III

Josephe slept badly; and the next morning, when she got up, was pale and

drooping. Genevieve, who did not fail to notice it, questioned her with

nervous solicitude; but the child answered that nothing was the matter.

Only, at every inquiry, her eyes filled with tears, and her voice

trembled. Thus languidly for her did the day wear away. In the evening

she was still more depressed, but still not suffering pain. She passed a

restless night; and on the following morning Ropars went for the Surgeon

of the lazaretto. He examined the child, and put several questions that

darkened the brow of Mathieu. Genevieve, whose looks went direct from

the Surgeon to her husband, perceived this; and she felt a blow stricken

upon her heart. At the moment when the two crossed the thresh-hold, she

followed, shut the door abruptly, and stopped them.

--"It is the ... disease, ... is it not?" she asked in anguish. She had

not dared to name the yellow fever; the Surgeon seemed to hesitate in

his reply.

--"Ah! I'm certain of it," she exclaimed, confirmed by this very

hesitation; "so, our precautions have all been useless! The blow has

come, and all is over!"

She could not avoid sinking down upon the stone bench, placed beside the

door; and she covered her face with her apron. The Surgeon taxed himself

to console her with vague assurances; but it was evident that he himself

had no longer confidence in his efforts. Overcome by the implacable

power of the contagion, he persevered in struggling against it, without

hope and from a sense of duty, as soldiers, for the honour of their

flag, defend silently a post that has been abandoned. So, perceiving

that his words, far from soothing the grief of Genevieve, did but

redouble it, he turned towards the keeper, and, having briefly repeated

to him some directions already given for the child, he went his way.

Ropars remained some moments on one spot, with his arms crossed and his

head upon his breast; but a still deeper groan from Genevieve caused him

to raise his eyes. He took her hand.

--"It isn't time for despair yet," said he, with gentle firmness; "when

God shall have decided against us, your whole life-time will be left for

grief. At present, let us devote ourselves to our duty, and follow

strictly the injunctions of the doctor."

--"And he has told us nothing at all!" said the mother, who at heart

felt half-incensed against the Surgeon, for not having more vigorously

combatted her fears; "he has not given us any hope!"

--"God is the master," replied Mathieu, in all simplicity, "and so long

as he has not declared his pleasure, we may believe that all will work

well; but if the darling creature must be taken from our hands, let us

at least to the last moment show him, how keen is our desire to keep

her."

Hereupon the feverish voice of the child reached their ears.

--"Hark, she's calling me!" cried Genevieve, rising in urgent haste to

go in. Ropars stopped her.

--"Dry your eyes first," said he, passing his own hand with fond

compassion over the poor mother's moistened eyelids; "Josephe mustn't

think that you are anxious. Don't you know that her life may depend on

this?"

--"Yes, yes," she answered, "fear not, Mathieu, I will not cry any

more;" and she forcibly restrained the tears that were filling her eyes

afresh... "Look, no one would notice it now... And the doctors, besides,

may be mistaken, mayn't they?... And after all, God will have pity on

us."

--"We must hope so," replied the keeper, much moved; "but if it is his

part to have pity, it is ours to show resignation. Bear up, then, good

heart; go to the child with a smile; it will do her good; and first of

all ... kiss me ... that we may keep up each other's resolution."

Josephe's mother threw her arms around her husband's neck, and gave way

to a new flood of tears. But she checked them at the sound of the sick

one's voice calling her for the second time, and, by a supreme effort

thrusting down her despair into the very depths of her heart, she rushed

into the house with calm brow and a smile upon her lips.

Josephe, nevertheless, grew rapidly worse. In the evening the fever was

doubly hot upon her. One after another, she spoke of sister Francine, of

Michael, of the cherry-tree in blossom, and of her good friend Monsieur

Gabriel. At one moment she fancied that she heard the last-named; she

called him; she wished to know if he had brought her the promised

presents. At another time, the scene in the ravine appeared to be

vividly in her recollection; she cried out that Monsieur Gabriel was

dead; and she heard the earth grating over him in the pit. The Surgeon

came to see her repeatedly, and multiplied his prescriptions, without

power to arrest the onward march of the disease. That night was an awful

one for the hapless mother; she kept her child clasped in her arms, the

little one's mind wandering more and more. At sunrise the turbulent

delirium was over, to give place to the torpor that precedes death. At

length, towards the middle of the day, Josephe opened her eyes, and

uttered one sigh--it was the last.

The blow had been so decidedly expected, that the despair of Ropars and

of Genevieve could scarcely be violent. The bitterness of their loss

had, so to say, preceded it; both had tasted it, drop by drop, during

the protracted agony. And yet the mother's calmness had in it a

something haggard, that would have startled a looker-on less troubled

than Mathieu himself. Bent upon rendering the last offices to her

daughter, she was long occupied in combing out her beautiful black hair;

she dressed the body in her best clothes, and laid it out with the hands

crossed over the breast, as Josephe had been used to carry them when

asleep. All this was done slowly, tranquilly, with a sort of complacency

even, and often intermingled with kisses. It was but at intervals that a

tear trickled over her cheeks, that were marbled with glowing spots; it

was but a slight trembling that shook the hand, as it performed its

sorrowful duty. At length, when she who had brought this child into the

world, and who had nourished it with her milk and with her affection,

had herself sewed it up in its shroud, she went to the window, broke the

stalk of a gilly-flower--the only one that the sea-winds had

spared--pulled off its leaves, and scattered them over the winding

sheet.

In the meantime, night had fallen. Deposited at the head of the darkened

alcove, the dead form might indistinctly be traced through its covering

of linen, as though it were sketched in marble. Higher up hung a Christ,

in ivory, the head bent forward, and the arms extended. Genevieve knelt

down near the bed, and remained there for a long time, with her head

leaning upon her joined hands. Half-aloud she murmured a prayer; but

whilst her lips repeated faithfully every word, their meaning was not

taken in by her mind. When she had finished it, she raised herself up

mechanically, and looked about her; her brain was a gloomy chaos.

Putting up both hands to her forehead, she pressed it, with a stifled

cry, as though she sought to stay that whirlwind of confused and

lacerating thoughts. There was, for some few moments, a struggle between

her will and her despair; finally the former gained the ascendant; she

stepped towards the door and opened it.

Her husband had taken refuge on the platform with Francine, to remove

her from the harrowing sight of placing the body in its shroud.

Genevieve could see him standing near the parapet; the little girl was

at his feet, with her head resting on his knees. Since the death of her

sister, she had not spoken a word. Fixed in one place, with eyes dilated

and lips compressed, she seemed to be endeavouring to comprehend what

had occurred. Her two small hands hung down inactive, and her naked feet

appeared to be glued to the ground. Seeing her thus, under the early

rays of the moon that were playing in her light-coloured tresses,

Genevieve was, as it were, brought back to herself. A flash passed

across the blankness of her expression; her nostrils dilated; a flood of

tears gushed from her eyes. Springing towards the child, she seized it

in her arms with a sort of doleful passionateness, to which Francine at

once and amply responded, by an outburst of sobs and caresses. For a

long time there was nothing but an interchange of broken appeals and

unfinished phrases. The little girl would go on asking for her sister,

while the mother, whose despair was revived by such demands, compelled

herself to smother them beneath her kisses. At last, her strength

exhausted, she let her arms, that upheld Francine, drop down, and felt

that she was gently withdrawn from her. It was Mathieu, who placed the

child upon the ground. He then led the mother a little further apart,

and obliged her to sit down upon the stone-bench, leaning her back

against the parapet. She tried to raise herself up, as she stretched out

her hands.

--"My child!" she stammered through her sobbings; "I want my child!"

--"In good time thou shalt see her," said Ropars, who according to the

custom of the Bretagne peasantry only _thee'd_ and _thou'd_ Genevieve,

when under the influence of strong emotion; "but first thou must listen

with all attention, for what I have to tell thee is of the deepest

consequence."

--"Ah! I would, I would!" was her reply, putting both hands up to her

head; "but don't be hurt, Mathieu, if it be impossible. I hear yonder,

look you, something that hushes up all the rest; it is her death-rattle,

my good man!... And ... do you know?... I like the anguish that it

causes me, to hear it; I can fancy that there still is breath in her.

Oh! Jesus! who would have told me, that I should yearn after the dying

breath of my child?" Ropars laid a hand upon the head of the miserable

woman, whose sobbings had recommenced.

--"Be soothed at heart," he said to her with touching firmness; "the

good God wills that we should submit, and not thus give way. The dead

one is now in her Paradise, where she has no more need of us; but she

leaves behind her a sister, whose life is in our charge."

--"How do you mean?" asked Genevieve, raising towards him her eyes, in

which alarm had arrested the tears.

--"Don't you understand?" returned the keeper, lowering his voice; "the

breath of the disease is like the sea-wind; it spares no one; and it may

send, at any instant, the living to rejoin the dead."

--"Heavenly Saviour! is this a warning?" demanded Genevieve, clasping

her hands. "Must this child too, be struck down?... Have you remarked

any thing?... Ah! tell the truth, Mathieu, tell it at once; I would

rather be killed at one blow."

--"So far, the child suffers from nothing but her distress," rejoined

Ropars; "but if she remains in this deadly air, who can guarantee us

that she will escape?"

--"Evil upon us!" cried Genevieve, raising her joined hands over her

head; "why did you remind me of it, Mathieu? I did not wish to think of

it; and now I shall see her dying, every hour. God forgive you for thus

turning the blade that is within my heart!"

--"If I touch it, it is but to withdraw it," was the quarter-master's

answer. "It won't do now to shut one's eyes and let the squall overtake

us; we must work ship with all our might for the little one's safety....

If she remains on the island, you have too many chances of sewing up her

winding-sheet, Genevieve; she must leave it forthwith."

--"But how?"

Ropars threw his eyes around him, to satisfy himself that he was not

overheard.

--"There is a way," he replied cautiously.

--"The powder-magazine skiff?"

--"No!"

--"The gun-boat?"

--"She's there, you know, to keep guard over the island."

--"But who then can help us?"

--"The tide."

Genevieve looked at her husband, but without understanding what he

meant.

--"It is now high-water," continued Mathieu; "in less than an hour the

sea will have gone down enough to leave only four feet of water upon the

line of reefs that runs from Treberon to the Ile des Morts. With

courage, and by the help of God, the passage may be tried. I am going to

carry the child over to Dorot."

And as the mother could not restrain a cry of terror;--"Speak lower,

unhappy one!" he added vehemently; "are you desirous of betraying me?

Except the Superintendent of the powder-magazine and myself, no one

knows the way. We have often passed along it when we were fishing

together, and always passed it safely."

--"But not at night," interrupted Genevieve; "not burdened with a

child."

--"The child weighs scarcely anything, and the moon is full," replied

Ropars somewhat impatiently. "Besides, I have been thinking of it all

the evening; and there is no other means. My mind is made up, and I

shall do what must be done, happen what may. Your remarks may lessen my

confidence, but cannot hold me back. Try rather, then, to brace up my

nerves, as is the duty of a brave wife, and to prepare the child to go.

When the outer point of the high rock is bare, it will be time for me to

make the attempt, and for you to pray God that he may open us a way of

safety in the sea."

The quarter-master's tone was so determined, that Genevieve saw at once

the uselessness of resistance. With little will of his own in the

ordinary transactions of life, Mathieu rarely formed a resolution; but,

once decided on, he maintained it immovably. Moreover, when the first

shock was passed, his explanations and assurances somewhat tranquillized

Francine's mother, and indeed half convinced her. There remained the

child, whose opposition or fright was apprehended by Ropars. Genevieve

went and raised her up from the ground, and the father and the mother

seated her upon their knees, which they purposely placed close

together.

--"You want to see the cherry-tree in blossom, don't you?" said the

former, embracing her.

--"Not any more, now," was the low-toned reply.

--"Nay, nay, it is just the time," added the poor mother with an effort;

"over there, you will be more at liberty ... happier ... you'll have

Michael for a play-fellow."

--"No," said the child with changing voice, "I would rather stay with

Josephe."

Genevieve clasped her hands and closed her eyes; speech failed her. It

was Ropars' turn. Drawing Francine close up to his breast, and

whispering in her ear,

--"Listen," said he; "we are in trouble. You would not wish to make it

worse, would you? You love us too well for that."

In place of answer, the child threw both her arms about her father's

neck, and pressed her little rosy cheek against the wrinkled cheek of

the mariner.

--"Yes, yes, I was certain of it," continued Mathieu; "and you will do

whatever we ask you?"

Francine made an affirmative sign.

--"Well, then," Ropars went on, "you must go and pass a few days with

Uncle Dorot; and as we have no boat, I am going to carry you over the

passage. Won't you be quiet in the middle of the sea, when you have

papa's shoulders for a skiff?"

The child shuddered.--"I would rather stay," said she, in hurried

accents.

--"But that's impossible," rejoined the father; "I want to carry you to

the powder-magazine. It must be so, and we are to set out directly. But

if you are not brave, if you think of calling out, the way will be

harder, and perhaps something serious may happen to me. Do you

understand?"

--"Yes ... yes ... I won't go," replied the little girl, beginning to

tremble.

Genevieve drew her once more into her arms. "Hush, hush!" said she,

laying her lips upon Francine's hair, and rocking her upon her breast,

"children ought to obey.... God has ordained it ... do what you are

bidden ... for your papa, ... for me ... for Josephe.... If she could

speak she would tell you to be good and obedient.... Would you make her

sorrowful in Heaven?"

--"Oh! no," cried the child, throwing herself again into Mathieu's arms.

--"Then you will come?" asked he.

--"Yes," murmured the little girl.

--"And you won't be afraid; you won't say a word?"

--"No."

--"Let's be going then!" exclaimed the keeper, who had got up and was

looking over the parapet. "The high rock is out of water; we mustn't

wait any longer."

He took Francine in his arms and went rapidly down one of the foot-paths

leading to the shore of the islet. Genevieve followed, in inexpressible

anguish. All three reached a rocky point that stretched far out into

the waters. It was the extremity of the line of reefs that connected the

powder-magazine with Treberon. Ropars placed the child on the ground, in

order to take note of his direction. The passage, under the rays of the

moon, was tinged with pale green, varied by small lines of white that

were made by the light fringe of foam upon the waves. So gentle were

their undulations, that one might have fancied a field of green wheat

chequered with white camomile flowers. Beyond, the Ile des Morts in all

its breadth was illumined by the moonlight, with its yellowish

buildings, its long slated roofs, and its lightning-rods, standing out

against the sky. So calm was the night that the sentry's step was heard,

as he paced up and down before the watch-box of granite, built at the

corner of the esplanade. At the forked head of the two islands, and

partially in shadow, lay the silent gun-boat, balancing at anchor.

Ropars examined every thing with scrupulous attention. He pointed out to

Genevieve the direction of the submarine causeway, indicated by a faint

shadow on the surface of the water, as he threw aside his waistcoat and

hat; then taking both of his wife's hands, who looked at him with

haggard eyes,--"the time is come, Genevieve," said he; "kiss me, and

pray the good God to be with us."

The poor woman responded at first to his embrace, without power to utter

a word; but when she felt that he had disengaged himself and was

returning towards the child, a cry escaped her; she was not mistress of

herself. She forgot all that Mathieu had said to her, all that she

herself had promised, and encircled him with her arms in all the

desperation of terror.

--"You shall not go," she stammered out, "you shall not go!... It is

rushing on to death ... in the name of your marriage-vow, remain to be

my succour, my companion!... Would you then leave me here alone with

Josephe?... Look, how broad the sea is, and how deep! You and Francine,

you will be lost in it!... Ah! if it be God's will, let us all die here;

but at least let us die together! Mathieu, I will not have you quit me;

you shall not carry off my child; you shall not go!"

Ropars endeavoured to calm her, and struggled to release himself from

her hold; but she clung to him, and refused to hear a word. And as he

recalled to her that she had, a minute before, induced Francine's

consent,

--"I was wrong," she wildly interrupted him; "I will no longer have it

so. If you leave me, I will follow; and you will be responsible before

God for what may happen. Mathieu, do not tempt me! Mathieu, have pity on

me!... What have I done to you, that you should thus go voluntarily to

destruction? Do you no longer care for life with me?... Ah! if I have

failed in my duty, be not angry with me, dear soul! If my too great

anguish has offended you, forgive me! I will not cry any more; I will be

every thing that you desire. Hold; look on me rather; forgive me; but

say that you will stay."

She had sunk down upon her knees, and held Ropars' hands pressed firmly

against her lips. He exerted himself to raise her up.

--"Enough, Genevieve," said he, in a tone wherein commiseration disputed

with impatience; "I thought that you were braver.... This is not what

you promised me. Think, think, unhappy woman, that the time is passing

away!"

Genevieve groaned, and recommenced the same entreaties. He cast an

anxious look towards the sea, and saw that the farthest jags of the high

rock were dry. Longer delay would increase the danger, and might render

the passage impossible. Mathieu seized Genevieve sharply by the elbows,

and raised her upon her feet, with her face opposite his own.

--"On your salvation, listen!" said he, in accent so decided that she

trembled at it; "this is the first time that I have reminded you that I

am your master, and, if you be not wiser, it will perhaps be the last;

but by the God who saved us, you shall obey, and that without further

discussion! The child's life is to be preserved; nothing can stay me

now. Remain there, I solemnly command you, and make not one step, nor

utter one single cry, or, so surely as I am my mother's son, I will

never forgive you, even until the day of Judgment!"

At these words, he seated Genevieve, petrified by the shock, ran to his

little daughter, whom he took upon his shoulders, and dashed with her

into the waves.

When Genevieve turned round, at the noise made by his plunge into the

water, Ropars was on the causeway of the submerged reefs, and the waves

were rolling against his breast. She tried to get up; but her strength

failed her, and she could but utter a feeble cry. Mathieu heard it and

looked back. He could see through the moonlight the indistinct form of

Genevieve who, half-lying down upon the rock, was wringing her joined

hands as though towards him. He found his heart, which he had steeled by

an effort of will, sinking within him in pity for her. Taking note of

the waters, green and deep, whose abysses were opening around him,

hearing over his head the breathings of the child who panted with

terror, and thinking that the hapless creature from whom they had just

parted violently might perchance never see them more, there came across

him a feeling of commiseration so tender, that tears almost filled his

eyes; he paused, in spite of himself, in the midst of the murmuring

waves, turned his head backwards towards the shore, and called to her in

a voice, restrained but full of gentleness--"Don't cry Genevieve; and

God bless you! all will go well."

Then, without waiting for an answer, which he feared might unman him, he

went on his way, his eyes fixed upon the line along the water that

marked the direction of the reef. Soon, however, he ceased to

distinguish that particular appearance of the waves which rendered it

easy to trace this line from the shore. Immersed in the sea, he no

longer saw anything beyond him, but a surface uniform and agitated,

without any distinctive movement or colour. He was therefore compelled

to shape his course direct for the rock on the Ile des Morts whereon the

causeway abutted, and which with its pointed ridges was visible,

far-away in the obscurity.

Armed with a broken boat-hook, Mathieu sounded at each step that he

took; but notwithstanding all his care, the difficulty of his course

increased at every moment. The unevenness of the rocks exposed him to

incessant stumbling. Lifted off his feet by the waves, half-stunned by

the deep rumbling noise that was around him, groping along a path

irregular and strange to him and bounded on either side by an abyss, he

advanced with the greatest deliberation, his strong will controlling his

impatience, and his whole soul rivetted upon his every movement. His

fixed gaze sought to pierce the liquid veil of the waters; his hands

glued to the boat-hook seemed to long to solder it to the reef; his

feet, in an agony of search, seemed to force themselves to guess at

their path, before they would select it. Thus he reached the middle of

the passage, where he came into the neighbourhood of the gun-boat. All

there was silent; nothing stirred. The cries of "Watch, Watch!" uttered

at intervals by the look-out at each cat-head, had for some time ceased

to be heard; their two shadows even were not perceptible, for they had

long been immovable at their post. Certain that their look-out was

altogether needless, the sailors on watch were without doubt asleep.

Mathieu, who was afraid that they might awake, was anxious to avoid this

danger by hurrying on; but at the very moment when he came within the

shadow thrown, abaft the gun-boat, over the glittering waters, his

footing of rock failed him by suddenly shelving downwards. Francine felt

him sinking, as a vessel that founders, and the waves washed up over her

hair. She could not restrain a piercing shriek.

Her father, in extreme alarm, lowered her down against his breast, and

pressed one hand upon her lips. But it was too late; the cry had

undoubtedly been overheard, for a shadow immediately rose up, forward,

and the noise of footsteps echoed along the deck. Ropars had but time to

throw himself under the taffrail of the stationary vessel, and to grasp

a boom, whereto he remained suspended.

One of the sailors on watch came aft, and was immediately joined by his

comrade.

--"The devil take me, if I didn't hear a cry," said the former.

--"Pardieu! it half-woke me up," added the second.

--"But I've looked about, and it's no use; I don't see any thing."

--"Nor I."

The couple were leaning over the sea, which kept up its gentle

murmurings, and on which only light undulations were visible, fringed

with half-phosphorescent foam. The second man of the watch seemed all at

once to be seized with inquietude, that caused his voice to tremble.

--"I say, Morvan," he cautiously began, "those Roscanvel and Lanvoc

barks haven't passed by, without leaving some christian soul under water

here--don't you think so?"

--"Why so?" asked Morvan.

--"Why so?" returned the sailor, who seemed half-afraid and

half-ashamed; "why, parbleu! ... you know what they say ... I didn't

invent it ... there are some people who tell you that shipwrecked men,

dying in mortal sin, leave their souls upon the waves that drowned them:

and that every year, on the day and at the exact time of the accident,

they utter a cry of anguish, just by way of asking prayers for

themselves."

--"And you believe that, you, Lascar?" said Morvan with a laugh more

blustering than assured.

--"It isn't I," rejoined the sailor, "it's our mess-mates.... But, none

the less, the voice wasn't like any body else's; it was sharp and thin,

as one might say that of a child."

--"Get out, nonsense!" interrupted the first seaman, evidently

disquieted by his comrade's explanation; "you see there's nothing more

to be heard, and there is nothing afloat but the moonlight, and the

night-chill that will make us sneeze. It's well that we both kept our

allowance of wine. Come on, let's go and drink it; that'll put your

morality into trim again."

The two sailors went off. After waiting a moment, Mathieu replaced the

child on his shoulders, enjoined strict silence, at the same time

cheering her up, and let go the boom for the purpose of regaining the

causeway; but he had lost the direction, and his feet encountered only

empty space. Forced to swim with his precious burden, he hoped that a

few fathoms' distance would bring him back to his pathway on the reefs;

he had already gone beyond it. Fresh attempts were not more successful;

and twenty times did he renew his search, finding only, at each, deep

water.

Frightened and panting for breath, he swam about without aim,

endeavouring to touch ground, and no longer able to distinguish the Ile

des Morts from Treberon. After having long shifted his course, struggled

against the tide in which every moment he plunged still deeper, been a

thousand times brought back from despair to hope, and run the full

length of his endurance and his courage, he felt at last that he was

overcome. His respiration grew painful, his eyes were covered with a

film; all things were to him but as a revolving chaos; his mind

wandered. A moment more, and he and Francine had disappeared beneath the

waters. The gun-boat, which he had wished to avoid, but which he could

no longer perceive, was his sole means of safety. He summoned all his

remaining strength to utter a cry for help; a surge, more powerful,

stifled it on his lips. Half-fainting and having nothing left him but

that instinctive self-defence which survives the will, he struggled

still an instant, buffeted from wave to wave; then felt that he was

going down. But all at once, he was arrested; his feet had fallen on to

the reef; they were fastened on it, and steadied themselves thereon;

his body straightened up; the water that blinded him seemed to lower

itself. He took breath and looked before him, and could see at the

distance of a hundred steps the cleft rock of the Ile des Morts. A few

minutes sufficed for reaching it. Touching the shore he fell down upon

it, and called Francine with expiring voice. The child, terrified, could

only reply by throwing herself upon his breast, where he held her for

some time in his embrace. His first thought had been for her; his second

carried him back to Genevieve who was expecting his return, to know that

they were safe. Still tottering, he raised himself up, took his little

daughter by the hand, and set himself to climbing the steep slope that

led to the terrace.

It was necessary to make the tour of the powder magazine, to avoid the

sentinel placed at the angle which commanded the main roadside; and

also, on reaching the magazine keeper's door, to knock gently, for fear

of being heard from without. Dorot fortunately had the light sleep of

old soldiers; he awoke at the first knocking, and appeared at the

window.

--"Open the door!" said Mathieu to him in a low voice.

--"Ropars!" cried the sergeant, thunderstruck.

--"Lower! and be quick!" returned the seaman "our lives' safety is at

stake."

Dorot went down rapidly, drew back the bolt, and made them enter the

house. Mathieu paused, when across the thresh-hold, with the child

pressed against his knees.

--"Heaven protect us! whence come you, Ropars?" inquired the sergeant.

--"You see," replied the sailor, "we have come out of the sea, and we

have crossed over it, to come hither."

Dorot drew back, exclaiming, "Can it be? in God's name, what has

happened, that you should thus expose your life?"

--"It has happened," rejoined Mathieu, "that Josephe died this morning

of the contagion! ... that"--

--"What's that you say?"

--"'Tis just so, Dorot; and as Genevieve and I were anxious to save the

other one, I have brought her to you."

--"And Heaven reward you for the thought!" said the sergeant; "the child

is dearly welcome."

He had offered his hand to Mathieu; but the latter did not take it.

--"Think well what it is I am asking you," said he; "perhaps the child

may be bringing here disease and desolation upon you!"

"I hope there will be nothing of the kind," returned Dorot; "but God's

will be done!"

--"Bear in mind also," continued the quarter-master, insisting, "that if

the thing gets wind, you run a risk of punishment for having violated

the quarantine."

--"Then the will of man be done!" was the sergeant's simple observation.

--"But still think."

--"Of nothing further, Ropars," interrupted the sergeant; "there! enough

said--too much. No words about the matter; you have brought me the

little one; I accept her."

He had stooped down to Francine, whom he then took up in his arms, and

with her remounted to the small chamber formerly occupied by Genevieve.

He, himself, stripped off from the child her dripping clothes, and put

her to sleep in an old cot of Michael's.

The father, who had followed them, remained at the door with his arms

hanging down at his side, the very picture of gratitude deeply felt, but

unable to vent itself in words. Only, when Dorot turned round towards

him, he seized one of his hands and held it silently grasped. Dorot, who

desired to avoid a scene, began at once to talk of the means of

concealing the little girl's change of abode. It was sufficient that her

absence from Treberon would not be remarked; as for her being at the Ile

des Morts, it could not give rise to any suspicion, since the guard of

artillery that did duty at the magazine, and that might have been

surprised at this increase in the keeper's family, was to be changed on

the following day. Ropars arranged certain signals for transmitting

mutually the news between the neighbour islands. These were to be

renewed several times a day, and thus relieve them at least from the

anguish of uncertainty. At length, when all had been agreed upon,

Mathieu drew near the window and looked out. The breeze had freshened,

the sky appeared less starry, and a transparent vapour was beginning to

creep over the sea.

--"It is time to start," said he, returning towards the sergeant; "may

God pay you for what you do, Dorot! As for Genevieve and myself, we

shall remain your debtors to all eternity."

--"We'll talk of that, by and by," replied the keeper; "just now, the

main thing, and that which troubles me, is the passage over."

--"Don't be uneasy about that," answered Ropars; "now that the child is

in safety, I shall cross the channel just as easily as one goes to

church. The limbs are firm when the heart doesn't tremble. But I wish I

were already on the other side; I've stayed here too long for Genevieve,

who is looking for me."

--"Away, then! if it must be," cried the sergeant; "but for God's sake,

Ropars, be careful, and don't forget that you have two lives to save

with your own."

--"I'll do all that a man can do," returned the quarter-master; "and

believe me, cousin, I've no desire to die this night!... But too much

talk; the time is slipping away; I mustn't wait for the change of tide."

He went up to Francine's cot, to take leave of her; but the child,

wearied out by so many emotions, had dropped off to sleep. One of her

arms was doubled beneath her head, and lost in the loosened tresses of

her golden hair; the other, folded on her breast, pressed to it a little

relic formerly given to Genevieve who, in her superstitious motherly

devotedness, had deprived herself of it that it might be a safe-guard

for her child. Although her breathing was equal and easy, still was it

broken at intervals by a long drawn sigh; whilst her cheeks, that in her

sleep were beginning to re-assume their rosy tint, still showed some

traces of tears. Mathieu looked at her for some moments in touching

silence; then bending himself slowly down, imprinted a light kiss upon

Francine's tiny hand, then one upon her hair, then one upon her cheek.

Without opening her eyes, the child made a gesture of annoyance; he

stood up.

--"Yes, yes, there, sleep, poor creature of a merciful God!" he

half-muttered; "I will not wake you."

Once more he seemed to enwrap her in a look overflowing with tenderness;

then returned to Dorot, and took his hand.

--"I bequeath her to you, cousin," said he, moved in the extreme; "no

one knows what may happen. Only ... I can trust in your kindly heart,

and if ever the child should become an orphan...."

--"Now God preserve her from it!" the sergeant took him up; "but if such

misfortune should occur to her, Mathieu, you know well that she would

become Michael's sister."

--"Thanks!" abruptly broke in the seaman; "that's exactly what I was

longing to hear.... And now I set out calmly. I am prepared for every

thing."

--"But you shan't set out thus, shivering and pulled down," objected the

sergeant; "you must take something to cheer up your spirits."

--"Nothing," said Ropars, eagerly; "you have given me all that can give

me strength, in giving me the assurance that the child will not remain

unaided. Providence will do the rest. Your hand! and good-bye till we

meet--here, or elsewhere!"

They heartily embraced; then Mathieu went down to the shore, and

committed himself again to the waters. Although the tide had begun to

rise, the passage was effected without overmuch danger. He reached,

unharmed, the high rock of Treberon which the floodtide had already

encroached upon, and he ran to the place where he had left Genevieve.

She was there no longer.

Astonished that she should not have awaited his return, he rapidly

mounted the foot-path, reached his door, and called aloud. There was no

reply. The darkness did not allow him to distinguish any thing. He

groped his way to the hearth, and threw around him the trembling light

of a lamp hurriedly lighted. Attracted to the alcove, his glance soon

made out, beside the white form of the dead sewed up in its shroud, the

outline of another and a larger form, extended without moving. Mathieu

approached in agony. It was Genevieve in a swoon.