II.

For him who dwells in-land, the yellow fever is but a disease similar to

a thousand others, of which he knows nothing save the name. Family

tradition and personal experience can attach to it, for him, neither

terror or regret. But amongst our maritime population, the word sounds

like a knell; not only bringing to mind a risk to be encountered, but

reviving affliction, of recent or of ancient date. There, where every

family has one at least of its loved members absent in foreign

countries, the terrible scourge is all too well identified with the

number of widows and orphans that it has made. It ranks with the storm

and the reef of rocks, as a deadly foe. Its name, let fall, produces the

same effect as the wind that whistles, or the surf that roars. Looks are

interchanged on hearing it; and thought recurs to the absent, if not to

the dead.

Ropars, on this occasion, dwelt mainly on those about him; and in truth,

no one could have better right than he to be ill at ease. Thrown in

former days upon a station where the yellow fever was epidemic, he had

seen the seamen of the fleet decimated around him, and had himself

barely escaped, as if by miracle. The remembrance of that butchery, as

he termed it, was too vivid, and he had too often described it to

Genevieve, for their firmness not now to be shaken. They troubled not

themselves on their own account, but on account of those whose existence

was so dear to them. Mathieu's first thought was of his wife and of his

children; the first impulse of Genevieve was to fold them in her arms,

and to declare that they must all go away. Some trouble had the old

sailor in making her comprehend that, even if retreating were not

dishonorable for him, it had become impossible. The long-boat had made

sail for the frigate, and the yellow flag was hoisted at the lazaretto.

Quarantine had begun for all who happened to be at Treberon. Not a soul

could henceforth pass beyond its limits: and Ropars pointed out to

Genevieve the gun-boat sent by the health officer, which had been

brought to bear at half cable's-length distance from the island, and cut

off from it all intercourse by boats. They were in fact definitively

penned in with the epidemic, and condemned to run its risk to the end.

But the agitation of Mathieu, in which surprise had worked its part, did

not last long. The quarter-master soon regained his original strength of

mind, which had been slightly unhinged in the tendernesses of his

domestic life; and, regardless of his own previous words, he set himself

seriously to soothing the terror of Genevieve by underrating the danger

that they incurred. After all, they were not here in a state of things

that favoured the disease; they had not to contend against the

enervating sun of the Havannah or Brazil; this was not one of those

awful contagions that spread from house to house like a fire, leaving

behind it the dead alone--it was a disorder partly spent, and from

which, with certain precautions, escape was easy. The chief and the most

indispensable of these precautions was to avoid going near the

apartments occupied by those who had been brought into quarantine, and

never to stay to leeward of the lazaretto. Josephe and Francine were at

once informed of this. Genevieve explained to them every thing that they

were to do, with a minuteness of detail, that savoured alternately of

threatening and of endearment. At first, as the punishment for any

failure of obedience, she pointed out to them the disease, or even death

itself; then seeing them turn pale with fear, she drew them within her

caressing arms and re-assured them by her kisses. Mathieu added to her

exhortations something more definite and more secure. Next morning, he

marked out a space enclosed with stakes joined together by a cord, as

the children's permitted bounds. By way of increased precaution, the

goat herself was brought within this enclosure, picketted to a stake,

and fed upon winter fodder. The keeper, on his part, held aloof from

habitual intercourse with the infirmary-men and the doctors of the

lazaretto. He would even have been ignorant of the fate of those who

were in quarantine if, every evening, the descent of a few men towards

the sandy shore of the little isle, and the tinkling of a bell that

warned him to stand out of their way, had not made it obvious that their

errand was to dig a grave. The vacancies, besides, were rapidly filled

by fresh invalids brought on shore by the frigate's long-boat, for the

epidemic did not seem as yet to decrease or to relax its severity. No

convalescent inmate had yet appeared upon the terrace of the lazaretto.

The skiff belonging to the gun-boat, that enforced the sanitary

regulations, came near the landing place every morning; but no one

landed. Provisions and medicines were put ashore by means of a

travelling pass-rope, set up in the creek; the Surgeon's report was

received at the end of a boat-hook; and then the skiff sailed away in an

apparent hurry, that bespoke the fear of contagion.

However, after the first few days were past, Ropars and Genevieve felt

somewhat re-assured. The blows that death dealt around them were mute

and hidden; the edge of inquietude became insensibly blunted. Seeing

that it was possible to live in contact with the formidable malady, they

half forgot, both of them, that is was also possible to die. It was with

them as with the inhabitants of a besieged city, who no longer tremble

at the roar of cannon. In vain did the bell tinkle every evening, and

the long-boat bring ashore every morning a fresh batch of the

death-stricken; the continuance of the danger made it seem to be a

matter of course, and this feeling soon merged into a sense of security.

Once in a while even, Genevieve forgot every thing and recommenced her

singing; but abruptly it was suspended at sight of the yellow flag, or

as a sudden recollection crossed her mind. Then the song was stifled

into a sigh.

Ropars had made inquiries for Monsieur Gabriel, on the first arrival of

the sick. The epidemic had not then attacked him; but his own breaking

off from all intercourse with the hospital-mates, and with the crew, had

prevented his seeking further information. Several boat-loads had been

brought ashore, without any opportunity for his hearing of the

Lieutenant, when he received a note, cut through with scissors and

steeped in vinegar. It contained only these few words, written in

pencil:

"I am come here.... If I live, we shall meet.... If I die ...

present this letter to the captain of the _Thetis_ ... and claim

for Josephe ... my large mahogany chest.

GABRIEL."

The writing, scarcely legible, betrayed a hand that shook with fever.

Mathieu, grievously taken by surprise, forgot this time all his

precautions, and ran to the lazaretto. But the Surgeon would not let him

see the Lieutenant, whose condition seemed to give him grave concern. In

the evening it was still worse, and left little room for hope; on the

following day there was none at all.

Josephe, from whom they had concealed the name of the frigate that was

ravaged by the epidemic, had no suspicion of the danger of her friend;

still, her sister and herself had none the less lost all their gaiety.

Prisoners within the narrow bounds marked out by their father, they were

both moodily seated near the stake to which the goat was picketted; and

she, lying down at their feet, seemed to disdain the fodder that was

scattered before her. Josephe, holding Francine propped against her,

proposed to her, one after another, all the little games to which they

were accustomed; but the child shook her head, her eyes fixed upon the

sea.

--"What will you do, then, Zine?" asked she, saddened by her sister's

sadness.

There was no reply. The elder had one hand upon the younger's head, and

played for an instant with the ringlets of her golden hair.

--"You're longing to go across there to see Michael? isn't that it?" she

resumed, bending down over the little one; "but it's too late; the

cherry-tree has shed its blossoms."

--"Then you believe that the cherries are already ripe?" interrupted

Francine, turning up to Josephe her face that listlessness had robbed of

a portion of its roses, but with her large eyes full of curiosity.

--"I don't know," said the elder "mother will tell us. But let's think

about something else; you know that we cannot go to the

powder-magazine."

--"No, nor to the end of the island, nor any where," added Francine,

letting herself sink down again upon Josephe's knees.

The latter, bent at all events on amusing the child, then called her

attention to the goat, that had just got up. Starting suddenly from her

doze, _Brunette_ was describing round her stake a series of such droll

evolutions, that the child's sadness could not hold out against them,

and she soon broke out into a laugh. Josephe, who at first had chimed in

with her merriment, was afraid that the mutinous creature's gambols

would end by her breaking the cord; she put her hand out to prevent it.

--"Let her be, let her be!" cried Francine in high glee; "look how she

rears up! see how she dances! Well done, _Brunette_; higher, little one,

higher!"

The child, kneeling down upon the sand, clapped her hands, with shouts

of delight; and the goat, that seemed excited by her voice and by the

noise, redoubled its capricious boundings. All at once, the stake,

loosened by such continued tuggings, was drawn out of the ground: the

animal jumped to one side; and finding itself no longer held back,

started off for the further extremity of the island.

The two sisters gave utterance to a cry, and then, from an irresistable

impulse, sprang away together in pursuit. The corded limits were passed,

and they were soon led off along the declivities, calling to _Brunette_,

who according to her old tricks would wait, bleating, for them, and then

caper away at their approach. In the eagerness of their chase they thus

reached the summit of the island, followed the slopes that went down to

the sea, and finally arrived at the foot of the ravine that was farthest

removed from their dwelling. It was there only that Josephe bethought

her of their disobedience. She stopped, out of breath, and held back her

sister with her arms.

--"Not a step further, Zine!" cried she; "we ought not to have come so

far; mother forbid it."

The little one looked round about her, and remarked in turn the spot in

which they were. It was a large fissure hollowed out in the stony soil

of the island, and, at the bottom of which broad ferns and flowering

brooms had sprung up in tufts. Right and left, through the

partition-walls of rock, peeped up the stone-break, and the sea turf

with its purple cats-tails, and the fox glove that thrust its long stalk

from the crevices, loaded with rose-coloured bell flowers.

At such a sight, Francine could not restrain a cry of admiration. Here

was the first verdure, here were the first flowers she had seen, since

strict orders had confined her to the barren platform occupied by the

keeper's house. Neither could she resist the temptation; slipping away

from the hands of her sister, and unwilling to hear a word, she

disappeared in the thickest of the flowering tufts.

Having vainly called to her, Josephe followed to bring her back; but the

child went on from shrub to shrub, without any inclination to stop. At

every fresh handful of gathered flowers, uselessly did Josephe cry,

"enough!" "More, more!" was Francine's answer, as she piled up within

her apron, upheld by the two corners, all on which she could lay her

hands. Want of place alone could make her consent to suspend her

harvesting. Loaded with herbs and wild flowers, falling in garlands down

to her very feet, she at length was disposed to take hold again of

Josephe's hand, who set to work to find their way back, and cautiously

removed the prickly-broom from their path.

The children were on the point of reaching a ridge made up of heath and

broom, when the warning bell was heard above their heads. They stopped,

and raised their eyes. Four of the infirmary-men were coming down

towards the ravine, bearing their funereal burden. They were following

the only foot-path practicable on the slope, and the little girls could

not proceed on their way, without meeting them. Terrified, they drew

back amongst the bushes that still concealed them, and paused, leaning

one against the other. The bell tinkled by fits and starts, drawing

nearer at every sound. At length they could distinguish the heavy

footstep of the bearers ringing upon the rock, and could see their

darkening outlines marked out in the twilight. They were advancing

precisely to the little oasis wherein the children had taken refuge.

Arrived at the entrance, they seemed to consult together for an instant;

then resumed their way through the thorny tufts, rounded the mass of

rock behind which the sisters had crouched, and stopped, with the words,

"Here it is."

Francine, in dire alarm, had hidden her head upon Josephe's knees; she,

less timid, gently put aside the branches, and could then see a grave

already dug in a gravelly portion of the soil. The infirmary-men had

laid down the corpse upon the ground, wrapped-up in a coarse linen

cloth. Then they took a sack, hidden under a projecting bit of rock, and

emptied its contents into the grave. The white dust, that rose up from

it as a cloud, was wafted to the children in a sour odour of lime. This

was carefully spread over the bottom of the hole, so as to form a bed

for the dead body, and was then sprinkled with water drawn from the sea.

These preparatory measures had all been taken in gloomy silence. Nought

was heard but the scraping of the spade upon the rocky soil, and the

monotonous bubbling of the tiny waves that rippled with the evening

breeze upon the shore. Josephe, her neck out-stretched, her large eyes

dilated, and with a painful sense of tightening at her heart-strings,

continued on the watch.

At this moment, two of the bearers took up the body, and brought it

close to the hole dug for its reception. They were separated from the

children only by a tuft of bushes. As they lightly grazed it with their

burden, a gust of wind unrolled one of the corners of the covering

cloth; a livid head was visible by the last glimmering of light; and

Josephe uttered a stifled cry. The fall of the body into the pit

prevented her being heard; but the moment's glance had sufficed--the

child thought she recognized the face of Monsieur Gabriel. She threw

herself back, in inexpressible horror. It was the first time that death

had come before her eyes, and it appeared to her in a guise that filled

her with grief and terror. Clinging to Francine, she began to tremble in

every limb. The noise of the earth and flint-stones, that were shovelled

into the grave, held her as one petrified. It was only when the four

grave-diggers had left the ravine and disappeared in the pathway, that

her agony found vent. Francine raised her head and asked what had

happened; but receiving no reply, threw herself into Josephe's arms, and

began in turn to sob.

The distress of her little sister seemed to counteract that of Josephe,

who forced herself to stifle her own anguish, and began embracing and

consoling Francine.

--"Don't cry" stammered she, choking in spite of herself; "you mustn't

be afraid, ... you mustn't cry...."

--"What is the matter with you, Josey; what is it?" inquired the little

one again, holding her sister's head between her own two hands, and

kissing her moistened cheeks.

--"It's ... nothing, ..." returned Josephe, her accent belying her

words, ... "I was taken by surprise...."

--"Have the men gone?" asked Francine, looking with frightened glance

towards the grave.

--"You see they have," answered Josephe shuddering.

--"What did they come here to do? They were carrying something. It was a

dead body, wasn't it?"

Her sister put her hand upon her lips.

--"Don't talk of that, Zine!" murmured she, her sobs again overpowering

her.

--"You saw it?" asked the child, frightened, yet curious.

--"Yes, O God!" faltered forth her sister in reply; "... and ... I knew

it again ... it was Monsieur Gabriel!"

--"Your good friend, Josey?" cried Francine; "are you sure? And he's

there ... there, under the ground? ... Oh! let's go, let's go; I'm

afraid ... I'm afraid!"

And again she threw herself into her sister's arms, who exerted herself

to the utmost to re-assure her, and at the same time to control her own

tears.

--"There, stop, Zine!" said she, with broken voice; "... we must be calm

... we must dry up our eyes ... or mother will be uneasy." Then raising

herself suddenly, "Hark," she added, "I fancied I heard some one calling

us; quick, quick, let's go up!"

With these words the two little maidens rose from the ground; quitting

the ravine, they hastily regained the platform, trembling and out of

breath when they reached it.

Genevieve was waiting there for them; but it was already dark, and this

prevented her noticing their trouble. She took them by the hand, to lead

them in, and made them repeat their joint prayers; both went to bed,

without speaking of the adventure at the ravine.