Mathieu Ropars: et cetera Part 4

--"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-phosph.o.r.escent 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 pa.s.sed 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 bl.u.s.tering than a.s.sured.

--"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 s.p.a.ce. Forced to swim with his precious burden, he hoped that a few fathoms' distance would bring him back to his pathway on the reefs; he had already gone beyond it. Fresh attempts were not more successful; and twenty times did he renew his search, finding only, at each, deep water.

Frightened and panting for breath, he swam about without aim, endeavouring to touch ground, and no longer able to distinguish the Ile des Morts from Treberon. After having long shifted his course, struggled against the tide in which every moment he plunged still deeper, been a thousand times brought back from despair to hope, and run the full length of his endurance and his courage, he felt at last that he was overcome. His respiration grew painful, his eyes were covered with a film; all things were to him but as a revolving chaos; his mind wandered. A moment more, and he and Francine had disappeared beneath the waters. The gun-boat, which he had wished to avoid, but which he could no longer perceive, was his sole means of safety. He summoned all his remaining strength to utter a cry for help; a surge, more powerful, stifled it on his lips. Half-fainting and having nothing left him but that instinctive self-defence which survives the will, he struggled still an instant, buffeted from wave to wave; then felt that he was going down. But all at once, he was arrested; his feet had fallen on to the reef; they were fastened on it, and steadied themselves thereon; his body straightened up; the water that blinded him seemed to lower itself. He took breath and looked before him, and could see at the distance of a hundred steps the cleft rock of the Ile des Morts. A few minutes sufficed for reaching it. Touching the sh.o.r.e he fell down upon it, and called Francine with expiring voice. The child, terrified, could only reply by throwing herself upon his breast, where he held her for some time in his embrace. His first thought had been for her; his second carried him back to Genevieve who was expecting his return, to know that they were safe. Still tottering, he raised himself up, took his little daughter by the hand, and set himself to climbing the steep slope that led to the terrace.

It was necessary to make the tour of the powder magazine, to avoid the sentinel placed at the angle which commanded the main roadside; and also, on reaching the magazine keeper's door, to knock gently, for fear of being heard from without. Dorot fortunately had the light sleep of old soldiers; he awoke at the first knocking, and appeared at the window.

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

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

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

Dorot went down rapidly, drew back the bolt, and made them enter the house. Mathieu paused, when across the thresh-hold, with the child pressed against his knees.

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

--"You see," replied the sailor, "we have come out of the sea, and we have crossed over it, to come hither."

Dorot drew back, exclaiming, "Can it be? in G.o.d's name, what has happened, that you should thus expose your life?"

--"It has happened," rejoined Mathieu, "that Josephe died this morning of the contagion! ... that"--

--"What's that you say?"

--"'Tis just so, Dorot; and as Genevieve and I were anxious to save the other one, I have brought her to you."

--"And Heaven reward you for the thought!" said the sergeant; "the child is dearly welcome."

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

--"Think well what it is I am asking you," said he; "perhaps the child may be bringing here disease and desolation upon you!"

"I hope there will be nothing of the kind," returned Dorot; "but G.o.d's will be done!"

--"Bear in mind also," continued the quarter-master, insisting, "that if the thing gets wind, you run a risk of punishment for having violated the quarantine."

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

--"But still think."

--"Of nothing further, Ropars," interrupted the sergeant; "there! enough said--too much. No words about the matter; you have brought me the little one; I accept her."

He had stooped down to Francine, whom he then took up in his arms, and with her remounted to the small chamber formerly occupied by Genevieve.

He, himself, stripped off from the child her dripping clothes, and put her to sleep in an old cot of Michael's.

The father, who had followed them, remained at the door with his arms hanging down at his side, the very picture of grat.i.tude deeply felt, but unable to vent itself in words. Only, when Dorot turned round towards him, he seized one of his hands and held it silently grasped. Dorot, who desired to avoid a scene, began at once to talk of the means of concealing the little girl's change of abode. It was sufficient that her absence from Treberon would not be remarked; as for her being at the Ile des Morts, it could not give rise to any suspicion, since the guard of artillery that did duty at the magazine, and that might have been surprised at this increase in the keeper's family, was to be changed on the following day. Ropars arranged certain signals for transmitting mutually the news between the neighbour islands. These were to be renewed several times a day, and thus relieve them at least from the anguish of uncertainty. At length, when all had been agreed upon, Mathieu drew near the window and looked out. The breeze had freshened, the sky appeared less starry, and a transparent vapour was beginning to creep over the sea.

--"It is time to start," said he, returning towards the sergeant; "may G.o.d pay you for what you do, Dorot! As for Genevieve and myself, we shall remain your debtors to all eternity."

--"We'll talk of that, by and by," replied the keeper; "just now, the main thing, and that which troubles me, is the pa.s.sage over."

--"Don't be uneasy about that," answered Ropars; "now that the child is in safety, I shall cross the channel just as easily as one goes to church. The limbs are firm when the heart doesn't tremble. But I wish I were already on the other side; I've stayed here too long for Genevieve, who is looking for me."

--"Away, then! if it must be," cried the sergeant; "but for G.o.d's sake, Ropars, be careful, and don't forget that you have two lives to save with your own."

--"I'll do all that a man can do," returned the quarter-master; "and believe me, cousin, I've no desire to die this night!... But too much talk; the time is slipping away; I mustn't wait for the change of tide."

He went up to Francine's cot, to take leave of her; but the child, wearied out by so many emotions, had dropped off to sleep. One of her arms was doubled beneath her head, and lost in the loosened tresses of her golden hair; the other, folded on her breast, pressed to it a little relic formerly given to Genevieve who, in her superst.i.tious 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-a.s.sume 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 G.o.d!" 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.surance 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 sh.o.r.e, and committed himself again to the waters. Although the tide had begun to rise, the pa.s.sage was effected without overmuch danger. He reached, unharmed, the high rock of Treberon which the floodtide had already encroached upon, and he ran to the place where he had left Genevieve.

She was there no longer.

Astonished that she should not have awaited his return, he rapidly mounted the foot-path, reached his door, and called aloud. There was no reply. The darkness did not allow him to distinguish any thing. He groped his way to the hearth, and threw around him the trembling light of a lamp hurriedly lighted. Attracted to the alcove, his glance soon made out, beside the white form of the dead sewed up in its shroud, the outline of another and a larger form, extended without moving. Mathieu approached in agony. It was Genevieve in a swoon.

IV.