Chapter II

~Christine~

The year was 1803. Just outside of Paris there was a small commune called Saint-Mandé. Saint-Mandé was beautiful. The city was small, but it had some fine works of architecture, a beautiful little church, trees of blossoms and water, and a shining blue river.

In this town there lived a man, a good man, a Christian man, a hardworking man, and an honest man. He was not rich, he worked for a living, he lived in a small house, and he made enough francs to keep himself fed. He fell in love you a beautiful woman, and hardly a year later she became his wife. They were happy together and they loved each other dearly. The man worked even harder as to support himself and his wife. She helped him in any way that she could and offered several times to get a job, but he insisted that she not work, as a woman was not supposed to have to work. A man provided for his family.

Then, the child came. A little girl was born to these two good people. She came to them like a gift from Heaven, quiet, innocent, pure, and perfect. The child was beautiful. Her parents loved her in a divine, angelic love that only comes to parents in love with their children. They called her Christine. The man began to work tirelessly, from before the sun rose and until after it set, in order to support his wife and his child. He was weighed down with work, but he was happy. He was happy, because he had his family, his wife, and his daughter. This little family was a glorious sight on which even the angel, no doubt, marveled upon with joy and with adoration. Then disaster struck.

Not even a full year after the child was born, the mother fell ill with some disease sudden and horrible. It sprang upon her like a snake springing forth from a rose patch and sinking its fangs into his oblivious victim. No one expected it. No saw it coming. No one knew from where it had come or why it had attacked. Of all people, why her? The man hurried to bring his wife to the hospital, but it was too late. A terrible fever was upon the woman, she coughed, she shivered, she sweated, she could not breathe, she was delirious, she was weak, and she was in pain. As she lied upon her bed, only minutes away from falling into the hand of Death, her husband stayed with her. He kneeled by her side the entire time, holding her hand in both of his, praying, choking back tears, begging her to stay, telling her that he needed her, telling her that he loved her.

As a dark shadow fell upon the woman's face, a strange light seemed to come upon it, as well. A light from Heaven. A light that appears on the face of an angel as her soul takes wings and departs into the greater land. She looked lovingly upon the face of her husband, and a small smile came upon her face. Then she whispered in a soft, sweet voice, like that of angel, "I love you, Tomothée. Take care of Christine. Take care of my daughter." Then she closed her eyes and died.

The man grieved painfully and bitterly over the death of his beloved wife, but that night when he remained in the hospital weeping over her lifeless body, he swore to her that he would honor her final request, and he would do all in his power to be a good father to the girl, that he would care for her, and that he would love her.

He did, indeed, work very hard to support himself and his young daughter. He worked all throughout the day, and late at night when he had finished his work, he spent every moment with his child. He taught her how to read and to write, he taught her the Bible, he taught her about Jesus, and he taught her about her mother. He taught her to be a good person. He taught her to be good, and kind, and caring, and virtuous, and loving. They were not rich, but they got along with what they had. They were happy. The poor widower had lost his first angel, but had been given an angel even more precious. For even as much as a man loves his wife, that love cannot compare to the love he has for his children.

The man loved his daughter with all of his mind, his heart, and his soul. He loved her in that mysterious, divine, holy love that only a parent can feel for his child. This is love that comes from God. This love fills the soul, warms the heart, and compels the mind to do anything and everything for the child. This love is the closest love that mortal man can know to the love that Christ has for his children. For this love, the perfect Lord died on a cross, giving himself up, and sacrificing everything to save the souls of his sinful children. Likewise, the girl loved her father. She loved him more than anything else on this earth. She loved him, she respected him, she admired him, she was proud of him, and in her mind, there was not greater father or greater man to ever live. Save for, perhaps, Christ, himself.

Growing up under her father's care, protection, and guidance, Christine grew into a fine young girl, and then a fine young woman. She was kind, gently, virtuous, righteous, pure, holy, and good. She believed in God and she lived Him, she believed in everything that he father taught her, and she believed in her father like a king.

In the year 1823, she was sixteen years of age. She was beautiful, blooming in the sweet April of a young girl's life. She looked astonishingly like her mother, who was beautiful, and she possessed an even greater beauty that seemed to come not from the earth but from Heaven. It was as if the angel of her mother had come to her and blessed her with glorious splendor, outside and inside. Like her mother, Christine had a soft, sweet, innocent, yet beautiful face; she had smooth, fair skin; pure lips, slightly red; soft cheeks highlighted a gentle pink color; long bronze hair that fell over her shoulders and down her back in flowing and wavy locks; long, fair lashes; and eyes of pure blue, like a cloudless sky, that sparkled like sunlight reflecting off clear water. She was not pretty. She was glorious, angelic, divine. Yet, she was even more beautiful, because she did not know it.

She had the body of a goddess but the modesty of a nun. She was humble, modest, selfless, and innocent. She remained virtuous, and she did not chase after the sinful desires of man. She thought not of men, she did not long for a lover, and never once did she raise her eyes to lust upon even an exceedingly handsome fellow. She saw a man marveling at her, and she dropped her eyes and became embarrassed, because she thought that he thought her homely or poorly dressed—her father not having much money, she had only one dress, a pretty white dress, but nothing like the beautiful gowns of a rich women. Still, she did not want one of these gowns. She valued modesty and virtue, and she repelled vanity. She loved her father and she loved God. Although she could not remember her, she also loved her mother, and knowing that she was now in Heaven with Jesus, Christine spoke to her mother sometimes at night. That was enough.

She drank not from the cup of evil, but from the cup of righteousness.

It came one Sunday morning that her father, although it was the Lord's Day and a day of rest, was working in order to acquire more money. Christine offered to help him at his work, but he persuaded her to, instead, attend the morning service at the church. She usually sat with her father in the back of the church each Sunday, but today she sat alone, and there was empty space in the pew beside her. Just before the service began, she heard a soft voice enquire, "Mademoiselle, would you mind if I sat here beside you?"

She turned her head and saw a young man, hardly older than herself, standing beside her. He was very handsome. He was dressed nicely, he was well kept, and he looked very much like a fine young gentleman. He had a very fresh, youthful, and healthy look about him. Smooth, olive skin; dark curls of thick hair; eyes dark in color but bright in youthfulness and liveliness; a very handsome face; and a kind, warm, and charming smile. When looking upon this young man one saw youthfulness, playfulness, and perhaps, even a bit of rebelliousness, but also goodness, gentleness, kindness, innocence, and purity. For a moment she did not recognize him, but then she remembered seeing him in church before, usually alone, sometimes coming in late. Nonetheless, this was the first time that he had ever spoken to her or she to him.

She smiled at him respectfully and shook her head. "No, not at all," she said, and she moved over to give him more room.

"Thank you," he said as he retuned the smile and sat down beside her.

At this first meeting, no more words were spoken between them.

It was nearly two months later, and Christine's father was working late again one night in October. At about sunset, it became clear to her that he father would not be home until after dark, and she sighed, knowing how hard he worked for her. Knowing that he would be weary and exhausted when he returned home that night, she decided that she would, at least, make him a good meal to eat, as most nights they eat only bread, small portions of vegetables, and if the were lucky, a little bit of spiced meat. Taking a few sous from the money that her father had given her, she left the house, went into the streets, and down to the market, and she brought enough ingredients that would allow her to make a fine stew for her father. When she was returning home and walking down the street, the sun had already set and darkness had fallen over the streets. The stars shined in the sky and the moon was nearly full, illuminating the streets with an eerie gray glow, as if the light of the moon was first falling through an old, dusty window that stood between Heaven and earth. A cold wind blew down the streets, chilling the passerby and making her shiver. Aside from the haunting whispering of the wind, the streets were silent and empty. Christine was alone.

This changed, however, when she was passing by a noisy pub. The two large doors in the from of the pub were gaping wide-open, and the fiery orange light of numerous candles and lanterns fell out of them and into the streets, dancing and flickering as it reflected off of the stone pavement of the road. Loud sounds of revelry, of men laughing, cheering, shouting, and jeering emitted forth from the pub. Three men were hanging around outside of the doors, all of them drinking and taking loudly.

Christen was walking past this pub, indifferent and not glancing at it, when she heard the three men outside of it begin to call out in their loud, drunken voices, "Hello, pretty woman! Lovely lady! Where ya' going?" It seemed that they were addressing her, but no, that could not have been right. They called her a pretty woman, and Christine did not know that she was pretty. Reasoning that these men were talking to someone else, she continued to move on, not glancing in their direction. "Hey, girl! Do you hear us? We're talkin' to you!"

Christine paused, confused, and turned in time to see the three men blundering quickly in her direction. Yes, it seemed that they had been talking to her. In only seconds they were upon her, and she took a step backward, stiffening uneasily. Christine had never been around a drunk man unless she was quickly passing by one in a café or a pub, both of which she scarily entered, but it was not hard for her to decide that all three of these men were heavily intoxicated. The stumbled slightly when they walked, they swayed when they stood, they spoke in loud, unclear, and bold voices, by the way there eyes trembled as they shifted, by the fact that their breath reeked of alcohol, and that all three of them still had a bottle in their hand, she did not have to guess. They were drunk.

"Where ya' going?" one of the men asked again.

Christian stared at him afraid. She did not answer.

"Girl, you hear us?" one of the others laughed, stepping closer to her. "We're talking to you. Where are you going, fine lady?"

Now, her stomach was twisting uncomfortable with dread, there was a tight lump in her throat, and her heart was pounding in his chest. She swallowed down her fear, and tried to move past these men. "Leave me alone," she said quietly, and she tried to go. She had barely gotten a step away from them, when one of the men caught her by her wrist and pulled her back.

"Leaving so soon?" he jeered in mockery, in humor, and in delight. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? Stay for a while, my darling."

Now, her heart was pounding faster, harder, and her fear was growing every second. "Let me go!" she protested in panic, and she tried to pull away from the man's grip. But he was too strong.

"Come now, darling. We won't hurt you. We only want to enjoy a pretty night with a pretty lady."

"Leave me alone!" Christine cried out, trying even more to get away. But they did not listen to her.

A voice was then heard calling out through the dark streets, and a fourth man exited the pub and hurried over to the woman and her three assailants. Christine's heart sank as she thought this man only a fourth drunkard like the others. The man stepped in front of the other men and said, "Messieurs, leave her alone."

The men momentarily released the girl, and at once, Christen pulled away from them and hurried several steps backward, putting much space between herself and these men, her heart still racing, her body still trembling, fear still raging inside of her like a reckless sea. Then, she turned her head to see the face of the fourth man. He was young and small, perhaps half the age, size, and strength of the other men. It only to Christine a moment to recognized him. He was the young man who had sat next to her in church nearly two months ago.

The three drunkards spent a few moments focusing their eyes on this young man. Then, realizing how much younger, shorter, smaller, and weaker he was than then, realizing that he was greatly outnumbered, and realizing that he was no threat to them, their faces twisted with disgust and anger, and one of them snarled, his words slurred and hard to interpret, "Leave us alone, boy. We weren't doin' nothing! This isn't your concern!"

Instead of obeying this command, the young man took a step closer and planted himself between the three men and the woman, standing bold and fearless before her, sheltering her and protecting her, making it clear that these men would have to first fight him if they wanted to get to the girl. "Just leave her alone," he said calmly, reasonably. "Let her be, and we can forget about this."

At this point, the men were glaring murderously at him, balling their hands into tight fists, looking as if they were ready to beat this boy to death with their bare hands, looking as if they were ready to strike him at any moment, looking as if they were ready to kill him. In their drunken minds that could not thick clearly or rationally, perhaps they were.

"You want her for yourself!" one of the men cried out in furious accusation.

He shook his head and said flatly, "I find no pleasure in using innocent young women." This only added to the hungry flames of these men's anger. One of them pulled his arm back, and was about to strike the boy, when he held up his hands and cried out, "What say you we leave this between you three and I, and we count the lady out of this?"

"Let us alone, boy! You stay out of this!"

"What do you think of this?" the young boy said, as if a grand thought had suddenly come to his mind. "We will settle this in a game of cards?"

"Cards!?" one of them cried furiously and outraged.

"First, hear me out. It is a good offer. We play a round, we each get our own hand, we each play as separate players, but as far as the winnings go, it is all three of you against me. You will each put in ten francs. If I will, I get ten from each of you; that is a total of thirty francs. But if one of you wins, any one of you, if any one of you can beat me, then I will pay you each thirty francs! That is ninety francs in all." A mischievous grin spread across his face, and he said, "How about it, boys? All three of you against one of me? What do you say? What have you got to lose? Ten francs when I beat you?"

At this point, it was evident that the boy had caught these men's attention. They were in nature, greedy, selfish, terrible men, who loved drinking, gambling, and sinning. This seemed a bit too great of an opportunity to pass up. But at last, too arrogant and too ignorant to listen to this boy, snapped at him, "Why should we? What makes we play you?"

He smirked. "Because, with all due respect, messieurs, I will beat you."

"You will not beat us!" another man roared, against considering hitting the boy, at once.

He shrugged and grinned. "Let's see, then. We'll go back into the pub, play some cards, have a drink…" A moment later under his breath he muttered in obvious disapproval, "…although, it does not appear as messieurs need anything more to drink… we'll see who wins, we'll settle this between us men, and we'll leave this young lady alone. What do you say?"

They did not answer for a moment. They were considering this proposal, hardly able to resist it. Then, at last, one of them skeptically, threateningly questioned, "Will you really give us each thirty francs? Ninety francs total?"

"Of course."

"You have ninety francs with you?"

"I might. They might be somewhere else. But when you win, they will be yours."

"I don't believe you! Show me the money now, or we have no deal!"

"I will show you the money once you have won."

"You do have that to pay us, though, do you not?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why should we believe that!? Why should we trust you!?"

"I am a man of my word."

"Says you!"

"My word is all that I can give you. Trust it or don't."

This entire time, Christine had stood behind the young man, terrified, confused, and shocked. Shocked to see how brave he was, how fearless he was, how unafraid he was to stand up to these three men, who out numbered him, out powered him, and certainly would beat him in a fight. Shocked how he talked to them, how he challenged them, how he acted as if he had control over the situation rather than them. How calm he was, how reasonable he was, how brave he was. And she was shock that he was doing all of this, risking so much, for her, a girl whom he did not even know.

Now, she stood silently behind him and, peering over his shoulder, looked fearfully upon the three men as they considered this for a final time what they would do and as they made their decision. A long moment passed in silence, and everybody waited. Then, suddenly before anyone could react, stop it, dodge it, or even cry out, Christine watched her rescuer be slammed in the face by the heavy fist of one of these drunkards.

He bent over, surprised by the sudden blow, grabbing at his face, as the impact jolted his body, and as the pain hit him like a hammer, as it struck his face, rattled his skull, and slammed shut his jaws. A few seconds too late, Christine let out a soft cry as she watched in horror as this man bent over in pain, her hands covering her mouth. But only a moment later, he straightened back up and delivered, in return, an abrupt punch directly in the other man's nose.

Then there was a roar of fury, outrage, and wrath, and all three of these men sprang upon the one, all of them attacking him at once. While smaller, short, and perhaps, weaker than the others, he was also, it seemed, quicker, lighter on his feet, and smarter. He quickly duck and stepped to the side, dodging the next strike that came at him, instantly jumped back up to his full height and hit one of the other men, moving his arm quick and fast, bringing his fist up to strike the man under his chin, and then immediately bringing his arm in again, holding them out in front of but bent close to his body to protect himself. The other man's jaws painfully slammed shut, his teeth came suddenly down onto one another, and he badly bit his tongue. He stumbled backward, momentarily stunned, and the boy turned to face the other two men.

He put up a good fight. He was fast, clever, and surprisingly strong. As the other men blunder around, drunkenly swinging their fists at him, he moved quickly, swiftly, light-footed, soberly, and smartly. He seemed to know what he was doing, as if it were natural to him, a sport to him. He knew when to strike, when to defend, and when to wait. He knew how to fight.

But in time, he was beaten by recklessness, strength, and numbers. As he tried to defend himself from one man, a different man came up from behind him, grabbed him by his hair, yanked his neck backward, and flung him to the ground. He landed on his back, the impact jolted him, the air was knocked out of his lungs, but he immediately struggled to get up again. Still, before he could even get off of the ground, the men were on top of him. They pinned him down, and began to beat him, hitting him mercilessly and brutally, striking him with their firsts, kicking them with their feet, hitting him with the glass bottles in their hands, and unintentionally spilling alcohol all over him all the while. They struck his face, his ribs, his sides, his stomach, and they kicked him in his chest, his gut, and in places that did not amount up to an honorable fight. Then, as one of the men slammed a bottle into his ribcage, it shattered. The young man let out a sharp cry as a sudden pain, like being stabbed with a knife, and then a terrible burning sensation, like being set on fire, cut through his body. It was the shards of glass sinking into his flesh, cutting and mutilating it, and the alcohol spilling into his open wounds.

This was not a fair fight in the least. He was outnumbered, out matched, and these drunkards seemed to have no incentive to fight fairly. Fine. Then so be it.

A bottle was then thrown at him. It slammed into his side, and came to rest on the ground beside him. At once, seizing his chance, the boy snatched it up and slammed it into the forehead of the man who was kneeling before him and continuously hitting him in his face. The man let out a loud cry and fell backward as the glass shattered upon him. This was enough to startle the others, and the boy managed to struggle away from their gasp. He quickly, unsteadily and painfully but nonetheless, managed to get to his feet, his body bruised and beaten, blood coming forth from his nose and his mouth, dazed, weak, and injured. He got ready to fight again.

When the next man came at him, no longer trying to fight fairly, he did not hesitate to kick the man in the same place that the man had kicked him minutes before. The man gasped, stumbled backward, shriveled to the ground, and from his excessive intake of alcohol and from the pain, the man began vomiting up all of the liquor that he had put into his stomach. This left only the boy and one man to fight against. Now, the fight would be easy.

The young man won. This one boy had beaten all three of these grown men, who were bigger, stronger, and more brutal than he was. In the end, all three of these men struggled to their feet and staggered away, dizzy from drunkenness and from the blows that they had received during the fight. The young man watched them leave and flee back into the protection of the tavern. Perhaps, it would have been wiser if they had chosen to play cards. He spit a mouthful of saliva and blood onto the ground and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the blood off of his mouth and face. Then, at last, he turned to look at Christine.

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" he asked her, at once.

She stared at him a moment with wide eyes and a white face, shocked and terrified, and she gazed upon him with horror, with fear, but also with wonder, amazement, and disbelief. "Yes, I am alright…" she finally managed to whisper.

"Good," he said with a soft sigh of relief. "They did not hurt you, did they?"

"No…"

"Good."

"But… but monsieur…" she began quietly, looking with horror upon the man's swollen and bleeding face, at the place where the broken glass had ripped through his clothes, penetrated his skin, cut him, and where the fabric of his shirt had been stained red in blood. "…you are hurt…"

He shrugged off the comment. "I'll be alright. Where are you going?" This was the same question that the other three men had asked her, but the meaning was utterly the opposite. The other men wanted to hurt her. This man wanted to help her. "A young woman should not be out alone this late at night. Let me walk you to your home."

Ignoring him, Christine said, "You should go to the hospital."

"I'm fine," he said as he slowly walked over to her, trying not to let her see him limp. "Don't worry about me. But are you sure that you are alright?"

"Yes, I am alright." Then, suddenly panicked and afraid again, she asked, "Do you think that we should get the police?"

He shook his head. "No. They do not need to hear about this. That would only make things worse. You are sure that you are alright?"

"Yes…"

"May I walk home with you, then, mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur, you can walk home with me, if you then allow me to help you. I can tend to your wounds for you…"

As he looked at her, a small smile came upon his lips, and he agreed. As she was leading him the short distance to her little house, she noticed that the man was in a lot of pain. He was struggling not to limp and struggling to hide his pain from her.

She quickly brought him into the house, led him down the narrow hallway, brought him into the living room, and told him to lie down on the couch. He sat instead of lying down, but as he let his body relax, as his muscles eased up, and as he let his wounded body rested upon the soft cushions of the sofa, he was unable to hide a heavy sigh of relief.

"I will be right back," Christine said as she left the room to retrieve cold water and rags. Her father was still not home. That was not good. He would have been better able to help this man that she would be. Through all of her life, whenever she was hurt or needed help, Christine's father would help her and make hear feel better. He was gentle, and kind, and wise. As she attempted to help this man who had saved her, she would try to be like her father had always been to her.

When she reentered the room, she caught a glimpse of the man wincing in pain, but as soon as he saw her, a he tried to hide it from her. This made her afraid. She went to him, kneeled down on the floor before him, wetted a rag in cold water, raised it to his still-bleeding face, and gently held it against a deep cut under his left eye.

After a moment, she turned her eyes and found herself looking back into his. He was gazing upon her in a way that other men did not. Most men, like the three men who had confronted her that night, looked upon her beauty with longing, lusting, selfish, and hungry eyes. But the way that this man looked at her was different. He looked upon her gently, tenderly, kindly. He saw her, and he knew that she was beautiful. He looked at her, and he saw an angel. But he did not long for her. He did not lust after her. He saw her eyes meet his, and he smiled at her.

She did not smile. Instead, she looked at him as if she was trying to figure something out about him. Then, at last, she asked, "Why did you do that? Those men could have killed you…"

He smiled slightly and shook his head. "They could not have killed me. They were not that dangerous. They were drunk and slow… and stupid."

"Yes, they could have," she insisted. "They hurt you badly."

"They haven't hurt me that badly. I'm fine," he said again. "Do not worry about me."

She suddenly frowned in confusion, as she poured water onto a clean rag, as the first rag was now red, and gently raised it to the man's bleeding mouth. "How did you beat them?" she asked. "They out numbered you, and they were older and bigger than you, yet you still defeated them."

He laughed softly and said, "They were drunk. And I know how to fight."

"I can see that," she said. Then with a playful smile she added, "You fight a lot, do you?"

He grinned and shook his head. "All the time. I'm a boxer," he explained. "I haven't gone to school yet so that is the best way for me to make money."

At the mention of money, Christine remembered the gambling proposal that this man had offered to the others. "You told those men that you would play them in cards, and that if they beat you, you would give them ninety francs? Would you really have paid them that much?"

He smiled somewhat guiltily. "I don't even have that much money to spend."

She frowned. "Then why did you tell them that?"

He smirked. "Because I knew that I would beat them."

"Oh, really?" She found herself laughing quietly. "You're that good of a gambler, are you?"

He shrugged and grinned. "I'm not bad." When he said this, however, it was obvious that he was better at gambling than he said, and Christine laughed and shook her head. "Also, they were drunk and dim. They would have been easy to beat."

Christine smiled as she finished tending to the wounds on his face, and she hesitated. There were wounds on his face, but she knew that the worst of the wounds would be on his ribs, where the broken glass of the bottle had cut him. The thought of asking this man, whom she barely knew, to take his shirt off in front of her made her very uncomfortable. But he needed help, and she had to do everything that she could. She began quietly, hesitantly, "Monsieur, you are bleeding. The glass cut you..." She trailed off uncertainly.

"I can deal with that myself later," he said, not wanting a girl so young to see the gruesome wounds that he expected to be beneath his shirt. But she insisted that he let her help him. At last, he sighed and unbuttoned his shirt, which was enough to reveal the worse wounds, but still hid much of the other damage to his body. Aside from dark red and black bruises that she could see were forming over the parts of his abdomen, his ribs, and his chest that were exposed, there were deep, bleeding cuts over the left side of his ribcage, and fragments of glass were still sticking in his skin in some places. Trying to be as gentle as she could, trying not to hurt him worse, Christine carefully removed the glass fragments with her hands, cleaned the mutilations with water, and then pressed a folded cloth to his wounds, trying to stop the blood flow. Then she sat there sadly, wishing that she could have done more for this man.

"Thank you," he said quietly as she knelt on the ground before him and held the cloth to his side. She looked up at him, and he smiled at her. Then he laughed softly and said, "It's funny how long we have been talking to each other and helping each other, yet I still do not know your name."

She smiled and answered, "My name is Christine." Christine. That was a pretty name. Very pretty, in fact. Beautiful. "What is your name, monsieur?"

"Grantaire."