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 why? What have you undertaken? what will become of you?"
"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.