"Yes, I understand how you manage in summer, but you cannot use the boat now."
"True; but, instead, there is a coating of ice, on which I shall go this evening; perhaps it will break and engulf me; so much the better, for then, I hope, your suspicions would die with me."
"You have taken a load from my breast," said Montlouis.
"Ah! my poor Gaston, how happy you make me; for, remember, Du Couëdic and I answered for you."
"Chevalier," said the marquis, "pardon and embrace us."
"Willingly, marquis; but you have destroyed a portion of my happiness."
"How so?"
"I wished my love to have been known to no one. I have so much need of strength and courage! Am I not to leave her to-night forever?"
"Who knows, chevalier? You look gloomily at the future."
"I know what I am saying, Montlouis."
"If you succeed – and with your courage and sang-froid you ought to succeed – France is free: then she will owe her liberty to you, and you will be master of your own fate."
"Ah! marquis, if I succeed, it will be for you; my own fate is fixed."
"Courage, chevalier; meanwhile, let us see how you manage these love affairs."
"Still mistrust, marquis?"
"Still; my dear Gaston, I mistrust myself: and, naturally enough; after being named your chief, all the responsibility rests on me, and I must watch over you all."
"At least, marquis, I am as anxious to reach the foot of that wall as you can be to see me, so I shall not keep you waiting long."
Gaston tied his horse to a tree; by means of a plank thrown across, he passed the stream, opened the gate, and then, following the palisades so as to get away from the stream, he stepped upon the ice, which cracked under his feet.
"In Heaven's name," cried Montlouis, "be prudent."
"Look, marquis," said Gaston.
"I believe you; I believe you, Gaston."
"You give me fresh courage," replied the chevalier.
"And now, Gaston, one word more. When shall you leave?"
"To-morrow at this time, marquis, I shall probably be thirty leagues on the way to Paris."
"Come back and let us embrace, and say adieu." – "With pleasure."
Gaston retraced his steps, and was embraced cordially by each of the chevaliers, who did not turn away till they saw that he had arrived safely at the end of his perilous journey.
CHAPTER IV.
SHOWING HOW CHANCE ARRANGES SOME MATTERS BETTER THAN PROVIDENCE
In spite of the cracking of the ice, Gaston pursued his way boldly, and perceived, with a beating heart, that the winter rains had raised the waters of the little lake, so that he might possibly be able to reach the window.
He was not mistaken; on giving the signal, the window was opened, then a head appeared nearly at the level of his own, and a hand touched his; it was the first time. Gaston seized it, and covered it with kisses.
"Gaston, you have come, in spite of the cold, and on the ice; I told you in my letter not to do so."
"With your letter on my heart, Helene, I think I can run no danger; but what have you to tell me? You have been crying!"
"Alas, since this morning I have done little else."
"Since this morning," said Gaston, with a sad smile, "that is strange; if I were not a man, I too should have cried since this morning."
"What do you say, Gaston?"
"Nothing, nothing; tell me, what are your griefs, Helene?"
"Alas! you know I am not my own mistress. I am a poor orphan, brought up here, having no other world than the convent. I have never seen any one to whom I can give the names of father or mother – my mother I believe to be dead, and my father is absent; I depend upon an invisible power, revealed only to our superior. This morning the good mother sent for me, and announced, with tears in her eyes, that I was to leave."
"To leave the convent, Helene?"
"Yes; my family reclaims me, Gaston."
"Your family? Alas! what new misfortune awaits us?"
"Yes, it is a misfortune, Gaston. Our good mother at first congratulated me, as if it were a pleasure; but I was happy here, and wished to remain till I became your wife. I am otherwise disposed of, but how?"
"And this order to remove you?"
"Admits of neither dispute nor delay. Alas! it seems that I belong to a powerful family, and that I am the daughter of some great nobleman. When the good mother told me I must leave, I burst into tears, and fell on my knees, and said I would not leave her; then, suspecting that I had some hidden motive, she pressed me, questioned me, and – forgive me, Gaston – I wanted to confide in some one; I felt the want of pity and consolation, and I told her all – that we loved each other – all except the manner in which we meet. I was afraid if I told her that, that she would prevent my seeing you this last time to say adieu."
"But did you not tell, Helene, what were my plans; that, bound to an association myself for six months, perhaps for a year, at the end of that time, the very day I should be free, my name, my fortune, my very life, was yours?"
"I told her, Gaston; and this is what makes me think I am the daughter of some powerful nobleman, for then Mother Ursula replied: 'You must forget the chevalier, my child, for who knows that your new family would consent to your marrying him?'"
"But do not I belong to one of the oldest families in Brittany? and, though I am not rich, my fortune is independent. Did you say this, Helene?"
"Yes; I said to her, 'Gaston chose me, an orphan, without name and without fortune. I may be separated from him, but it would be cruel ingratitude to forget him, and I shall never do so.'"
"Helene, you are an angel. And you cannot then imagine who are your parents, or to what you are destined?"
"No; it seems that it is a secret on which all my future happiness depends; only, Gaston, I fear they are high in station, for it almost appeared as if our superior spoke to me with deference."
"To you, Helene?"
"Yes."
"So much the better," said Gaston, sighing.
"Do you rejoice at our separation, Gaston?"
"No, Helene; but I rejoice that you should find a family when you are about to lose a friend."
"Lose a friend, Gaston! I have none but you; whom then should I lose?"
"At least, I must leave you for some time, Helene."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Fate has endeavored to make our lots similar, and that you are not the only one who does not know what the morrow may bring forth."
"Gaston! Gaston! what does this strange language mean?"
"That I also am subject to a fatality which I must obey – that I also am governed by an irresistible and superior power."
"You! oh heavens!"
"To a power which may condemn me to leave you in a week – in a fortnight – in a month; and not only to leave you, but to leave France."
"Ah, Gaston! what do you tell me?"
"What in my love, or rather in my egotism, I have dreaded to tell you before. I shut my eyes to this hour, and yet I knew that it must come; this morning they were opened. I must leave you, Helene."
"But