About twelve miles from Paris is situated the pretty vernal hamlet of
Maisons Lafitte. It hangs around the Château Lafitte--a princely
residence, formerly the property and dwelling of the well-known banker
of that name, but for many years past in other hands. In front of the
château, a broad avenue of greensward strikes straight away through a
thick forest, extending many miles across the country; and parallel with
the front of the building is an avenue still broader, but not so
long--La Grande Allée--wherein the various _fêtes_ of the hamlet are
celebrated, and which, moreover, forms a principal scene in the
following narrative.
Before the Revolution of 1793, the name of Gostillon was familiar as a
daily proverb to the people of Maisons. There were three or four
branches of the family living in the neighbourhood, and well known as
industrious and respectable members of the peasant class. When the
earthquake comes, however, the cottage is as much imperiled as the
palace; so the events which brought Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette to
the block, and sent panic into every court in Europe, also broke up and
dispersed the humble house of Gostillon. In the awful confusion of the
times, some were slain upon barricades; some sent hither and thither
with the army, to perish in La Vendée or elsewhere; and some fled to
seek safety and peace in foreign lands. Thus it came to pass, that at
length there were only three females in Maisons--a widow and her two
daughters--bearing the once common name. Mme Veuve Gostillon managed to
obtain a living by cultivating a small garden--the flowers and fruit
from which she sold in the markets of Paris--and by plying her needle.
Her daughters were named Julia and Cecilia, and there was the somewhat
remarkable difference of eight years between their ages.
Just as Julia had reached her fourteenth year, and little Cecilia her
sixth, a terrible misfortune happened to the industrious widow: a stroke
of paralysis deprived her of the use of her limbs, and rendered her
unable longer to maintain herself and little family by the labour of her
hands. A time of severe distress ensued for this remnant of the once
numerous and hearty family of the Gostillons; but it was only for
awhile. Julia--shrewd, spirited, and industrious--worked night and day
to perform the labour heretofore the portion of her parent, and to
liquidate the extraordinary expenses of the poor widow's sad illness,
and the derangement consequent thereupon. Steady assiduity seldom fails
of success. It was not long before she had the satisfaction of finding
matters proceeding in a somewhat straightforward manner--doctor's bills
paid; arrears of rent, such as they were, made up; and the little
business in flowers, fruit, and needle-work proceeding smoothly and
satisfactorily. There is much attractiveness in the virtue and
good-behaviour of youth; and Julia, handsome, intelligent, modest, and
sweet-tempered, soon became the favourite of all who knew her.
The peasantry of France have, from ancient times, maintained the custom
of publicly demonstrating their esteem of any young female member of a
community, who, in her progress from childhood to adolescence, or rather
to womanhood, may have given evidence of the possession of any unusual
amount of amiability and cleverness. Young girls who are deemed worthy
of public recognition as examples of virtue and industry, are waited
upon by the villagers on a fête-day, led forth, seated on a throne of
flowers, crowned with roses, blessed by the _curé_, and presented with
the honourable title of _La Rosière_. The custom is graceful and
poetical; and the world hardly presents a more charming spectacle--at
once so simple and so touching--as the installation of a _rosière_ in
some sequestered village of France. The associations connected with it
are pure and bright enough for a Golden Age. All who take part in the
little ceremony are humble people, living by their labour; the queen of
the day is queen by reason of her industry and virtue; they who do her
such becoming and encouraging homage, old and young, lead lowly and
toilsome lives, and yet have the innate grace thus to evince their
reverence for the best qualities of human nature. The pageantry of
courts, and pompous crowning of kings and queens, grand and splendid as
they are, have not such spiritual fragrance as these village
queen-makings; soft glimmerings and shinings-through of the light of a
better world--a world with which man, let conventionality disguise him
as it may, always has some sympathies.
For three years, the exemplary Julia had continued to support her
helpless parent and little sister, when, in accordance with this custom,
the good folks of the hamlet determined to shew their appreciation of
her estimable qualities at the next fête, by crowning her with roses,
and enthroning her with the usual ceremony in the Grande Allée. In the
meantime, Victor Colonne, son of the steward of the château, happened to
pay a visit to the poor widow's cottage; and thereafter he came again,
and again, and again, courting Julia Gostillon.
But Victor and Julia were not made for each other. He was thriftless,
idle, dissolute--the small _roué_ of the neighbourhood: she was careful,
industrious, virtuous. He was good-looking--of a dark, saturnine beauty,
insidiously impressive, like the dangerous charms of a tempter; she was
radiant and lustrous with the sweet graces of modesty, innocence, and
intelligence. Julia, however, young and susceptible, was for a time
pleased with his attentions. Persuasive powers of considerable potency,
and personal attractions of no mean sort, were not exerted and
prostrated at her feet entirely in vain. Ingenuous, trustful, and
inexperienced, she listened to the charmer with a yielding and delighted
ear, and was happy as long as she perceived nothing but sincerity and
love. It was but for a time, however. The Widow Gostillon liked not her
daughter's lover. Of more mature perception, of sharper skill in reading
character than her child, she conceived a deep distrust of the airy
smile and studied gallantry of Victor Colonne. She took counsel with
matrons old and circumspect as herself; made herself acquainted with
Victor's history; watched his looks, listened to his words narrowly and
scrutinisingly; and, day by day, felt more and more strongly that she
liked him not--that there was mischief in his restless eye and soft
musical voice. She communicated her fears to Julia, told her the history
of her suitor, and bade her be on her guard. Julia was startled and
distressed. These suspicions checked the brightness and little glory of
her life, and settled wanly and hazily on her soul, like damp breath on
a mirror. But they served as points of departure for daily thoughts.
Looks and words were watched, and weighed, and pondered over with
wistful studiousness; and while Victor believed his conquest to be
achieved, his increasing assurance and gradual abandonment of disguise
were alienating him from the object of his pursuit. Julia had
accompanied him on different occasions to the château; been presented to
his father; and had been seen, admired, and kindly spoken to by the
Comtesse Meurien and her daughters. Victor had lost no opportunity of
strengthening his suit by stimulating her ambition and pride; but it was
without avail. Though pleased for a time, she soon discovered that he
was cold, heartless, and even dissolute. The intimacy betwixt them was
fast relapsing into indifference, and, on her side, into dislike, when a
certain _dénouement_ of Master Victor's notorious love-makings,
accompanied by disgraceful circumstances, determined her to put an end
to it, once and for all.
'So you are determined?' exclaimed he with ill-restrained anger, as she
repeated her resolve to him for the fourth or fifth time.
'Yes: I will have nothing more to say to you,' replied she firmly.
'Then my father and his reverence the curé may lose all hopes of me!'
returned he bitterly. 'I have done much ill--I own it: I have won no
one's esteem: I have been idle, irregular, profligate. But wherefore?
Because I have had no one to care for me. Since my mother died, I have
been left to myself, with no kind hand to guide me, no kind tongue to
warn me: what wonder that youth should go astray?'
'No one to care for you!' exclaimed Julia, not without a tinge of
sarcasm. 'Do not your father and monsieur the curé do their utmost for
you?'
'The one reproves, and the other prays for me,' said Victor, with a
derisive smile; then turning to Julia, with a face in which penitence,
respect, and affection were well simulated, he exclaimed: 'but thou,
dear Julia, art the sovereign of my soul! in whose hand my fate is
placed. It is for you to shape my destiny: will you award me love or
perdition? At your bidding, no honourable deed shall be too high to mark
my obedience.'
'Then return to Marie Buren, and redeem the promise you made her,'
exclaimed Julia warmly.
'Nay, sweet Julia, if my priestess bids me turn away from heaven, I am
justified in protesting. Hope is the spring whence good and great works
flow. Bid me despair, and you bid me seek ruin.'
'Pooh! pooh!' exclaimed the young girl with contempt. 'I am plain Julia
Gostillon, who loves frankness and honour. You have neither one nor
other, and so I love you not; and again and again I repeat it, I will
have nothing more to say to you.'
Though the persevering Victor continued the colloquy, and exerted
himself to the utmost, sparing neither vows nor tears, Julia remained
firm. At last, seeing that his case was hopeless, he changed his tone
into one of sorrowful resignation--declared that honest frankness was a
great virtue, and that it was well they had discovered that their
affection was not reciprocal; and, in conclusion, begged the wearied
Julia to accompany him that night to the château for the last time, for
the purpose of explaining to his father, who might otherwise be troubled
with suspicions, that their courtship was broken off by mutual consent.
After much persuasion, Julia consented, and accordingly paid her last
visit to the château that same evening.
A few days after this occurrence, the 15th of June arrived, the day of
the fête. On the preceding evening, unknown to the good Julia, a score
of light-hearted girls were weaving garlands of flowers, and preparing
the crown of roses, in the house of neighbour Morelle; in that of
neighbour Bontemps another gay party were industriously ornamenting a
wooden throne with coverings, hangings, and cushions of
brightest-coloured flowers; and half the people of the hamlet were
thinking of Julia, and preparing bouquets, pincushions, caps, and
various little trifles, to present to her on the morrow.
In due course the morrow came. The summer sun had not risen many hours,
when troops of bright-eyed girls, lustrous with rosy cheeks, braided
hair, snow-white gowns, and streaming ribbons, went, tripping beneath
the trees, towards the cottage of Widow Gostillon. After them came bands
of youths and boys, and anon men and matrons, and the elders of the
place, till nearly all the little community was gathered round the
house. Early as it was, Julia had risen, and was at work. She had had
her own pleasant anticipations of the fête--though she had not heard
that a _rosière_ was to be crowned, much less that the honour was in
store for herself--and had intended, by commencing some hours earlier
than usual, to have done her work so much the sooner, that she might
share the pleasures of the festal day. But all thoughts of work were
quickly banished by her eager visitors, who, touched even by the fact,
that they had found her busy at the time when all were holiday-making,
embraced her, praised her, bade her prepare for coronation, wept,
laughed, chatted, clapped their hands, jumped, danced, and made such a
bustle, that Widow Gostillon, in some consternation, cried out from her
chamber to know what was the matter. And the poor widow wept, too, when
she discovered what was going on--wept solemnly in thinking over Julia's
fidelity to herself, her industry, cleverness, self-denial, sweetness,
and, as a proud mother might, of her beauty. And presently the
neighbours brought forth the poor invalid in her chair, and placed her
on a pleasant spot beneath the trees, whence she might behold the
installation. Then Julia retired with those appointed to be her
attendants--her tiring-women, the ladies of her court; and when, some
time after, she came forth, blushing and trembling, and with happy tears
upon her face, wearing her simple holiday dress of white muslin,
ornamented, in charming style, with wreaths of roses, the cries of 'Vive
la rosière!' might have been heard a long way off.
A little while, and sounds of music and of many voices filled the Grande
Allée. The long rows of booths and marquées, dancing-rooms, gymnasiums,
toy-tables, _bonbon_ tables, fruit-stalls, &c. &c. were surrounded by
busy crowds: all was activity and cheerfulness. In a large open space in
the midst, a short distance from the front of the château, the flowery
throne, gorgeous in variety and vividness of colours, was set up on a
dais on the greensward. The band of celebrants, with Julia and her train
in their midst, advanced. Little Cecilia walked by her sister's side,
hand in hand, in proud surprise. Before them, an aged peasant marched
solemnly, bareheaded save for his silver hair, carrying the crown
destined for Julia; and with him, also bareheaded, the curé. A
benediction, accompanied by a prayer that the metaphorical ceremony
might have some influence in attracting the youthful people present to
the practice and pursuit of virtue, having been uttered by the priest,
Julia was handed to the throne, and the crown of roses was placed upon
her head by the white-haired veteran. A sweet chorus was then
chanted--_Vive, vive la rosière_!--in the melodious verses of which the
signification of the ceremonial and the praises of the fête-queen were
recited.
Thus far matters had proceeded happily, when the attention of the gay
party was attracted by the apparition of a commissaire of police, who,
marching up with the aspect of a man having important and disagreeable
business to perform, exclaimed: '_Eh, bien!_ we are merry to-day! Accept
my best wishes for your enjoyment. Can you tell me, friends, where I am
likely to find a fair _demoiselle_--one Julia, daughter of Mme Veuve
Gostillon?'
'_Voila_, monsieur!' cried several, much surprised. 'Our _rosière_ is
she!'
'Ah, what a fate is mine!' muttered the worthy commissaire, much
affected, as he looked at the beautiful and rose-wreathed Julia. 'If I
had ten thousand francs, I would give them all to be spared this work:
but duty is duty. Courage! all may yet be well. Friends,' continued he,
raising his voice, 'excuse me if I interrupt you some few minutes. I
would not do it were I not bound to. It will be necessary for Mlle
Julia to accompany me to her home. I trust we shall not be absent long.'
He raised his cap, offered his arm; and Julia, amazed and frightened,
descended from her throne, and conducted him to the cottage.
'Pardon, mademoiselle,' said he, when they stood inside; 'I am
instructed to search this house.' Julia, puzzled, confounded, bowed
assent.
The commissaire proceeded, with a hasty hand, as if he wished to get the
work quickly over, to ransack drawers and boxes. Whenever one or the
other had been searched in vain, he clapped his hand to his breast and
muttered: 'God be thanked!' and appeared as if his mind were in some
measure relieved of a burden which oppressed it. At length he arrived at
Julia's chamber--here, as elsewhere, drawers and boxes seemed to present
no signs of the object sought for: the thanksgivings of the commissaire
were frequent; his cheerfulness appeared to be returning. Presently,
however, he proceeded to turn out the contents of Julia's little
reticule-basket: first came a pocket-handkerchief, on the corners of
which flowers had been wrought by Julia's needle. 'Very pretty!'
remarked the commissaire. Then appeared a number of slips of rare
plants, recently collected. 'Ah! you are a botanist?' said the
commissaire.
'They are from the conservatory of the Comte Meurien, at the château: I
meant to have planted them to-day,' said Julia.
'Who gave them to you?'
'Mme Lavine, the _femme de chambre_.'
'Ah, _diable_! I hope you have nothing else from that château?'
'I have nothing else,' replied Julia, blushing, and somewhat
discomposed, as she remembered Victor.
'What is the matter?--why are you agitated?' demanded the commissaire,
regarding her fixedly.
'It is nothing,' said poor Julia, much distressed by his stern and
scrutinising look.
'Nothing? I fear it is something! Alas! I begin to lose hope.'
'Hope of what?' asked Julia wonderingly.
'Of your innocence!' replied the commissaire sternly.
'Mon Dieu! What do you mean?'
'Ah, restez tranquille, pauvre demoiselle; nous verrons toute-suite.'
And with a shrug, he continued his investigation of the contents of the
reticule-basket. It contained a great variety of little knick-knacks,
which, with much patience, the commissaire turned out and examined, one
by one. At length he came to a little parcel, the paper-envelope of
which appeared to be part of an old letter, and was thickly covered with
writing. It was one of Victor's letters. Julia blushed again.
'What have we here?' demanded the constable.
'I forget what there is inside,' said Julia. 'I hardly knew it was
there.'
'Let us see.'
He opened two or three wrappers--the portion of the letter formed the
outside one, the others being blank white paper--and there fell out,
descending upon the table with a sharp jingle, a pair of gold bracelets,
ornamented with pearls and turquoises, a superb coral necklace, and a
diamond ring.
'Mademoiselle!' exclaimed the commissaire, whose face appeared to lose
all flexibility of expression the moment the discovery was made,
presenting now merely the stern, impassible, mechanical look of an
officer on duty, 'these are the identical articles for which I have been
searching for the last three days. Will you be good enough to change
your dress as quickly as possible, and prepare to accompany me to the
office of M. Morelle, magistrate of this district?'
At this juncture, the Widow Gostillon was conveyed back to her cottage
by some of her neighbours, with little Cecilia by her side. Entering
Julia's chamber, her young friends found her in a swoon, from which the
commissaire was assiduously endeavouring to recover her. A scene of a
most painful character ensued. Without afflicting the reader with a
recital of the agonised and indignant protestations of Julia--the anger
and affright of Widow Gostillon--the sorrow, sympathy, and amazement of
the villagers--suffice it to say, that the commissaire, in the course of
the morning, conducted Julia into the presence of the magistrate.
It appears that the articles of bijouterie found in Julia's reticule had
been missed from the chamber of Mlle Antoinette Meurien the very
morning after Julia visited Victor's father at the château. The young
lady had seen them on her toilette early the preceding evening, and had
not worn them for some days, so that she could not have lost them whilst
walking or riding. It was evident they had been abstracted. A search was
instantly commenced. The domestics were examined, and their rooms and
boxes searched, but without either finding the property or fixing
suspicion on any one of them. The police were then apprised of the
robbery. The servants of the household underwent a second and official
examination, but all earnestly declared their innocence. It being
ascertained, however, that Julia had visited the house the night on
which the property was lost, an order was issued, commanding that her
residence be searched, and that she be brought before the authorities.
Among the witnesses who proved Julia's visit to the château was Victor
Colonne. In mingled affliction and indignation, he answered the
questions put to him, and declared that she who had but lately been the
object of his ardent affection was the very soul of honour and purity. A
lengthened examination elicited from him that he had conducted Julia to
the chamber of Mlle Antoinette, for the purpose of shewing her the
superb manner in which it was furnished and decorated. She had stepped
up to the toilette, he admitted, and had surveyed herself, as was very
natural, in the glass, but it was only for a moment; he was close to her
all the time, and indeed they hardly remained in the chamber two
minutes: they entered, looked round, and retired, and that was all. It
was true, he did not keep his eyes on his companion all the time; but
had she taken anything, he could not have failed seeing the act.
A general impression prevailed among the people at the château that
Julia was innocent; that it was impossible for one so virtuous and
intelligent to commit so disgraceful and rash a theft. Indeed, the tide
of suspicion had been fast turning against Victor himself, when it
received a new direction by the discovery of the missing articles in
Julia's reticule. Another examination ensued, the distracted Julia, as
has been stated, being herself brought into the presence of the
magistrate. In intense affliction, she declared her innocence: that she
knew not how the articles had got into her reticule; she had not put
them there; did not know they were there; had, indeed, never touched
them at all. The portion of the letter in which they had been wrapped
was handed to her, and she was questioned concerning it. 'It was part of
a letter,' she said, 'which had been addressed to her by Victor
Colonne.' She remembered receiving it; but by what means it came to be
applied to its present purpose, she did not at all know. M. Morelle
sternly bade her tell the truth, and conceal nothing; it would be better
for her. In great agony, she earnestly reiterated what she had said. It
was useless; the evidence against her was too strong to be shaken by
merely her own denial. Moreover, the commissaire of police, in
delivering his evidence, laid much emphasis upon the embarrassment and
distress she had evinced whilst he was searching the little basket in
which the articles were found.
The case was on the point of being decided against her, when, by what
may be termed a providential interposition, the tables were suddenly
turned, and she was rescued from the jail, from infamy, and perhaps from
death! A young girl, one of the domestics at the château, having
examined the portion of the letter which formed a link in the
circumstantial evidence, produced from her pocket another fragment,
which exactly fitted to the first, and made the letter complete! With
much curiosity, and indeed excitement, all listened eagerly to what she
had to say. She stated that the fragment she produced, which formed the
remainder of the torn letter wrapped round the stolen articles, she had
picked up in the garden of the château, where it had been dropped by
Victor. Julia's reticule had been left on a seat under a tree; the
witness saw Victor open it, and take out a letter. He did not know she
was at hand; indeed, could not see her. He tore the letter into two
pieces: he appeared agitated. One piece of the letter dropped to the
ground, the other he did something with which she could not perceive,
and replaced in the reticule. When he was gone, she picked up the
fragment which had fallen; and seeing it was part of a love-letter, full
of warm protests, &c. she put it into her pocket, intending, she said,
to joke him about it. A few minutes more, Julia came by, took up her
reticule, and went home, declining Victor's company, though he requested
permission to escort her.
Hereupon, Victor was immediately submitted to a severe re-examination.
Aghast at the disclosure just made; abashed at the many angry eyes
directed towards him; harassed by the searching questions of the
magistrate, and the sense of guilt, his assurance and hypocrisy
completely deserted him; and, after equivocating and protesting for some
time, he sullenly confessed all. Discarded by Julia: he had attempted to
effect her ruin!
The good little Julia was almost as much overcome by the overwhelming
emotions which now possessed her, as she was at the miserable position
in which malignity had so lately placed her. Whilst Victor was being
conveyed to the jail, where he was to suffer the punishment due to his
villainy, Julia was conducted home to her now rejoicing parent, amidst
the congratulations, caresses, and praises, of troops of friends. The
day after her acquittal, the throne was again set up in the Grande
Allée, and the ovation to her industry and virtues was completed in
triumphant fashion. The Meurien family, feeling deeply the injury she
had suffered, gave their presence at her inauguration, and afterwards
did many a friendly act for her. She is now as industrious and charming,
and as much respected as ever, though no more Julia Gostillon, but
Madame Vichel--being the wife of a thriving herbalist of that name. As
for Victor, he has not been seen at Maisons since.