply,
considering that it was her beloved son she was addressing. "Of course
Molly is my choice, but Judy is charming and lovely, and if you think
you will be happier with her you must not consider me. For my part, I
have my doubts about either one of them accepting you." But Sally
Bolling d'Ochtè was not quite her honest self when she made that last
remark, as she did not see how any girl in her senses could refuse her
beautiful young son. "Next week we will all be at _Roche Craie_ and
maybe you can fix your seesawing heart. Cousin Mildred and the girls are
delighted at the thought of getting out to the country for awhile, and
goodness knows, I'll be glad to quit the glitter of Paris for a quiet
rest."
All of them were glad to have a change. The spring was well under way.
Paris was never more beautiful, with flowers everywhere; but Mrs. Brown
confessed to being a little tired of housekeeping; and Molly was looking
a little fagged. The lecture rooms were hot and the dinners at the
restaurants were not so delightful, now that the novelty had worn off.
Spring fever was the real matter with them and a good lazy time at the
chateau in Normandy was all that was necessary to put them on their feet
again. Pierce Kinsella had been included in the invitation, as the
marchioness slyly told her son, to take care of the girl that he,
Philippe, would finally decide not to be the one of all others for him.
_Roche Craie_ was very interesting to the Americans. It was a castle
literally dug out of chalk cliffs. The so-called new chateau (only about
two hundred years old), was built out in front, but the original old
castle was little more than a cave or series of caves. The family used
only the new part but kept it all in absolute repair. The architecture
was pure Gothic, vaulted roofs and pointed arches. Where the roof and
walls were dug in the chalk, there was an attempt at carving, carrying
out the Gothic spirit. Huge chimneys had their openings in the fields
overhead, and strange, indeed, did it seem to find one of these old
chimneys in a wheat field with poppies and corn flowers growing in its
crevices.
"A very convenient country for Santa Claus to ply his trade," said Molly
to Philippe, who was showing her over the estate. "But what is this
peaked thing with the cross on it?"
"Oh, that is the steeple to the chapel, which is dug very far back under
the hill and is one of the most interesting things about _Roche Craie_.
We did not take you there this morning when we were showing you over the
old castle, as my mother has a kind of horror of it and hates to go in
it. There is a ghost story connected with it, and you must know by this
time how _ma mère_ shuns the disagreeable things of this life," answered
Philippe, looking at Molly with growing admiration. Some persons seem to
belong out of doors and Molly was one of them. Her clear, fine
complexion could stand the searchlight of the brightest sun, her hair
was like burnished gold, her eyes, Philippe thought, like the bluets in
the fields of Normandy.
"Cousin Molly, you remind me of the beautiful Jehane de Saint-Pol.
Jehane of the Fair Girdle, the beloved of Richard Coeur de Lion,
Richard Yea-and-Nay. Her eyes were gray green while yours are of the
most wonderful blue, but there is something about your height and
slenderness, your poise, the set of your head, the glory of your hair
that suggests her. If Mother gives the fancy dress ball that she is
threatening, please go as Jehane. I should like to go as Richard."
Molly blushed. She was always confused by compliments and personalities
and hoped Philippe would stop pressing them on her. They had been
pleasant companions in Paris and she had liked being with him very much.
He was extremely agreeable and well-informed, handsome and charming, but
Molly preferred him as a cousin to a courtier. She had an idea that the
title of "Yea-and-Nay" was rather suitable for him, more suitable than
"Lion Hearted."
"Please tell me the ghost story about the chapel," she begged, changing
the subject adroitly.
"All right, if you won't tell mother I told it. She has a horror of it
and is afraid the servants might get timid and refuse to stay here alone
while we are in Paris, if the old tale were revived. My people, you
perhaps know, were Huguenots. The archives show that it was from flocks
of sheep belonging to _Roche Craie_ that the wool was taken to send as a
present to Queen Elizabeth of England, in return for her gift of nine
pieces of cannon to the downtrodden Huguenots.
"The owner of _Roche Craie_ was one Jean d'Ochtè, a man of great
intelligence and integrity. He had been a gay courtier at the court of
Charles IX, but, there, had come under the influence of Admiral Coligny
and had turned Huguenot. His wife, much younger than himself, the
beautiful Elizabeth, a cousin of the Guises, followed her husband's
example but saw no reason why she need give up all gaiety and pleasure
because of her change of heart. But Jean took her away from the court
and all of its dissipations and dangers and brought her here to the old
chateau, where she was literally buried alive in stupidity and ennui.
"Jean fought with the Prince of Condé against the Guises, but when peace
was finally declared in 1570, I think it was, he came back to _Roche
Craie_ and began to get his estate in order. Elizabeth besought him to
take her back to court where she had been a great favorite, but he
feared that the life of gaiety would undermine her not too strenuous
piety, and refused.
"The Huguenots were seemingly in great favor with Catherine de Medicis,
who was preparing for her great coup, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew.
The d'Ochtès were not overlooked by the cruel queen, but a guard was
sent to _Roche Craie_ headed by a zealous Jesuit. Jean was murdered in
his bed but Elizabeth escaped with her little son Henri to the chapel.
She shut the great iron door and managed to place the heavy bar so that
the soldiers could not open it, but the artful Jesuit came up into this
field and made the soldiers tear down the steeple and then he lowered
himself into the chapel with a rope. It was raining in torrents and as
the steeple was removed the floor was deluged. Elizabeth hid her little
son behind the altar and ran to the door hoping, it is supposed, to
divert the attention of the furious priest from her son to herself. She
shrieked, and the soldiers in the field above heard her agonizing cry,
'God help me, God help me!'
"There was a tremendous clap of thunder and a blinding flash of
lightning. The Jesuit lunged forward with his dagger raised, but the
lightning struck before he could, and he and the Lady Elizabeth met
death at the same moment. Strange to say, the little Henri, hiding
behind the altar, was unharmed. The bolt from heaven had come straight
through the aperture made by tearing down this steeple, not touching the
soldiers in the field above or the frightened child below. It is said
that the bodies of the lady and the priest were both entirely consumed.
The soldiers, taking it as a sign from heaven, spared the young heir of
_Roche Craie_; otherwise, the race would have been exterminated on that
dreadful day.
"And now for the ghost story after my long narrative, which I am afraid
must have bored you sadly."
"Oh, don't think it! I have been thrilled by it. Please go on,"
exclaimed Molly.
"You are very kind to find it interesting. It always excites me,
especially when I think how close little Henri was to being killed; and
had he not been spared, I myself could never have come into existence."
"That would have been a calamity, indeed," laughed Molly.
"Would it have made any difference to you, Cousin Molly? I should like
to think it would have made some difference to you," and Philippe looked
rather more ardent than Molly liked to see him.
"Of course it would make loads of difference to all of us, Philippe. But
the ghost story, the ghost story! I believe you are afraid to tell it to
me."
"Well, the legend runs that on a stormy night if the floor of the
chapel, which is paved with soapstone, gets wet, the footprints of the
Lady Elizabeth, where she ran across the deluged floor, are plainly
visible. She was just out of her bed and her feet were bare. They say it
shows she had a very small foot with a high arch, the print of the heel,
a space where the instep arches over, and then the ball of the foot and
the tiny toes. Peasants passing in the field above have heard (provided
the night is stormy enough), the agonizing cry, 'God help me, God help
me!' seeming to come from the old steeple."
"How wonderful! But tell me, have you never seen the footprints
yourself?"
"Mother has such a horror of the story and the talk about ghosts that I
have spared her feelings and never put the legend to the test. I used to
think I'd go some stormy night alone to the chapel, but when the stormy
nights come I am too sleepy or too indolent or afraid of disturbing
mother or something else turns up, and I never have done it."
The young heir of the d'Ochtès led his cousin to a higher point of the
hill overlooking the chateau where he could show her the whole estate of
_Roche Craie_. It was a beautiful sight. The gentle hills sloped to the
Seine with here and there a sharp cleft showing a cliff of chalk,
standing out very white against the green of the spring grass.
Some of the peasants had their homes in the cliffs, and Philippe assured
Molly that they were very comfortable, dry houses. It was a vast estate
in the highest state of cultivation. The village was clean and
prosperous, consisting of about twenty houses besides the ones dug in
the cliffs, two shops and an inn. Across the river was a forest of great
trees that made the beeches at Chatsworth seem saplings.
"Is the land across the river yours, too?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed, that is the best part of _Roche Craie_. My studies at
Nancy have taught me what to do to keep our forest, and I am at work now
preserving those beautiful old trees. You do like it here, don't you,
Cousin Molly? It does not seem small and mean to you after Chatsworth,
does it?"
"Small and mean! It is beautiful, the most beautiful place I ever saw!
You must not get an idea that Chatsworth is magnificent like this."
As Molly looked out across the hills of this splendid French estate she
thought of her home in Kentucky, of the beech woods and the orchard as
it was before the old tree they called their castle blew down; and then
she began to wonder what the orchard looked like now with Professor
Green's bungalow occupying the site of the old castle. There had been no
letter for her from Wellington, the week before she left Paris for
Normandy, and the girl had secretly hoped it meant perhaps that her
friend was on the eve of his departure from America. She longed for some
definite news both of Professor Green and her brother Kent.
"What are you thinking about, Cousin Molly?"
"Apple trees," answered Molly, coming back to earth.
"Oh, are you especially fond of apple trees? I must show you the orchard
over this hill. It is in bloom and a very beautiful sight. Not much to
look at unless it is in bloom, however," and Philippe conducted Molly
over the brow of another hill where a very orderly apple orchard was in
full bloom.
Philippe broke off a spray for her. "I must not let the steward see me
do such a thing. The old man would count the blossoms and tell me I had
spoiled so many apples."
Molly buried her face in the cluster of flowers and her thoughts flew
back again to the trees at Chatsworth, not the orderly, trimmed ones
like these of Normandy, but old and gnarled and twisted. The dream she
had had on the steamer came back to her and again she felt Edwin Green
leaning over her, looking at her with his kind brown eyes and saying:
"Molly, this is _your_ orchard home."
She was awakened from her revery by Philippe, who seized her hand, apple
blossoms and all, and addressed her in the most impassioned tones:
"Cousin Molly! Molly, dearest Molly! I have longed for this moment as I
want to tell you how much I am gratified that you like _Roche Craie_.
The place means so much to my mother and father and to me that we are
happy when any one likes it, but for you of all persons to be pleased
with it, adds to its value in our eyes. We all of us want you to make
your home here. I know it would be more convenable for me to address
your mother first, but since I am half American you will pardon me if I
let that half speak to you, and later on the French half can arrange
with your charming mother."
Molly was greatly mystified. At first she had feared that Philippe was
going to make love to her when he had seized her hand with so much
ardor; but it turned out that he was merely offering _Roche Craie_ as a
home to her mother and herself in the name of the Marquis and Marquise
d'Ochtè. She was greatly relieved that he was not going to be
sentimental and answered him gratefully:
"You are very kind, Philippe, but mother and I have our home in
Kentucky, and while we are enjoying our stay in France, every moment of
it, we have every intention of returning to our own country in the
course of time. I cannot answer for mother, but I am almost sure she
will take the same stand I do."
"But should she not, would you abide by her decision, like a dutiful
daughter?" exclaimed Philippe eagerly. "My own mother has been very
happy in her adopted country and you are strangely like her in some
ways."
"Yes, but Cousin Sally had every reason for remaining in France. She had
her Jean----"
"Ah," interrupted Philippe, "would not you have your Philippe? Could I
not be as much to you as my father has been to my mother?"
At last Molly understood. Her cousin was proposing to her. Molly was by
nature so kind that her first feeling was one of pity for the young man
as she hated to hurt his feelings; but she was sure that he did not love
her in the least and that her refusal of him would astonish him but not
give him a single heartache.
"Philippe," she answered, looking him straight in the eye without sign
of coquetry or softness, "you know very well you could never be to me
what your father is to your mother; and one of the biggest reasons is
that I am not to you what your mother is to your father and never could
be. You are not in love with me nor am I in love with you. I have liked
you a whole lot and I believe you like me, but there must be more than
mere liking to make it right to marry. I don't see how you could have
lived always in the house with your mother and father, who are as much
sweethearts now as when they first married, and not understand something
about real love."
Philippe's feelings ran the gamut from astonishment and embarrassment to
humility. He was not by nature a conceited fellow, but so many mothers
and fathers of so many demoiselles had approached him with a view to an
alliance for those daughters, that it had never really entered his head
that, when the time came for him to make a decision in choice of a wife,
he would be refused. He did like Molly very much, liked and admired her,
found her agreeable and interesting, lovely to behold and such a lady,
and at the same time so perfectly acceptable to his beloved mother and
father. She was in fact so entirely suitable to become the future
Marquise d'Ochtè. Had his mother not made a wonderful success as a
marchioness? Were she and Molly not of the same blood and traditions?
True, he did not have for Molly the grand passion that novelists write
of; but a sincere liking might last longer than the so-called grand
passion.
Molly's words brought him upstanding. After all, he did not understand
anything about real love, not as much as this chit of an American girl.
He bowed his head for a moment in deep dejection, and then, shrugging
his shoulders, he smiled into her stern eyes a little wistfully.
"I thank you, Cousin Molly, for your salutary admonishment. You are
right; I do not know what real love means. I have an idea I could learn,
though, with as good a teacher as I am sure you would be. I value your
friendship and liking so much that I am going to ask you to forget that
I have made this stupid proposal and let us continue the good comrades
we have been."
"Oh, Philippe, I have already forgotten it! You must not think I was
severe, but I do like you so much I hated for you to demean yourself."
"There is one thing I should like to ask you, Cousin Molly: how do you
happen to know so much about true love?" And the young man, his
equanimity entirely restored, looked teasingly at his cousin. "Is it
entirely theoretical?"