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