--"The gun-boat?"
--"She"s there, you know, to keep guard over the island."
--"But who then can help us?"
--"The tide."
Genevieve looked at her husband, but without understanding what he meant.
--"It is now high-water," continued Mathieu; "in less than an hour the sea will have gone down enough to leave only four feet of water upon the line of reefs that runs from Treberon to the Ile des Morts. With courage, and by the help of G.o.d, the pa.s.sage may be tried. I am going to carry the child over to Dorot."
And as the mother could not restrain a cry of terror;--"Speak lower, unhappy one!" he added vehemently; "are you desirous of betraying me?
Except the Superintendent of the powder-magazine and myself, no one knows the way. We have often pa.s.sed along it when we were fishing together, and always pa.s.sed it safely."
--"But not at night," interrupted Genevieve; "not burdened with a child."
--"The child weighs scarcely anything, and the moon is full," replied Ropars somewhat impatiently. "Besides, I have been thinking of it all the evening; and there is no other means. My mind is made up, and I shall do what must be done, happen what may. Your remarks may lessen my confidence, but cannot hold me back. Try rather, then, to brace up my nerves, as is the duty of a brave wife, and to prepare the child to go.
When the outer point of the high rock is bare, it will be time for me to make the attempt, and for you to pray G.o.d that he may open us a way of safety in the sea."
The quarter-master"s tone was so determined, that Genevieve saw at once the uselessness of resistance. With little will of his own in the ordinary transactions of life, Mathieu rarely formed a resolution; but, once decided on, he maintained it immovably. Moreover, when the first shock was pa.s.sed, his explanations and a.s.surances somewhat tranquillized Francine"s mother, and indeed half convinced her. There remained the child, whose opposition or fright was apprehended by Ropars. Genevieve went and raised her up from the ground, and the father and the mother seated her upon their knees, which they purposely placed close together.
--"You want to see the cherry-tree in blossom, don"t you?" said the former, embracing her.
--"Not any more, now," was the low-toned reply.
--"Nay, nay, it is just the time," added the poor mother with an effort; "over there, you will be more at liberty ... happier ... you"ll have Michael for a play-fellow."
--"No," said the child with changing voice, "I would rather stay with Josephe."
Genevieve clasped her hands and closed her eyes; speech failed her. It was Ropars" turn. Drawing Francine close up to his breast, and whispering in her ear,
--"Listen," said he; "we are in trouble. You would not wish to make it worse, would you? You love us too well for that."
In place of answer, the child threw both her arms about her father"s neck, and pressed her little rosy cheek against the wrinkled cheek of the mariner.
--"Yes, yes, I was certain of it," continued Mathieu; "and you will do whatever we ask you?"
Francine made an affirmative sign.
--"Well, then," Ropars went on, "you must go and pa.s.s a few days with Uncle Dorot; and as we have no boat, I am going to carry you over the pa.s.sage. Won"t you be quiet in the middle of the sea, when you have papa"s shoulders for a skiff?"
The child shuddered.--"I would rather stay," said she, in hurried accents.
--"But that"s impossible," rejoined the father; "I want to carry you to the powder-magazine. It must be so, and we are to set out directly. But if you are not brave, if you think of calling out, the way will be harder, and perhaps something serious may happen to me. Do you understand?"
--"Yes ... yes ... I won"t go," replied the little girl, beginning to tremble.
Genevieve drew her once more into her arms. "Hush, hush!" said she, laying her lips upon Francine"s hair, and rocking her upon her breast, "children ought to obey.... G.o.d has ordained it ... do what you are bidden ... for your papa, ... for me ... for Josephe.... If she could speak she would tell you to be good and obedient.... Would you make her sorrowful in Heaven?"
--"Oh! no," cried the child, throwing herself again into Mathieu"s arms.
--"Then you will come?" asked he.
--"Yes," murmured the little girl.
--"And you won"t be afraid; you won"t say a word?"
--"No."
--"Let"s be going then!" exclaimed the keeper, who had got up and was looking over the parapet. "The high rock is out of water; we mustn"t wait any longer."
He took Francine in his arms and went rapidly down one of the foot-paths leading to the sh.o.r.e of the islet. Genevieve followed, in inexpressible anguish. All three reached a rocky point that stretched far out into the waters. It was the extremity of the line of reefs that connected the powder-magazine with Treberon. Ropars placed the child on the ground, in order to take note of his direction. The pa.s.sage, under the rays of the moon, was tinged with pale green, varied by small lines of white that were made by the light fringe of foam upon the waves. So gentle were their undulations, that one might have fancied a field of green wheat chequered with white camomile flowers. Beyond, the Ile des Morts in all its breadth was illumined by the moonlight, with its yellowish buildings, its long slated roofs, and its lightning-rods, standing out against the sky. So calm was the night that the sentry"s step was heard, as he paced up and down before the watch-box of granite, built at the corner of the esplanade. At the forked head of the two islands, and partially in shadow, lay the silent gun-boat, balancing at anchor.
Ropars examined every thing with scrupulous attention. He pointed out to Genevieve the direction of the submarine causeway, indicated by a faint shadow on the surface of the water, as he threw aside his waistcoat and hat; then taking both of his wife"s hands, who looked at him with haggard eyes,--"the time is come, Genevieve," said he; "kiss me, and pray the good G.o.d to be with us."
The poor woman responded at first to his embrace, without power to utter a word; but when she felt that he had disengaged himself and was returning towards the child, a cry escaped her; she was not mistress of herself. She forgot all that Mathieu had said to her, all that she herself had promised, and encircled him with her arms in all the desperation of terror.
--"You shall not go," she stammered out, "you shall not go!... It is rushing on to death ... in the name of your marriage-vow, remain to be my succour, my companion!... Would you then leave me here alone with Josephe?... Look, how broad the sea is, and how deep! You and Francine, you will be lost in it!... Ah! if it be G.o.d"s will, let us all die here; but at least let us die together! Mathieu, I will not have you quit me; you shall not carry off my child; you shall not go!"
Ropars endeavoured to calm her, and struggled to release himself from her hold; but she clung to him, and refused to hear a word. And as he recalled to her that she had, a minute before, induced Francine"s consent,
--"I was wrong," she wildly interrupted him; "I will no longer have it so. If you leave me, I will follow; and you will be responsible before G.o.d for what may happen. Mathieu, do not tempt me! Mathieu, have pity on me!... What have I done to you, that you should thus go voluntarily to destruction? Do you no longer care for life with me?... Ah! if I have failed in my duty, be not angry with me, dear soul! If my too great anguish has offended you, forgive me! I will not cry any more; I will be every thing that you desire. Hold; look on me rather; forgive me; but say that you will stay."
She had sunk down upon her knees, and held Ropars" hands pressed firmly against her lips. He exerted himself to raise her up.
--"Enough, Genevieve," said he, in a tone wherein commiseration disputed with impatience; "I thought that you were braver.... This is not what you promised me. Think, think, unhappy woman, that the time is pa.s.sing away!"
Genevieve groaned, and recommenced the same entreaties. He cast an anxious look towards the sea, and saw that the farthest jags of the high rock were dry. Longer delay would increase the danger, and might render the pa.s.sage impossible. Mathieu seized Genevieve sharply by the elbows, and raised her upon her feet, with her face opposite his own.
--"On your salvation, listen!" said he, in accent so decided that she trembled at it; "this is the first time that I have reminded you that I am your master, and, if you be not wiser, it will perhaps be the last; but by the G.o.d who saved us, you shall obey, and that without further discussion! The child"s life is to be preserved; nothing can stay me now. Remain there, I solemnly command you, and make not one step, nor utter one single cry, or, so surely as I am my mother"s son, I will never forgive you, even until the day of Judgment!"
At these words, he seated Genevieve, petrified by the shock, ran to his little daughter, whom he took upon his shoulders, and dashed with her into the waves.
When Genevieve turned round, at the noise made by his plunge into the water, Ropars was on the causeway of the submerged reefs, and the waves were rolling against his breast. She tried to get up; but her strength failed her, and she could but utter a feeble cry. Mathieu heard it and looked back. He could see through the moonlight the indistinct form of Genevieve who, half-lying down upon the rock, was wringing her joined hands as though towards him. He found his heart, which he had steeled by an effort of will, sinking within him in pity for her. Taking note of the waters, green and deep, whose abysses were opening around him, hearing over his head the breathings of the child who panted with terror, and thinking that the hapless creature from whom they had just parted violently might perchance never see them more, there came across him a feeling of commiseration so tender, that tears almost filled his eyes; he paused, in spite of himself, in the midst of the murmuring waves, turned his head backwards towards the sh.o.r.e, and called to her in a voice, restrained but full of gentleness--"Don"t cry Genevieve; and G.o.d bless you! all will go well."
Then, without waiting for an answer, which he feared might unman him, he went on his way, his eyes fixed upon the line along the water that marked the direction of the reef. Soon, however, he ceased to distinguish that particular appearance of the waves which rendered it easy to trace this line from the sh.o.r.e. Immersed in the sea, he no longer saw anything beyond him, but a surface uniform and agitated, without any distinctive movement or colour. He was therefore compelled to shape his course direct for the rock on the Ile des Morts whereon the causeway ab.u.t.ted, and which with its pointed ridges was visible, far-away in the obscurity.
Armed with a broken boat-hook, Mathieu sounded at each step that he took; but notwithstanding all his care, the difficulty of his course increased at every moment. The unevenness of the rocks exposed him to incessant stumbling. Lifted off his feet by the waves, half-stunned by the deep rumbling noise that was around him, groping along a path irregular and strange to him and bounded on either side by an abyss, he advanced with the greatest deliberation, his strong will controlling his impatience, and his whole soul rivetted upon his every movement. His fixed gaze sought to pierce the liquid veil of the waters; his hands glued to the boat-hook seemed to long to solder it to the reef; his feet, in an agony of search, seemed to force themselves to guess at their path, before they would select it. Thus he reached the middle of the pa.s.sage, where he came into the neighbourhood of the gun-boat. All there was silent; nothing stirred. The cries of "Watch, Watch!" uttered at intervals by the look-out at each cat-head, had for some time ceased to be heard; their two shadows even were not perceptible, for they had long been immovable at their post. Certain that their look-out was altogether needless, the sailors on watch were without doubt asleep.
Mathieu, who was afraid that they might awake, was anxious to avoid this danger by hurrying on; but at the very moment when he came within the shadow thrown, abaft the gun-boat, over the glittering waters, his footing of rock failed him by suddenly shelving downwards. Francine felt him sinking, as a vessel that founders, and the waves washed up over her hair. She could not restrain a piercing shriek.
Her father, in extreme alarm, lowered her down against his breast, and pressed one hand upon her lips. But it was too late; the cry had undoubtedly been overheard, for a shadow immediately rose up, forward, and the noise of footsteps echoed along the deck. Ropars had but time to throw himself under the taffrail of the stationary vessel, and to grasp a boom, whereto he remained suspended.
One of the sailors on watch came aft, and was immediately joined by his comrade.
--"The devil take me, if I didn"t hear a cry," said the former.
--"Pardieu! it half-woke me up," added the second.