IV.

Thanks to the Surgeon's skill, Ropars' wife at length regained her

senses; but it was to fall into convulsive spasms, followed by the

annihilation of all her faculties. The whole day passed without her

shaking off the torpor that belonged at once to sleep and to death. One

might have said that so many shocks had snapped asunder her existence,

and that the quiverings of life, still flitting across her state of

languor, were but the movements of a machine on the point of stopping.

However, towards evening, the fever declared itself. The patient passed

insensibly from lethargy to delirious agitation; she did but recognize

Mathieu at intervals; and falling back, with her senses, upon her

sorrows, she soon fell again into wandering.

None of these symptoms seemed to belong to the malady that ravaged the

lazaretto; and the Surgeon, disconcerted, let Mathieu divine his

inability to make it out. Accustomed to the coarse medicines required by

the robust patients of our ships, he was perforce a stranger, as are all

like him, to the ailments of more delicate natures. Thus did he stand

baffled before this woman, dying of a disorder such as he vainly sought

to trace in his experiences. He could not conceal his doubts, and his

need of more enlightened advice. Science, to which these mysterious and

redoubtable symptoms were familiarized, might find there an index, where

he perceived only confusion, and point out a remedy, which he dared but

essay at hap-hazard.

This avowal, wrung from his loyal truth, was for Mathieu a new source of

torture. Shut up within prescribed limits which forbid strangers to

approach Treberon, he could not invoke that experience to which

Genevieve might perchance owe her safety. In vain did he see, at his

feet, boats for transporting him across the sea, and on the horizon a

town whence aid might be brought to him; an obstacle invincible and

insurmountable linked him to his source of trouble.

Two whole days passed away for him, as one long agony, in alternations

of mute dejection and of furious despair. After sitting for several

hours at the bedside of the dying woman, when he saw the fever that had

been lulled for an instant now returning with increased force, he ran

down to the edge of the reefs, gazed upon the waters in the midst of

which he found himself imprisoned, upon the armed vessel that guarded

the passage, upon the ravines of the island dotted with graves recently

dug, and pressing his closed fists against his forehead he cursed the

day on which he had accepted this voluntary imprisonment. Angrily did he

call God to account for the blows with which he was stricken; then,

restored to his religious faith, he joined his hands, and with tears

besought the Almighty to spare Genevieve.

Towards the morning of the third day, he had cause for believing that

his prayers had been heard. The fever abated, and the patient recovered

all her clearness of mind. But this change did not induce her to share

the delight or the hopes of Mathieu.

--"Never believe that this is a cure, dear soul," said she in tones

scarcely audible, and alternating every phrase with periods of silence;

"the disease is going ... but it carries all with it.... That evening,

when you went across the channel ... when I heard the child's cry from

out of the sea itself ... I thought it was all over with you both ...

and then ... I can't say what took place ... but it seemed to me ...

that within me ... the main string of life was snapped.... So I feel

now, that it's all over."

Ropars combatted these fears, repeating that the Surgeon was encouraged,

and that all would go well. Genevieve, whose eyes were closed, raised

the lids with difficulty and threw a glance upon him that was full of

melancholy sweetness.

--"God is the master, Mathieu," said she; "he knows whether I am happy

in living with you.... Only, ... believe me, poor husband, and don't

rejoice too much ... it were wiser to expect the worst."

--"It were wiser," interrupted the quarter-master, "to take rest, and

have confidence. I, too, trust in what I feel. This very night, I had a

weight of lead upon my heart; it is light now; I can breathe in one

single breath. In God's name, let your health be restored to you, and be

anxious for a continuance of life, if it were but for my sake."

Genevieve made an effort to lay her cold and moistened hand upon that of

Ropars.

--"You are good, Mathieu," said she, letting fall two little tears, the

last that emotion could drain from eyes already exhausted with weeping.

"Ah me! my chief regret now is at not having always thought of this ...

at not having shown myself sufficiently grateful.... Heavens! how much

worthier we should be of those we love, if we did but remember that some

day we must leave them.... Since my mind has returned, this idea has

haunted me; I now perceive all my faults; ... I feel remorse for

them.... Oh! tell me in mercy, Mathieu, do you forgive me now ... for

never having been what I ought to have been?"

--"Talk not so, Genevieve," said the seaman quickly, and with deep

feeling; "you know well that I could not have asked from God a better

wife. Since you have been mine, I have wanted for nothing; it is I who

should be grateful to you."

--"No, no," replied the sick woman with increasing animation; "many a

time have I lacked courage and patience.... Not with you alone ... but

with Francine ... with Josephe! ... poor child of my heart, who had so

few years to live!... And to think, Mathieu, that I have often made her

cry! ... her, who is now beneath the ground!... Ah! it is the tears of

the dead that weigh heavily here.... And other persons, whom I may have

injured ... and God against whom I have sinned!... Cannot I then hope

for mercy?"

Then, as if this idea had awakened in her a sort of terror:

--"Ah! it is impossible!" added she, sitting up; "Mathieu, Mathieu, I

must see a confessor!"

--"But how to get him here?" said the quarter-master sorrowfully; "have

you forgotten that the island is in quarantine?"

--"What! not to be able to save even one's soul?" returned Genevieve,

clasping her hands. "Alas! am I then doomed to die without

reconciliation? My God! what is to be done? The most miserable sinner is

allowed to confess his sins, and to ask absolution for them; my God!

must I alone remain without help?"

She stopped abruptly, putting up both hands to her forehead.

--"Ah! I remember now," she resumed; "have you not told me that on board

your ships, when at the moment of death no priest was to be had, any

Christian might take his place? ... that God looked to the intention?"

--"I have said so," replied Ropars, "and all the seamen hereabouts will

tell you the same thing, upon the assurance of their pastors."

--"Then," replied the dying woman, turning towards the seaman her eye

lustrous with the fever, "I desire to confess myself to you!"

She raised herself upon her elbow, and crossed herself. Mathieu seemed

overwhelmed, but could make no objection to her will. As we have

remarked, he belonged to that race almost extinct, even in Brittany, in

whom still existed the earnest and the simple faith of other days.

Often, on occasion of shipwreck, men such as he might have been seen,

after exhausting all means of saving themselves, to kneel down in the

expectation of death, and confess themselves one to another, as did the

ancient cavaliers on the eve of combat. Therefore was he more troubled

than surprised at the request of Genevieve; and when he heard her murmur

the prayer that precedes confession, he took off his hat and made the

sign of the cross, ready to fulfill the holy office that necessity had

entrusted to him.

And something mournful and touching was it. The early dawn of day light

doubtfully illumined the alcove; the dishevelled head of Genevieve was

bent towards the grizzled head of Mathieu; and one might have heard the

murmur of that supremest confidence carried on in lowered voice, often

interrupted by the failure of the dying woman's strength, or by the

seaman's entreaties that she would curtail it. But she persisted in

resuming it, with the determination peculiar to those severe consciences

which are never satisfied with their self-accusations. At length, when

she had concluded, Ropars detached the ivory crucifix from the head of

the bed; he approached it to the lips of Genevieve, and placing his hand

upon her brow with mournful solemnity,

--"May God pardon thee as I do to the utmost of my power," said he; "and

if it be not his will that thou shouldst live for my happiness, may he

provide for thee a place in his Paradise!"

Her face assumed an expression of ineffable serenity.

--"Thanks," murmured she; "your absolution shall prevail before the

Trinity, Mathieu; now I feel at peace."

A ray of sunlight creeping in through the window-curtain reached her

bed; she turned round.

--"It is day," continued she; "I did not hope to see another.... God has

given me a respite!... He is willing that I should taste of the latest

joy that I looked for upon earth ... nor will you refuse it to me,

Mathieu?"

--"Ask it, Genevieve," said the mariner; "what man can do, I will do."

She took his hand and looked at him.

--"You have told me, haven't you, that cousin could see and make out

your signals?"

--"Yes, and it is true."

--"Then by all the affection you bear me, Mathieu, I beseech you to

signalize him at once to bring Francine out upon his terrace; when she

is there, you will take me in your arms, you will carry me to the high

rock, and if God grant me grace, I shall reach it with still life enough

left to see my child once more, and to embrace her in spirit."

--"It shall be done so as you desire, Genevieve," said the

quarter-master, who, impressed by the presentiments of the dying one,

had abandoned hope, and had not strength to refuse her anything.

--"Quickly, then, very quickly!... for I feel that God is calling me."

Ropars rushed out, as though he feared there would scarcely be time; but

he came in again almost in a moment, exclaiming that Francine was

already on the terrace of the magazine with Dorot. Stretching out her

hands to him, the dying woman uttered a feeble cry of joy. He wrapped

her up in his winter-cape, and carried her gently in his arms as far as

the parapet of their platform.

--"Where is she?" inquired Genevieve, her eyes blinded by the light of

day, and trying in vain to look steadily; "I can't make out anything,

Mathieu! where is the child: show me the child!"

--"Look down there at our feet," replied the seaman; "can you see the

high rock?"

--"Yes."

--"Can you follow the bubbling of the sea along the reef?"

--"Yes, yes."

--"And away, yonder, over the reefs, can you distinguish the stone-work

of the terrace?"

--"Down there? ... no ... there's only a cloud! I can see nothing....

Oh! if it be too late!... if she be there under my very eyes, and I can

no longer see her!... My God, my God, once more, only once, let me see

my child!"

These words, or rather these mother's cries, had been so full of

sadness, that Ropars could not restrain his tears. He seated his sinking

wife upon the parapet, and himself kneeled down to support her.

--"Courage, Genevieve!" he stammered out; "look well to this side ...

between the line of the sea and the sky."

--"I am looking," said Genevieve, appearing in the effort to rally all

the life left in her ".... Raise my head, Mathieu ... screen me from the

sun...."

She checked herself with a stifled exclamation.

--"Ah! there she is! there she is!... She sees me ... she is lifting up

her arms.... Francine ... my daughter ... my child!"

So impulsively did she lean forward, that but for Ropars, she would

have thrown herself upon the rocks that sloped down to the sea. A

flitting ray of life had lighted up her features; she sent kisses on her

fingers to the child, and talked to it as though it could hear her; she

raised her hands to Heaven, with rapid and broken ejaculations; she

smiled and wept at once. Finally, her strength failed to endure so great

emotion, and her head fell upon the quarter-master's shoulder. In alarm,

he took her again in his arms, to carry her back into the house; but she

made signs to him that she wished to remain out of-doors. He laid her

down upon the bench, whereon the family had been used to sit together in

the evening, in front of the sea, which was now lighted up by the rising

sun. After a swoon that lasted some time, she opened her eyes, and asked

for her daughter. Mathieu looked towards the powder magazine and said

that Dorot had taken her away. She bowed her head with sorrowing

resignation.

--"He has done right," she went on, in feeble accents; ... "besides, I

feel ... that my sight grows thick.... I couldn't see her any more ...

and ... I still have something to say to you.... Come closer, Mathieu

... closer ... my voice is failing.... Give me your hand.... I want to

be sure that you hear me."

Ropars knelt upon the sand, with one hand in that of his dying wife, and

the other placed behind her, to support her.

--"You are going to stay alone," she continued. "Elsewhere, you could

perhaps endure it; but here, in the midst of the ocean, it is not the

life of a man, or of a Christian.... You are used to having some one

keep you company ... some one to love you.... When I am gone ... another

one must take my place."

--"Never!" broke in Ropars.

With her hand she silenced him.

--"Hush!" said she gently; "you must needs think this, so long as I am

before your eyes ... but when I am laid in the grave, you will then feel

your want.... Believe not that I would reproach you, my poor husband....

I do not wish to carry away your happiness with me in my winding

sheet.... No ... no ... wherever I may be, I shall need to know that you

are well cared for."

--"Enough, Genevieve!" murmured the seaman, choking with emotion.

--"Let me go on to the end," she resumed; "I have still one plea to

urge.... When you take off the crape from your arm, Mathieu ... promise

me to think of the dear creature who is our child ... the child of both

... and who will remain with you, to remind you of me ... choose a wife

who may fill my place towards her."

--"What is it that you are asking me, and whom could I give her for a

mother, after yourself?" rejoined Ropars.

--"Some one" ... Genevieve went on ... "who would not grudge me the

having been chosen first ... some honest heart that would take kindly to

an orphan ... who would talk to her of me ... who would teach her to

love God ... and to obey you!... If you promise me that this shall be

so, Mathieu ... if you promise it on your honour ... and on your

salvation, I shall fall asleep, at peace, and blessing you."

Ropars made the promise, amidst sighs and groans; but this was the dying

woman's last effort. After having thanked him by an embrace, she let

herself sink into her husband's arms. It almost seemed as though the

power of her will had slackened the steps of Death, for the sake of this

final compact. Scarcely was it completed, when her sufferings

recommenced. Carried back to the alcove, she died there towards the

close of the day. Her last words were a prayer, in which her husband's

and her daughter's names were intermingled.

On the ensuing day, the grave in which Josephe already reposed was

re-opened to receive Genevieve, for, during the past month, Death had

reaped so abundantly that the barren island lacked space for his doleful

harvest. Informed of what had happened, by means of the signals agreed

upon, the keeper of the powder-magazine brought Francine to the edge of

his rock, and the child, on her knees, uttered a prayer for her mother's

spirit, at the moment the funeral ceremony was ended, across the water.

This death was the last. Like those expiatory victims who, in

sacrificing themselves, were wont to appease the anger of the Gods,

Genevieve seemed, in going down to the tomb, as though she closed its

doors behind her. A fortnight later, and the yellow flag slid down the

flag staff that over-topped the lazaretto, and those who had been

quarantined, now cured, went away in the frigate's long-boat. They only

left behind them, on the dreary island, a man whose hair had become

perfectly white, and a child in mourning clothes.