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,