—"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!"