But even the fairy-tale stage came to an end, and the history books had now their turn. Christian was William Tell, and her hand shook as she fired at the apple. Or she was Joan of Arc in prison, and putting on her armor when there was no one by to see. Or she was Charlotte Corday at the moment of her great inspiration. Or, again, she was on the way to the guillotine as that great hero of fiction, Sidney Carton.
The world knew nothing about Christian. They saw a dull little girl who flitted through life demurely and never expressed any strong feelings about anything.
"She is a child without character," her French governess said of Christian.
"She is a good girl, but she will never play—at least, except in the ordinary way," her music-master said.
"If she had only a little imagination she would do so much better over her poetry and history," her English mistress declared.
It was only her dancing-mistress who now and then expressed approval as Christian flitted about on her small feet, curvetting and curtsying, bending and bowing, and doing all these things with an inborn grace.
"Ah, that child!" said this discerning person; "has she not the very essence of poetry—the thing itself?"
But Christian did not even hear her dancing-mistress praise her. She was accustomed to being found fault with: even her mother only bestowed faint praise upon her; and as to her father, he scarcely noticed her at all.
Never mind, her real home was in the front attic. The grown people of the house had very little idea how much of Christian's time was spent in this attic. But however cold the weather, Christian never felt it up there. She would remain in the huge, desolate place hour after hour, crouching in a corner, her eyes gazing fascinated at the scene which she had conjured up. Of course, she got many a cold in this way. The colds were nursed and she was well treated, and no one ever for a moment traced them to their true cause.