Mathieu Ropars: et cetera

by William Young

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.