Yet there was one thing that he had forgotten, although he had been thinking of it all the time. When one was building castles in Spain how could one forget the châtelaine? What was the use of a castle, of riches, of a great name, with nobody to share one’s happiness? It would be too lonely, too discouraging. Yes, there must be a châtelaine, a tall, lovely lady with dark-blue eyes and golden hair--no, not just golden, but of a ruddy tinge like a sunrise cloud, bronze-coloured with a glint of gold. It would be bound with a fillet of blue and would fall in wavy iridescent masses down her back. She would be clad in a long garment of purple velvet with a border of golden braid and a golden girdle about her waist. "But yes," said Jean to himself, "there must be a châtelaine, but what is her name? _Mon Dieu_, what is her name?" "_Mon Dieu_, what is her name? I should very much like to know," said a laughing voice behind the trees. "Will you not tell me her name, where you have met her, what she is like, and all that? I am dying to know." Startled and speechless, Jean turned suddenly, and from behind the trees came tripping an apparition the like of which had surely never before been seen on the banks of the St. Ange. It was tall for a girl, a lithe, graceful figure clad in fishing costume, with small rubber boots, a short skirt of brown cotton, a waist and jacket of the same material, and a jaunty cap set above a mass of reddish-golden hair. There were dark-blue eyes, almost black, dancing with merriment, a laughing mouth set with pearly teeth, a dimpled chin and a dainty nose, the least bit retroussé. The vision carried a light rod in her hand and a pannier slung across her shoulder. She advanced rapidly, as though expecting a joyous greeting, but suddenly stopped, poised as though for flight, and said, with an injured air: "So, Jean, you have forgotten me. You don’t know your old friends any more. Well, I will leave you; I will go down to the river and catch another fish. Good-bye, Monsieur the Hermit, I leave you to your meditations." "Don’t go, Gabrielle!" exclaimed Jean, quite alarmed. "I know you very well, although I have seen you only once or twice in seven years. But how you have changed! You are much better looking than formerly." "Oh, thank you, Monsieur Giroux. From you that is a compliment indeed. What an ugly little beast I must have been!" "No, Gabrielle, not at all. On the contrary, you were always charming, but now you are enchanting, of a beauty altogether----" "Stop, stop, Jean. That is enough. I am not used to such talk. At the convent it is not permitted, and when one sees the young men of Quebec, which is not often, they do not dare. What would the Mother Superior say, or Sister Ste. Marthe? No, you must not. You are impertinent, yes, impertinent, I say." "No, Gabrielle, not that; only an old friend. But tell me, how many fish have you caught?" "Three, Jean, three beauties. Look!"