"Alas! Helene, we each have our secret," said the chevalier, sorrowfully; "I pray that yours may be less terrible than mine."
"Gaston!"
"Were you not the first to say that we must part, Helene? Had not you first the courage to renounce me? Well; blessings on you for that courage – for I, Helene, had it not."
And at these last words the young man again pressed his lips to her hand, and Helene could see that tears stood in his eyes.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" murmured she, "how have we deserved this misery?"
At this exclamation Gaston raised his head. "Come," said he, as if to himself, "courage! It is useless to struggle against these necessities; let us obey without a murmur, and perhaps our resignation may disarm our fate. Can I see you again?"
"I fear not – I leave to-morrow."
"And on what road?"
"To Paris."
"Good heavens!" cried Gaston; "and I also."
"You, also, Gaston?"
"Yes, Helene; we were mistaken, we need not part."
"Oh, Gaston; is it true?"
"Helene, we had no right to accuse Providence; not only can we see each other on the journey, but at Paris we will not be separated. How do you travel?"
"In the convent carriage, with post horses and by short stages."
"Who goes with you?"
"A nun, who will return to the convent when she has delivered me over to those who await me."
"All is for the best, Helene. I shall go on horseback, as a stranger, unknown to you; each evening I may speak to you, or, if I cannot do so, I shall at least see you – it will be but a half separation."
And the two lovers, with the buoyant hopes of youth, after meeting with tears and sadness, parted with smiles and joyous confidence in the future. Gaston recrossed the frozen lake, and found, instead of his own wounded horse, that of Montlouis, and, thanks to this kindness, reached Nantes safely in less than three quarters of an hour.
CHAPTER V.
THE JOURNEY
That very night Gaston made his will, and deposited it with a notary at Nantes.
He left everything to Helene de Chaverny; begged her, if he died, not to renounce the world, but to accept the career opening to her youth and beauty; but, as he was the last of his family, he begged her, in memeory of him, to call her first son Gaston.
He next went to see each of his friends, and once more told them that he believed the enterprise would be successful. Pontcalec gave him half a piece of gold and a letter, which he was to present to a certain Captain la Jonquiere, their correspondent at Paris, who would put Gaston in communication with the important persons he went to seek. He then put all the ready money he had into a valise, and, accompanied only by an old servant named Owen, in whom he had great confidence, he set out from Nantes.
It was midday, a bright sun shone on the stream, and sparkled on the icicles which hung from the leafless trees, as Gaston made his way along the deserted road, looking in vain for anything resembling the convent carriage.
The servant appeared much more anxious to quicken their pace than Gaston himself did, for to him the journey was fraught with annoyances, and he was so anxious to arrive at that Paris of which he had heard such wonderful tales, that, had it been possible, he would willingly have added wings to their horses' feet.
Gaston, however, traveled slowly as far as Oudan, but the convent carriage proceeded more slowly still. At Oudan he halted; he chose the Char Couronne, a house which had some windows overlooking the road, and which, moreover, was the best inn in the village.
While his dinner was preparing, Gaston, in spite of the cold, remained in the balcony; but in vain he looked for the carriage he so much wished to see.
Then he thought that perhaps Helene had preceded him, and was already in the inn. He went at once to a window at the back, overlooking the courtyard, to inspect the carriages standing there.
His attention was arrested by seeing, not the carriage, but his servant, Owen, speaking earnestly to a man dressed in gray and wrapped in a sort of military cloak, who, after a short conversation, mounted his horse and rode off with the air of a man to whom speed is of the utmost importance, as Gaston heard his steps along the road to Paris.
At this moment the servant raised his eyes, and began busily brushing the snow from his boots and clothes.
Gaston signed to him to approach.
"Who were you talking with, Owen?"
"To a man, M. Gaston."
"Who is that man?"
"A traveler – a soldier, who was asking his way."
"His way; to what place?"
"To Rennes."
"But you could not tell him, for you do not know this place."
"I asked the landlord, monsieur."
"Why could not he ask himself?"
"Because he had had a quarrel with him about the price of his dinner, and did not wish to speak to him again."
"Hum," said Gaston.
Nothing was more natural than this, yet Gaston became thoughtful; but he quickly threw off his suspicions, accusing himself of becoming timid at a time when he most needed courage; his brow remained clouded, however, for the carriage did not appear.
He thought at one moment that Helene might have chosen another road in order to part from him without noise or quarrel, but he soon concluded that it was only some accident which delayed her; he sat down again to table, though he had finished his dinner, and when Owen appeared to clear away, "Some wine," said he. Owen had already removed a half empty bottle.
"Some wine?" repeated the servant in astonishment, for Gaston usually drank but little.
"Yes, some wine; is there anything surprising in that?"
"No, monsieur," replied Owen.
And he transmitted the order for a second bottle of wine to the waiter. Gaston poured out a glass, drank it, then a second.
Owen stared.
Then, thinking it both his duty and his interest to prevent his master's finishing the bottle —
"Monsieur," said he, "I have heard that if you are riding, it is bad to drink when it is very cold. You forgot that we have a long way to go, and that it will be getting still colder, and, if we wait much longer, we shall get no post-horses. It is nearly three o'clock, now, and at half-past four it will be dark."
This behavior surprised Gaston.
"You are in a very great hurry, Owen," said he; "have you a rendezvous with the man who was asking his way of you?"
"Monsieur knows that to be impossible," replied Owen, "since he is going to Rennes, and we to Paris."
However, under the scrutinizing gaze of his master, Owen turned red, when suddenly, at the sound of wheels, Gaston ran to the window. It was the dark carriage.
At this sight Gaston darted from the room.
It was then Owen's turn to run to the window to see what it was that had so much interested his master. He saw a green and black carriage stop, from which the driver alighted and opened the door; then he saw a young lady in a cloak go into the hotel, followed by an Augustine sister; the two ladies, announcing that they should only remain to dine, asked for a room.
But to reach this room they had to cross a public salon, in which Gaston stood near the fire-place; a rapid but meaning glance was exchanged between him and Helene, and, to Gaston's great satisfaction, he recognized in the driver of the carriage the convent gardener. He let him pass, however, unnoticed, but as he crossed the yard to go to the stable, he followed him.
He accosted the gardener, who told him that he was to take the two