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
ladies to Rambouillet, where Helene would remain, and then he was to
take back Sister Therese to Clisson.
Gaston, raising his eyes suddenly, saw Owen watching him, and this
curiosity displeased him.
"What are you doing there?" asked he.
"Waiting for orders," said Owen.
"Do you know that fellow?" asked Gaston of the gardener.
"M. Owen, your servant? Of course I do; we are from the same place."
"So much the worse," murmured Gaston.
"Oh, Owen is an honest fellow."
"Never mind," said Gaston; "not a word of Helene, I beg."
The gardener promised; and, indeed, it was his own interest to keep the
secret, for, had it been discovered that he had given Gaston the key, he
would have lost his place.
After a hasty meal, the carriage was again ordered, and at the door
Gaston met the ladies, and handed them in. Chanlay was not quite unknown
to the sister, so she thanked him graciously as he handed her in.
"Monsieur," said Owen, behind the chevalier, "our horses are ready."
"One more glass," said Gaston, "and I shall start."
To Owen's great surprise, Gaston returned to the room and ordered a
third bottle--for Owen had removed the second, of which Gaston had only
drank his two glasses.
Gaston remained about a quarter of an hour, and then, having no further
motive for waiting, he set out.
When they had ridden a short distance, they saw the carriage imbedded in
a deep rut, where, in spite of the efforts of the horses and the
gardener, it remained stationary. Gaston could not leave him in such a
dilemma, and the gardener, recognizing Owen, called to him for aid. The
two riders dismounted, opened the carriage door, took out the ladies,
and succeeded in freeing the carriage, so that they were able to
proceed.
An acquaintanceship was thus established, and the poor nun, who was very
timid, inquired of Gaston if the road were safe. Gaston reassured her,
and said that he and his servant would escort them, and his offer was at
once accepted with thanks.
Meanwhile Helene had played her part admirably, showing that a young
girl, however simple and naive, has the instinct of dissimulation, which
only requires opportunity to develop itself.
Gaston rode along close to the door, for the road was narrow, and Sister
Therese asked him many questions. She learned that he was called the
Chevalier de Livry, and was the brother of one of the young ladies who
had been in the convent school, but who was now married to Montlouis.
They stopped, as previously arranged, at Ancenis.
The gardener confirmed what Gaston had said of his relationship to
Mademoiselle de Livry, so that Sister Therese had no suspicion, and was
very friendly with him.
She was, in fact, delighted, on starting the next morning, to find him
already mounted, and to receive his accustomed politeness in handing
them into the carriage. As he did so, he slipped a note into Helene's
hand, and by a glance she told him he should receive a reply.
Gaston rode by the side of the carriage, for the road was bad, and
assistance was frequently required, either to free a wheel, to assist
the ladies to alight for the purpose of walking up a steep ascent, or
some of the many accidents of a journey. "My dear Helene," said Sister
Therese, several times, "what would have become of us without the aid of
this gentleman?"
Before arriving at Angers, Gaston inquired at what hotel they were going
to stay, and, finding that it was the same at which he intended to put
up, he sent Owen on before to engage apartments.
When they arrived, he received a note, which Helene had written during
dinner. She spoke of her love and happiness as though they were secure
and everlasting.
But Gaston looked on the future in its true light. Bound by an oath to
undertake a terrible mission, he foresaw sad misfortunes after their
present short-lived joy. He remembered that he was about to lose
happiness, just as he had tasted it for the first time, and rebelled
against his fate. He did not remember that he had sought that conspiracy
which now bound him, and which forced him to pursue a path leading to
exile or the scaffold, while he had in sight another path which would
lead him direct to happiness.
It is true that when Gaston joined the conspiracy he did not know
Helene, and thought himself alone in the world. At twenty years of age
he had believed that the world had no pleasure for him; then he had met
Helene, and the world became full of pleasure and hope: but it was too
late; he had already entered on a career from which he could not draw
back.
Meanwhile, in the preoccupation of his mind, Gaston had quite forgotten
his suspicions of Owen, and had not noticed that he had spoken to two
cavaliers similar to the one whom he had seen the first evening; but
Owen lost nothing of what passed between Gaston and Helene.
As they approached the end of their journey, Gaston became sad; and when
the landlord at Chartres replied to the question of Sister Therese,
"To-morrow you may, if you choose, reach Rambouillet," it was as though
he had said, "To-morrow you separate forever."
Helene, who loved as women love, with the strength, or rather the
weakness, to sacrifice everything to that love, could not understand
Gaston's passive submission to the decrees of Providence, and she would
have preferred to have seen him make some effort to combat them.
But Helene was in this unjust to Gaston; the same ideas tormented him.
He knew that at a word from him Helene would follow him to the end of
the world--he had plenty of gold--it would be easy for Helene one
evening, instead of going to rest, to go with him into a post-chaise,
and in two days they would be beyond the frontier, free and happy, not
for a day or a month, but forever.
But one word, one little word, opposed itself to all this. That word was
honor. He had given his oath, and he would be disgraced if he did not
keep it.
The last evening Helene expected that Gaston would speak, but in vain,
and she retired to rest with the conviction that Gaston did not love her
as she loved him.
That night Gaston never slept, and he rose pale and despairing. They
breakfasted at a little village. The nun thought that in the evening she
would begin her homeward journey toward her beloved convent. Helene
thought that it was now too late to act, even if Gaston should speak.
Gaston thought that he was about to lose forever the woman whom he
loved.
About three o'clock in the afternoon they all alighted to walk up a
steep hill, from the summit of which they could see before them a
steeple and a number of houses. It was Rambouillet; they did not know
it, but they felt that it was.
Gaston was the first to break the silence. "There," said he, "our paths
separate. Helene, I implore you preserve the recollection of me, and,
whatever happens, do not condemn or curse me."
"Gaston, you only speak of the most terrible things. I need courage, and
you take it from me. Have you nothing joyful to tell me? I know the
present is dark, but is the future also as dreadful? Are there not many
years, and therefore many hopes, to look forward to? We are young--we
love one another; are there no means of struggling against the fate
which threatens us? Oh, Gaston! I feel in myself a great strength, and
if you but say--but no, I am mad; it is I who suffer, and yet I who
console."
"I understand you, Helene--you want a promise, do you not? Well, judge
if I am wretched; I dare not promise. You tell me to hope, and I can but
despair. If I had ten years, five years, one year, at my own disposal, I
would offer them to you, Helene, and think myself blessed, but from the
moment I leave you, we lose each other. From to-morrow morning I belong
no more to myself."
"Oh!" cried Helene, "unhappy that I am, did you then deceive me when you
said you loved me; are you pledged to another?"
"At least, my poor Helene," said Gaston, "on this point I can reassure
you. I have no other love."
"Then we may yet be happy, Gaston, if my new family will recognize you
as my husband."
"Helene, do you not see that every word you utter stabs me to the
heart?"
"But at least tell me what it is."
"Fate, which I cannot escape; ties which I dare not break."
"I know of none such," cried the young girl. "I am promised a family,
riches, station, and a name; and yet, Gaston, say but one word and I
leave them all for you. Why, then, will you not do as much for me?"
Gaston answered not; and at this moment Sister Therese rejoined them,
and they again got into the carriage. When they neared the town, the nun
called Gaston, told him that, perhaps, some one might come to meet
Helene, and that a stranger should not be seen with them. Gaston bowed
silently and sadly, and turned to leave them.
Helene was no ordinary woman; she saw Gaston's distress. "Is it adieu,
or au revoir?" cried she, boldly.
"Au revoir," said Gaston, and he rode off quickly.