"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?"