From the French of Emile Souvestre.

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 TrÉbÉron 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 TrÉbÉron 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 TrÉbÉron 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 JosÈphe 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 JosÈphe 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 JosÈphe 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 GeneviÈve 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."

GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve, "quick; there's somebody coming."

—"Monsieur Gabriel?" asked JosÈphe, 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 JosÈphe for Monsieur Gabriel was already of several years standing. It dated from a quarantine performed at TrÉbÉron 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 TrÉbÉron, 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, JosÈphe 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. GeneviÈve talked to him of her children; JosÈphe 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 TrÉbÉron, 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 GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron, 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. GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron 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 GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron.

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 JosÈphe! 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 GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron, 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 TrÉbÉron 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. GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe 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 GeneviÈve 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. GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron, 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 TrÉbÉron, 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 SevignÉ 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 GeneviÈve 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 Æneas' 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 GeneviÈve entered her protest against it. What would she do, if Francine and JosÈphe 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 GeneviÈve 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. JosÈphe 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 TrÉbÉron. 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, GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe 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. GeneviÈve 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. GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve was struck; but at the first question she asked him, he abruptly interrupted her, to inquire where Francine and JosÈphe 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.

GeneviÈve 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!"

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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron. Not a soul could henceforth pass beyond its limits: and Ropars pointed out to GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve 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. JosÈphe and Francine were at once informed of this. GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve 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, GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe ... 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.

JosÈphe, 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. JosÈphe, 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 JosÈphe 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 JosÈphe'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. JosÈphe, 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 JosÈphe 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, JosÈphe 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 JosÈphe 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 JosÈphe'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 JosÈphe'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. JosÈphe, 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 JosÈphe 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 JosÈphe's arms, and began in turn to sob.

The distress of her little sister seemed to counteract that of JosÈphe, 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 JosÈphe, 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 JosÈphe 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.

GeneviÈve 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.

III

JosÈphe slept badly; and the next morning, when she got up, was pale and drooping. GeneviÈve, 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. GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve, 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; "JosÈphe 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."

JosÈphe'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.

JosÈphe, 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, JosÈphe 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 GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe 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. GeneviÈve 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. GeneviÈve 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, GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve, 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, GeneviÈve; 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."

GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron 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 GeneviÈve; "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 GeneviÈve 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. GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe."

GeneviÈve 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.

GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe.... 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. GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron. 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 GeneviÈve 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, GeneviÈve," 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 JosÈphe?... 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, GeneviÈve," 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!"

GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve, petrified by the shock, ran to his little daughter, whom he took upon his shoulders, and dashed with her into the waves.

When GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve; 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 TrÉbÉron. 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 GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe died this morning of the contagion! ... that"—

—"What's that you say?"

—"'Tis just so, Dorot; and as GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve. 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 TrÉbÉron 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 GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve 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 TrÉbÉron which the floodtide had already encroached upon, and he ran to the place where he had left GeneviÈve. 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 GeneviÈve in a swoon.

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 TrÉbÉron, he could not invoke that experience to which GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve.

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. GeneviÈve, 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."

GeneviÈve 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, GeneviÈve," 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 JosÈphe! ... 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 GeneviÈve, 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 GeneviÈve; 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 GeneviÈve 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 GeneviÈve, 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, GeneviÈve," 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, GeneviÈve," 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 GeneviÈve, 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, GeneviÈve!" he stammered out; "look well to this side ... between the line of the sea and the sky."

—"I am looking," said GeneviÈve, 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, GeneviÈve!" 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" ... GeneviÈve 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 JosÈphe already reposed was re-opened to receive GeneviÈve, 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, GeneviÈve 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.