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Bathilde is walking alone through a dark wood. The tree branches creak against each other eerily in the wind; otherwise, all is silent. She comes to the forest clearing, and here is what she seeks: a humble cross marked with the name Giselle, half-covered over with trailing white roses. Slowly, she approaches and touches the cold stone, tracing the letters of the name.
She becomes aware of a presence behind her, one that fills the air with a bitter chill. She cannot turn to look; she is frozen, like a rabbit before a snake. A pale, slender hand passes in front of her face, holding a sprig of myrtle. When the leaves brush her forehead, the touch is freezing cold, a chill that seems to sink into her very bones. She awakes with a cry.
The light of dawn is stealing into her room around the curtains. Bathilde finds herself shivering. Why is it so cold in her room? She calls for her maids to stir the fire.
“Are you well?” her father asks with concern over breakfast. “You are so pale this morning.”
Bathilde wraps her fur robe more closely around her. “It is nothing,” she says with a laugh. “Only I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“No wonder,” her father says, “after such goings-on!”
Bathilde only half-listens to his speech denouncing Albrecht’s offenses. She cannot truly disagree. She still cannot fathom it. Albrecht has always been gallant and charming to her, full of compliments and tender gestures. Did he give flowers to his rustic beloved, dance with her, kiss her hands, praise her beauty? He could not have given her jewels, at least; the peasant youth he pretended to be would not have owned such things. It was Bathilde’s gold chain that rested around Giselle’s neck when she died. Something stirs oddly in her chest at the thought.
Her father has moved on to Giselle’s part in it, though he does not mention her name. Instead she is “that peasant girl” and “that seductress.” Absurd. Anyone could see that Giselle loved Albrecht, unworthy as he was, with her whole heart. Otherwise she would not have died.
Bathilde rises abruptly. “I think you are right, father. I am not well. Perhaps I will spend the day in my room.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Her father pats her arm awkwardly. “And if the Duke dares to show his face here, I’ll show him the door!”
Bathilde turns her face away. She does not think Albrecht will come to see her. She does not know what she would say to him if he did.
That night, it is a long time before she falls asleep. When she closes her eyes, she sees again what happened in the village: Giselle dancing joyfully to please her; Giselle leaning over the wooden table in her mother’s house, her eyes sparkling, speaking confidentially of her sweetheart; Giselle pale and lifeless in Albrecht’s arms. Perhaps it is strange of her, to mourn for the woman who her own betrothed secretly loved. But Bathilde feels she would give almost anything to have Giselle alive again.
When she finally falls asleep, she dreams of the same forest clearing, but she is not alone; there is a circle of maidens dressed in trailing white garments that flutter like mist, their faces covered by long white veils like a bride. They dance with unearthly grace, in perfect silence, forming and reforming in unknown patterns.
A tall figure stands in the center, her head crowned with white poppies, her hand grasping a sprig of myrtle like a sceptre. The ghostly maidens bow before her as they pass.
The Queen extends her hand, the myrtle branch pointing towards Bathilde. The maidens surround her, their forms flitting in dizzying circles. Bathilde feels the gentle touch of their cold fingers on her brow, her cheeks, her bare arms.
The Queen does not deign to look at Bathilde, but one of the white-clad maidens whispers, “He betrayed you too. Soon you will join us.” Veils cover their faces; she cannot see which of them has spoken. Green shoots of myrtle rise slowly from the ground, twining around Bathilde’s arms and legs, holding her fast.
When Bathilde wakes, she is shivering and cannot stop, no matter how high they build the fire, no matter how many fur blankets she pulls around herself.
Alarmed, her father calls a doctor. The doctor cannot find anything wrong. He packs up his instruments, speaking wisely of maidens’ delicate hearts, the shock of a betrayal. Bathilde wants to tell them that it was not Albrecht who did this to her, but the terrible white Queen in the forest. She remains silent.
It is not Bathilde’s fault she is not getting well. Not when the ghost maidens dance in her dreams every night, when she can feel the shoots of myrtle twining around her more and more tightly, dragging her down until she trembles unsteadily on her feet. She can see and feel the pinioning branches even in the daytime now: the smooth bark binding her wrists, the leaves brushing gently against her cheek.
The days and nights blur together; the myrtle constricts her chest more tightly, and she cannot draw a breath without coughing. She sleeps and dreams, and each night in the forest clearing the white dancers are there to welcome her. She watches them as if in a trance, never seeking to flee.
Once again Bathilde is in the dark forest clearing with the cross of stone. She lets her eyes trace the name on the cross in the pale moonlight. Giselle, she thinks, Giselle. There was something about that name: some memory she wanted to hold onto, a deep grief that she cannot quite remember.
The dancers spin around her, almost seeming to float through the air, and Bathilde thinks this dream will be like all the others. But one of the pale maidens breaks from the dance; she draws back her white veil and casts it aside. The moonlight illuminates her face, and Bathilde draws in her breath sharply. “Giselle?” Her heart beats faster with the sudden shock. All at once she feels her languor and paralysis leave her; she feels awake again.
Giselle runs to her—how could Bathilde have forgotten her grace?—and stands protectively before her. The ghostly maidens move restlessly in their places, bending closer to each other as if whispering, though their speech is noiseless.
Giselle bows pleadingly to the Queen, bending her head. The Queen makes a single gesture of denial; the white-clad maidens echo it as one.
The spell that formerly held Bathilde motionless is broken. She picks up her skirts and turns to run.
The Queen gestures again. Myrtle branches rise from the earth and hold Bathilde in place, twining around her like snakes. Bathilde struggles stubbornly, trying to free herself. The ghost maidens resume their whirling dance, but Bathilde has no eyes for them. She looks only at Giselle, the only one whose face is unveiled. The Queen makes a commanding gesture. As if dragged by an unseen force, Giselle joins the circle and dances with the rest of them, her face still bare. Bathilde can see that she is weeping.
When the white-clad maidens vanish, Giselle remains behind. She kneels before Bathilde and kisses the myrtle branches, touching them with gentle hands. At her touch, the branches twist away, sliding back into the earth. Last of all, Giselle takes Bathilde’s face between her hands and kisses her lightly on the mouth.
When Bathilde wakes, she is no better, but she is also no worse.
Every night from then on, Giselle is there to protect her. The sight of Giselle frees Bathilde’s mind from its trance; her touch protects Bathilde from cold, and her gentle kiss makes the fever recede. Bathilde does not wish for Giselle to be trapped in these endless dreams with her, but to see her again every night—that would surely be no curse. She doesn’t even mind that her cheeks are thin and pale when she wakes, that her hands tremble and she cannot rise from her bed.
The Queen seems angry that her power over Bathilde is growing no stronger. She calls Giselle to her with a gesture, her face cold and angry. Giselle shakes her head desperately. Her face is pleading, her eyes wet with tears. The Queen raises her myrtle sceptre and points it sharply at Giselle. Giselle twists in pain, sinking to her knees, her mouth open in a silent scream. She is suffering, Bathilde thinks in anguish, and suddenly she cannot endure it.
Bathilde has never been able to speak in these dreams. Even now she struggles to draw breath, feeling the power of the white Queen press down on her like a river current, feeling the myrtle twisting around her neck to choke her. But she draws in a breath, and with all her strength she cries aloud: “Giselle!”
Giselle raises her head at Bathilde’s call, her eyes widening. She breaks away and runs desperately to Bathilde’s side. This time Bathilde tries to shelter her behind her own body, though she knows she is helpless before the white Queen’s power.
Giselle turns to face Bathilde, and her expression grows determined. Dance with me, she says with a gesture, and holds out her hand to Bathilde. Bathilde takes it.
Heedless of the whirling maidens, they dance for themselves alone. Though Bathilde has grown weak in the waking world, here she has all her old strength and grace. It is Bathilde who lifts Giselle in her arms, Giselle who winds her arms around Bathilde’s shoulders to support her dancing. Hands clasping hands, bodies bending tenderly against each other, arms twined around each other’s waists; time seems to melt away while they are lost in each other. They look only at each other, and the Queen’s power cannot touch them.
Bathilde has always awoken before while the dream forest was still dark. But this time, in wonder, she sees the light of dawn spreading over the clearing, the dark ominous shapes of nightmare becoming only trees again in the growing light. The Queen reaches out one more time, but her power is gone; she turns away with cold dignity. One by one, the ghostly maidens vanish away like mist.
Bathilde holds Giselle closer, scarcely believing that they are both free. Giselle smiles at her, her face joyful. She kisses Bathilde one more time, long and sweetly. Then she too is gone, dissolving into the golden light.
Bathilde opens her eyes, and that same light is playing across the wall of her room. She pushes back the covers and sits up slowly. She feels well, she realizes. She can draw breath without coughing, and her limbs are light once again.
She stands up, takes a few steps. Her lingering fatigue is gone. If she had the heart for it, she could even dance, spinning light-footed through the ballroom as she did once before Albrecht courted her. Outside the window, the sky is brightening, lit with delicate pink and pale gold. Resting on the table beside her bed is a single white rose.