MArIe-hÉLèNe rOchETTe

9tH gENerAtiOn MAlcAvIänNE

Vous êtes pâle, la belle;
Comment vous appelez-vous?
Elle s'enjuit dans les trous,
Sinistre, avec les hiboux.
Je suis la folle, dit-elle.
Cuillez la branche de houx.

Vous avez bien froid, la belle;
Comment vous appelez-vous?
Les amours et les yeax doux
De nos cercueils sont les clous.
Je suis la morte, dit-elle.
Cueillez la branche de houx.

-Victor Hugo, "La Chanson du spectre"

1990-1

Nation: la France

Birthday: January 13, 1774 (a Friday)

Current residence: The Warf, Staunton, VA, USA

Nature: Are you sure you really want to know?

Demeanor: Child (no wonder, she's trapped in a ten year old's body!)

Haven: The shadowy and mazelike realms of her mind

Concept: Spy

Sire: He didn't seem to know, why should you?

1996

Nation: la France

Birthday: January 13, 1774 (a Friday)

Current residence: Mary Baldwin College, Staunton, VA, USA

Nature: You're persistant, aren't you?

Demeanor: Child

Haven: The shadowy and mazelike realms of her mind

Concept: Spy

Sire: Ask him.

L'histoire d'M-H

Born in the 1770's, Mademoiselle Rochette was around just in time for the French Revolution. Good thing she's not vigilante. As a human, she was a young lady of some accomplishment. She was a talented craftswoman, but was less adept at social skills. Being too introverted to be a good hostess, Marie generally sat quietly noting the discussions and actions of the guests. The childhood warnings to be seen and not heard never wore off, and Mademoiselle Rochette grew quite used to being the silent observer. As tensions built into a war around her, she 'modified' her practice to include observing in places where she wasn't invited. For some reason, when others found this out, they called it spying . . .

I froze. They were actually here. A part of me had refused to believe until the men came in that the revolutionary councils had actually come to Bordeaux, to my family's land, to my only home. My mind was ablaze with angry memories of their kind. Already, they have removed our beloved priest and replaced him with a fool, a pawn of the Christless mobs. Why? Because Father *__* refused to sign their agreements and to disclaim his importance in our lives. As if life in current years hasn't been hard enough, they denied our God his claim to us. Do they think that by tossing aside His good graces, they shall prosper? Fools, the lot of them. Life in recent years has been hard enough without searching out trouble, as they do now. Many of the workers of our land are starving due to grain shortages. The guillotine will NOT give us bread, only blood. None can survive on that alone. Now, now they are here, trying to create greater pain.' As my thoughts took on this tone of desparation, I silenced them.

The setting flickered before me in the candlelight. Weaponry laid across a wooden table in the center of the room. Five red bonneted heads around the table spoke in hushed voices. As I intently listened their words unfolded slowly to reveal to my ears their full force. They knew that our serfs planned to follow other regions in uprising against the revolution. They knew how strongly we valued our Roman Catholic lives and how angry we were to have them stolen from us. Through experience, they knew the power of mobs, even against the strongest of men. Rebellion was weakening their cause', so they were fighting back. They declared us traitors. Us. We were not among they who had ruined the monarchy, yet they had the nerve to consider us to be traitors. All that I had known and feared would be, was racing to the present. Of all the times to be knowledgeble concerning a meeting, why did this have to be one of them? I would have given my life to have all that I heard have been misunderstanding on my part. Instead, my understanding was my death. They closed into a tighter ring around the table as they spoke of burning my family's land, our church, and the homes of all therein. Fear gripped me and began tearing at me, trying to destroy me. The scene lost focus before my eyes, everything, that is, but the flame of the candle, glinting off of a knife on the table. The voices grew distant, so much fainter than the racing of my heart. I collapsed to the floor, and though consious, I soon wished I wasn't. At the sound of my fall, the five heads whipped around, each an unforgettable face, each changing so quickly.

Feet. Booted feet thundering like my heart, trying to stop me. Splintered doorways tearing at my dress. The hand at my throat, forcing me to the ground. More hands, tearing away my clothing, beating me. The knife, no longer in the light of the candle, slicing through the air to the sound of a scream. The blinding pain. The slow, staining of soil, where nothing will grow again. I cannot scream. They will not hear. I cannot move. My neck, once more attacked, losing the last of my blood. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Translated from the journal of Marie-Hélène Donnette Rochette

They feared that she would betray her secrets. They just didn't care what she told them; their minds were set. The only thing to be done was to get rid of the potential threat. Dead men tell no tales...they figured the same went for women . . .