I.

At the extremity of the roadstead of Brest, in the open space that lies

stretched out between the Ile Longue and Point Kelerne, may be seen two

rocks crowned with massive granite buildings, and standing boldly up. On

the former, the lazaretto of Treberon has been established; the latter,

which in other days was used as a burial-ground and thence took its name

of the Ile des Morts, now contains the principal powder-magazine of the

naval arsenal. The two rocks separated by an arm of the sea, are about

six miles distant from Brest. In appearance these little islands are not

unlike. Beyond the ground occupied by the buildings upon them, they

offer nothing to the eye save a succession of stony slopes, dotted here

and there with coarse moss and prickly thorn-broom. Vainly there might

you look for any other shelter than that afforded by the fissures of the

rocks, for any other shade than that of the walls, for any other walk

than the short terrace contrived in front of the buildings. Naked and

sterile, the two isles remind you of a couple of immense sentry-boxes

in stone, placed there for the purpose of keeping guard over the sea,

which is roaring beneath them. But if the foot that treads them remains

imprisoned within a narrow circle, the view from their summit extends

over an infinite space. Here, you have the bay of Lanvoc, bordered by a

dull-looking and stunted vegetation; there, Roscanvel with its shadows

crossed by the graceful spire of its church; there, Spanish Point

bristling with batteries; and lastly, close upon the horizon lies Brest,

with its dock-yards, its forts, and the hundred masts of its ships,

visible through a veil of mist. Midway opens out the Goulet, the harbour

of this marvellous lake, through which arrive and depart unceasingly

those wandering sails, that issue forth to flaunt the ensign of France

upon the waters, or to bring it home again from far-away lands.

A cannon-shot, the echo of which was still booming along the shores, had

just announced one of these arrivals, and a frigate, with a light

breeze, was doubling the Point under a cloud of canvas. From the

esplanade of Treberon a man, wrapped in a pilot-cloth cape and wearing a

narrow-brimmed glazed hat, under which it might be seen that his locks

were turning grey, was looking at the noble vessel as she glided along

in the distance, between the azure of the sea and of the sky. It was

obvious that the keeper of the lazaretto (for he it was) gave but casual

attention to the sight, with which his long residence at Treberon had

familiarized him. His look, for a moment resting carelessly upon the

frigate which had begun to brail up her upper sails, soon reverted to

his more immediate neighbourhood, and settled itself at the foot of the

pathway, that led from the esplanade to the sea, upon a group which

appeared more decidedly to interest him. And in truth the object of this

rivetted gaze was of that sort which might have attracted the least

attentive eye. A pupil of Phidias would have traced in it the germ of

one of those antique bas-reliefs, of which the marble has become more

precious than gold.

Two little girls and a goat were coming up the winding path together.

The elder of the two, who might be eleven years old, was holding the

freakish animal by one of those long pieces of sea-weed that resemble

strips of Spanish leather. Her black hair fell down upon a neck

embrowned like a raven's wing, and threw something of a wild hardihood

into her expression, tempered however by the velvety softness of her

eye. The younger, seated on the goat as though it were her customary

place, was of such rosy-white complexion as you see in the flower of the

eglantine. A tuft of broom, mingling with her golden hair, fell down

upon her shoulder, and gave her an indescribably coquettish grace. The

two sisters compelled the goat, which submitted most unwillingly, to

moderate its pace; but still, as they proceeded, they were obliged to

double the slender reins by which they kept it within bounds, and anon

to catch hold of the wreath of sea-flowers twisted about its horns.

Then what joyous shouts and peals of laughter were there without end,

broken in upon by the gentle bleatings of _Brunette_ as she pawed the

ground with her foot, and shook her saucy little head! Any other hands

but those of Josephe and Francine would have tried in vain to make her

even so far submissive; but for the latter the goat had been a

foster-mother, a circumstance evidently not forgotten.

Mathieu Ropars had been watching for some time this pleasant little

contest between the fantastic _Brunette_ and his daughters, when he felt

a hand laid upon his arm; he turned round and encountered, so to say,

close against his shoulder the bronzed and smiling face of their mother.

--"Just look at those children," said he, nodding his head in the

direction of the merry group.

--"Heavens! Francine will fall," exclaimed the mother, stepping towards

the path. He drew her back.

--"Let them be," said he; "don't you know that there is nothing to fear

when Josephe has her eye upon them? Besides, _Brunette_ loves them

better than her own kids; nor are they behind-hand in returning it.

Heaven forgive me, if that creature isn't what they think most of--after

us!"

--"And after Monsieur Gabriel," chimed in their mother--"at least so far

as Josephe is concerned; for although he scarcely stayed more than a

week in the lazaretto, and that's three years ago, the child never lets

a day pass by without speaking of him."

--"To tell the truth, the Lieutenant is a sort of man not easily to be

forgotten," replied Ropars, "especially by the little one yonder, to

whom he was so kind and made so many promises. Why, wasn't he to bring

her all manner of wonderful things from the East? And by the bye, if

nothing has happened to him, I believe that we shall pretty soon see him

again, as well as the _Thetis_."

--"In the meantime I must tell the children of another visit, which will

also be no small treat for them."

--"Whose?"

--"Cousin's, and little Michael's."

--"Dorot's coming?" inquired Mathieu, looking towards the platform of

the Ile des Morts. "How do you know?"

--"Can't we talk by signal just as well as his Majesty's ships?" said

Genevieve laughing. "Look, he has hung out of his window three small red

handkerchiefs; that's to tell us that he's coming over. Besides, I saw

Michael going down to the Superintendent's."

--"Bravo!" cried Ropars, his face lighting up; "your cousin and the boy

must sup with us--that is to say, if your pantry is not quite so empty

as your hospital."

Genevieve protested, and then enumerated with an air of complacency all

her culinary resources, which had fortunately been replenished, two

days before, by the Superintendent, who supplied at the same time the

powder-magazine and the lazaretto. Mathieu promised to complete the

feast by broaching for the artillery-man an old bottle of Rousillon

wine, stowed away for a long time under the sand of his cellar.

The two little girls at this moment came up on to the terrace.

--"Quick, here!" cried Genevieve, "quick; there's somebody coming."

--"Monsieur Gabriel?" asked Josephe, springing forward with this

exclamation.

--"No, no, goose-cap--cousin Dorot and little Michael."

An involuntary gesture of disappointment escaped from the child; but

Francine clapped her hands and broke out into shouts of joy. The goat,

left to herself, bounded along the precipitous slopes of the rocks,

where she set to work browsing on the tufts of brackish herbage; the

sisters took each other's hand to go down towards the little

landing-place; whilst their mother went into the house with a view of

getting everything in readiness.

As had been remarked by the last-named, the special affection of Josephe

for Monsieur Gabriel was already of several years standing. It dated

from a quarantine performed at Treberon by the Lieutenant, who, charmed

by her grace, bordering though it was upon the savage, had exhibited

towards her a marked regard, to which the child had responded with what

amounted almost to a passion. Having entered the navy against his

inclination, Monsieur Gabriel had adopted little of it but its uniform.

In the midst of a life of change, hardship, and adventure, he dreamed

unceasingly of the unchangeableness of the domestic hearth, and of

peaceful family enjoyments. He was one of those lovers of solitude, who

are born to live amongst labourers, and women, and children. Confined to

the lazaretto of Treberon, he had brought thither a few favourite books,

and his violin, on which he played for hours at a time, with no other

end than the listening to its melodious vibrations. When he went out,

Josephe ran to meet him, acted as his guide along the rocks, and

escorted him to their most secluded recesses, in which, day by day, he

discovered some unknown plant, or moss that was new to him. In the

evening, be paid a visit to the old quarter-master whose quiet enjoyment

of life had attracted his notice. Genevieve talked to him of her

children; Josephe begged of him a story or a song; and when it was time

for him to retire for the night, he went back to his cell, light hearted

and with tranquil mind. A fortnight thus slipped away as if it had been

an hour; so that when his quarantine was at length performed, and it was

necessary for him to leave Treberon, his deliverance did but awaken in

him a feeling of regret. He came back several times to pass whole days

upon the lonely islet; and when finally he was embarking for a distant

voyage of discovery, he promised the solitary family that he would

occasionally write to them. Ropars had in fact received some letters

from him; and, as we have seen, was expecting his speedy return. For the

moment, the visit announced by Genevieve exclusively occupied the keeper

of the lazaretto. He remained alone upon the esplanade, whence he

continued to look towards the Ile des Morts. The distance rendered

visible everything done there; it was easy to recognize persons and to

distinguish their movements. He could therefore see Dorot take his way

towards the skiff, set up the mast, and hoist the sail; and the little

Michael catching hold, with some difficulty, of the tiller.

Previously to the two families becoming allied by marriage, the keepers

of the powder-magazine and of the lazaretto had known each other in the

navy, wherein one was a quarter-master and the other a sergeant of

artillery. Appointed to Treberon, Mathieu Ropars had rejoiced at the

idea of meeting his old ship-mate Dorot, already several years

established at the Ile des Morts, with his wife, his son, and a female

orphan relative. The lazaretto being almost always deserted, he was left

with ample leisure for frequent visits to the powder-magazine, and for

becoming well known there and thoroughly appreciated. Genevieve, Dorot's

cousin, was particularly taken with such a character, so

straight-forward and yet so gentle. She had been tried, until she was

sixteen, by all the pains and penalties of misery. Taken then, from

charitable motives, into the house of her cousin whose wife occasionally

made her pay dearly enough for his hospitality, the poor orphan had

accustomed herself to expecting nothing at any one's hands, and to

receiving as a favour whatever was accorded her. Thus the frank

cordiality of Mathieu was more touching in her eyes than it would have

been in those of another. She welcomed it with a gratitude half filial,

to which insensibly became added that shade of a more tender feeling,

always blended into the attachments of a woman whose heart is

disengaged. An intimacy between herself and Ropars went on,

strengthening from day to day, whilst neither of them took account of

their predilections. As he marked the young girl in the bloom of her

expanding beauty, Mathieu, who already felt the weight of years upon

him, would never have dreamed of asking her to share his existence;

whilst Genevieve, happy in seeing him daily and in the consciousness of

his immediate neighbourhood, thought not of desiring anything further.

It needed the offer of a situation for her at Brest, and the consequent

prospect of a separation, to enlighten them as to their mutual

dependence on each other. Perceiving that Genevieve shed tears, Ropars,

who could not shut his eyes to his own distress of mind, took courage

and brought matters to a point. He told her that she might dispense with

this separation, if the isle of Treberon were no more irksome to her

than the Ile des Morts, and if his society were as agreeable to her as

that of her cousin. The poor girl, weeping, blushing and overjoyed,

could only reply by letting herself fall into his arms. The old

quarter-master forthwith opened his mind to Dorot. The marriage took

place; and he carried off Genevieve to his islet, of which henceforth

he mistrusted not the solitude.

The difference in their respective ages did not seem to mar the

happiness of the keeper and the orphan girl. Both were possessed of that

which renders marriage a blessing--the simple mind and the heart of

kindly impulse. Children came, to draw still closer these ties, and to

enliven their hearth. The younger was just born, when Dorot lost his

wife, and was left alone with his son Michael, thirteen years of age.

This premature widowerhood had revived the friendship of the two old

shipmates. Their intercourse became more frequent. The skiff that served

both establishments was stationed at the little haven of the Ile des

Morts, and was thus at the disposition of the artillery-man, who missed

no opportunity of coming to pass a few hours with his neighbours. But

notwithstanding their proximity, and the ease with which the passage was

made, these visits could not be of daily occurrence. Dorot was obliged

to be constantly on the watch; his official orders were equally sudden

and unforeseen; nor could he expose himself to the risk of too frequent

absence. His appearance therefore at the lazaretto had not ceased to be

a happy exception to the rule. Father, mother, and children alike found

in it a festal occasion; and it was never without great rejoicing that

the signal was observed announcing the agreeable visit, and the boat

seen putting out from the little landing-place and stretching over

towards Treberon.

This time, so soon as Ropars saw her on the way, he went down to meet

her. Scarcely had she touched the ground, when Michael jumped ashore,

threw his arms about the keeper, then about the two little girls, and

then ran off with the latter towards the house. Dorot stepping out in

turn, shook hands heartily with Mathieu; and the pair, chatting, slowly

began the ascent. Having reached the summit of the cliff, they faced

about by force of habit, to take a look out to sea. The artillery-man

remarked that the frigate had just clewed up her lower sails.

--"God help us! she's going to anchor," said he; "did you ever see,

Mathieu, a homeward-bound ship let go so far from land?"

--"That depends," replied the old quarter-master; "we hold off when we

mistrust a fort, or are afraid of reefs."

--"But there's nothing of that sort here," remarked Dorot; "the frigate

has no need to fear the guns of the Castle which are her very good

friends, or the roadstead which is as safe an anchorage as if she were

fast in the dry-dock. There must be something extraordinary."

--"Perhaps the ship has to perform quarantine," suggested Ropars; "the

_Thetis_ is expected."

--"That's it; you've named her," cried the artillery-man, winking his

eye and shading his forehead with one hand so as to look more fixedly at

the distant vessel; "it is the _Thetis_, or I'm a heathen. I had her

down yonder for a week, when she took her powder on board; I know her

by the set of her masts and by her bearing on the water."

--"The _Thetis_!" echoed Mathieu; "then we shall soon see Monsieur

Gabriel. What delight for Josephe! Quick; let's tell her."

He was hurrying off, but Dorot kept him back. "No hurry," said he;

"never reckon too surely on what a ship brings home. Pick people out,

and they're just those that are missing when the roll's called. Better

wait till the Lieutenant brings his own news."

--"You're right," replied the quarter-master; "the more so since the

frigate comes, if I don't mistake, from the Havannah."

--"Who knows whether she won't bring you some lodgers for your

lazaretto?"

--"So be it; they'll be welcome. With Genevieve and the children, one

can't be dull; but once in a while there's no harm in a little company.

You fellows at the Ile des Morts, you have the artillery

despatch-carrier, who keeps you up to all that goes on, to say nothing

of inspections and your convoys of powder; whilst here--never a thing!

Not one visitor in a twelvemonth! At least, if you have to put people

sometimes into quarantine, you hear what's done on land there, and that

leaves you some thing to talk about for months."

The artillery-man shrugged his shoulders--"That's all very well, when

they don't bring disease with them; but the old coasters still talk of a

quarantine in which the lazaretto ran short of both earth and rock for

burying the dead, and when the bodies were of necessity thrown into the

sea with a shot attached to their necks, as in vessels out on a voyage."

--"Now may Christ spare us such a trial!" exclaimed Ropars, respectfully

touching his hat, as he was used to do whenever he pronounced the

Saviour's name. "But you're speaking of a long time ago, Dorot; please

Heaven, we won't see such again. There are no heathen here now; and I

believe that God's good will will take care of us."

Dorot nodded his acquiescence. In fact this confidence, springing from a

simple faith, had up to that time been justified by experience. During

the thirteen years that the keeper had spent at Treberon, he had only

received healthy persons into quarantine, who were complying with a

formal regulation, and were obliged to make proof of their good health

by undergoing this preventive sequestration. There were indeed rare

exceptions. Like all lazarettos, that of Treberon remained generally

unoccupied; and the keeper kept watch there alone, like an ever-living

sentinel posted in advance of the continent, for the purpose of warding

off contagion.

As they chatted, Dorot and he had reached the house. Genevieve was

waiting for them at the doorway, surrounded by the three children who

laid hold of and talked to her all at once. After an exchange of their

accustomed friendly greetings, she went in, with the two keepers, whilst

Michael drew off Francine and Josephe towards _Brunette_, who was

waiting for them on a pinnacle of rock, eyeing them and bleating at

them. The youngster, accustomed to chase his father's sheep upon the

declivities of the Ile des Morts, endeavored to get at her; but the

capricious creature sprung from point to point along the precipices,

letting herself at every moment almost be caught, and at every moment

bounding away from the hand that just could touch her.

Whilst the children kept up this chase, with a thousand calls to one

another and a thousand peals of laughter, Ropars and Dorot entered the

eating-room in which Genevieve was already laying the cloth. It was a

room of middling size, furnished by the keeper himself at the period of

his marriage, and ornamented with a few marine engravings. Amongst these

was particularly distinguished a portrait of Jean Bart, that nautical

Hercules on whom, as all the world knows, his traditional celebrity has

fastened all manner of superhuman exploits and impossible adventures.

Having made his guest sit down, Mathieu went off to disinter his bottle

of Rousillon wine; and brought it back all whitened with the sand, and

capped with a green-waxed cork that bespoke its noble birth-place. Dorot

good-temperedly complained of such extravagance, and hinted that he

could not make his visit a long one, inasmuch as the officer commanding

the post of the Ile des Morts had charged him to bring the skiff back

before sunset. Genevieve therefore hurried herself to serve up the

dinner, and called the children to take their places at table.

With persons whose entire life was contracted within the narrow limits

of two small islands, the conversation could not be much varied. Mathieu

talked of his still-lines set between the headlands of Treberon, and

Dorot of his small cherry-tree. The latter might be regarded as the one

stumbling block of pride, over which the habitual modesty of the worthy

sergeant was sure to trip. No other keeper before his time had succeeded

in securing what he planted, from the sea wind; this was the only tree

that had ever been seen in the two islands; and Lucullus might well have

been less proud of the first cherry-tree that he brought from Persia,

for the purpose of gracing his triumph. Humble as regards everything

else, Dorot drew himself up proudly when there was any question of his

poor wild-stock; he only let it be seen by his friends and his

superiors, and then at their urgent solicitation. Objects resemble human

kind, and very often assume the importance that is given them, in place

of that to which they are entitled. Thus overcharged and carefully

tended, the fame of the cherry-tree of the Ile des Morts went abroad

from Plougastel to Camaret; it was everywhere talked of as a prodigy.

The pride of Dorot had increased in a corresponding degree, and was just

now swollen to the highest pitch by an event no less extraordinary than

unforseen. He brought the news of it to Treberon, but would not make it

known too abruptly. All supposable things were first to be run over, as

in the famous letter of Madame de Sevigne on the marriage of

Mademoiselle. Finally, when every one had given it up, he determined to

enlighten them, and announced ... that the cherry-tree was in blossom!

Unanimous was the cry of astonishment and delight. Prisoners in their

island, it was several years since Ropars and Genevieve had seen a tree

in blossom; and the two little girls could not recall to mind that they

had ever seen one. Loudly and both at once, they beset Michael with

questions. Was the cherry-tree flowering in gold-colour like the

thorn-broom, or in the colour of blood like the sea-furze? How could the

blossoms ever become fruit? Must they wait a long time? Would the tree

bear the red cherries of the coast, or the black-hearts of the upper

country? Dorot cut all these inquiries short, by declaring that he would

come over next day, for the whole of the family, that they might see the

wondrous tree and dine at the Ile des Morts. The ecstacies of the

sisters may be imagined. Their mother could not check their laughing and

their clapping of hands. They continued their cry of "to-morrow,

to-morrow!" just as Aeneas' look-out men kept up their cry of "Italy,

Italy!" when they saw through the empurpled vapours that goal of so many

efforts and such longings.

Remarking their impatience, the sergeant proposed to carry them over,

that very evening, with Michael. There would be still day-light enough

on their arrival, for them to see the cherry-tree covered with its coat

of summer-snow, and their parents could fetch them, next day. The

children backed this offer with their entreaties; Ropars smiled,

without replying; but Genevieve entered her protest against it. What

would she do, if Francine and Josephe were away? Many a time ere this,

on waking in the middle of the night, she had fretted herself at not

hearing their gentle breathings; she had jumped up in agony, and had

crept on tip-toe to their bed, to touch them and to listen to them; how

would it be then, if they were not there; how could she herself sleep

quietly without fancying some danger? She would dream that the

powder-magazine was on fire, or that the Ile des Morts was going down

like a vessel foundering--and all this was said betwixt a laugh and a

tear. The little maidens, bent at first on setting off, were soon

hanging on their mother's shoulders, touched by her contagious

tenderness, and declaring that they preferred to remain. The

artillery-man insisted no longer. He took with Mathieu the path that led

down to the sandy shore, and was followed by Genevieve and the children,

all silent for the moment.

The sun declining to the horizon lit up the promontory of Kelerne, and

painted in the passage of Goulet a stream of purple and gold. A breeze

began to play over the bay, and chequered it with undulating ripples.

The perfume exhaled from the saps was wafted in puffs of wind from the

main land, as were the tinklings of the Angelus, and the lowing of the

cattle driven home. A consciousness of strength in repose was

perceivable, together with an indescribable air of serenity, that stole

from surrounding objects upon the senses, and found its way to the very

depths of the soul. The sky, the earth, and the water seemed by mutual

consent to have subdued their voices, in order to mingle them in one

harmonious murmur. Without analyzing the soft but not enervating

influence that surrounded them, the two keepers with their families were

alive to its effects. Silently they went down the foot-path, pausing

upon their steps, as though to lengthen out the sense of enjoyment, or

to taste of it drop by drop. Having, however, reached the boat, it

became necessary to part. Josephe made the sergeant promise to come for

them early in the morning. The sail at last was hoisted; and the skiff,

launched out upon the yielding waves, sped her way towards the

powder-magazine.

At the moment when she reached the middle of the channel that separates

the two islands, a ship's long-boat, unobserved hitherto in the

excitement of leave-taking, appeared to leeward of Treberon. Her

peculiar build, her black color traversed only by a single white ribbon

at the water-line, and the perfect condition of her spars and sails,

would have sufficed to show what she was, even if the costume of the

double row of sailors ranged along the thwarts had not betrayed the

man-of-war's men. On crossing the skiff steered by the sergeant, she was

sheered suddenly off; and by the last glimpse of day-light might be

discerned the yellow flag of the Health Office.

At this sight, Genevieve and the children uttered an involuntary cry.

All three at once comprehended that these were occupants coming to the

lazaretto; that they would put the island into quarantine, and prevent

all external intercourse. The next day's visit must be indefinitely

postponed, and the cherry-tree would have finished blossoming before

they could have regained their liberty. This dashing down of a

newly-raised anticipation had in it something so abrupt and so

unexpected, that Francine and Josephe could by no means resign

themselves to it. Desolate was the look that they exchanged, and

silently did they begin to weep, as their mother took one of them in

either hand, and sorrowfully remounted the path. Genevieve herself felt

her heart oppressed; on reaching the platform, she could not but pause

for a moment. The skiff with rose-coloured sail, that bore away the

promise of another meeting and of a festival, had disappeared; the black

long-boat was there at her feet--and with it had come to shore,

seclusion, melancholy, and disease. Genevieve kissed her children; but

scarcely could she keep back a tear that had gathered beneath her

eyelids, as without the inclination to prolong her look she hastily

entered the house.

Mathieu in the meantime had gone to receive the persons placed in

quarantine, and to open the lazaretto for them. On returning, he looked

somewhat pale, and his face wore an expression with which Genevieve was

struck; but at the first question she asked him, he abruptly interrupted

her, to inquire where Francine and Josephe were.

--"Don't you see them?" she replied, pointing to the two little girls

sitting down in a dark corner, still sobbing, and with eyes still moist;

"did you think that they had gone with their cousin?"

"Would to God, they had!" murmured Mathieu in an agonized voice, but not

overheard by the children.

Genevieve looked at him, stupefied. "Why so?" she asked; "what has

happened? Tell me, Mathieu, in the name of the Holy Trinity! what is the

matter?"

--"Well, then," answered the keeper, "there is ... there is ... death

upon the island."

--"How do you mean?"

--"I mean, my poor wife, just what I have seen! The _Thetis's_ long-boat

has landed her hospital-mates and doctors, with eight sick men; not one

of whom will ever touch the main-land again."

--"Holy Virgin! what is it?"

--"The yellow fever!"