David occupied himself with these details, with thoughtful activity, and a fruitfulness in expedients, which surprised Madame Bastien as much as it did her son. When all was ready, David looked attentively at each article, and said to Andre:
"Drive now as quick as possible to the sh.o.r.e; Frederick and I will join you, and will help you in unloading the boat and setting it afloat."
The cart, moving along the edge of the forest where stood David, Frederick, and his mother, took the direction of the submerged plain, which could be seen at a great distance. The slope being quite steep, the horse began to trot.
While the cart was on its way, David took the field-gla.s.s that he had left on one of the rustic benches in the grove, and looked for the farmhouse. The water was within two feet of the comb of the roof, where the farmer"s family had taken refuge.
David laid his field-gla.s.s on the bench, and said in a firm voice to Frederick:
"My child, embrace your mother, and let us go; time presses."
Marie trembled in every limb, and turned deadly pale.
For a second there was in the soul of the young woman a terrible struggle between duty, which urged her to allow Frederick to accomplish a generous action at the risk of his life, and the voice of nature, which urged her to prevent her son"s braving the danger of death. This struggle was so painful that Frederick, who had not taken his eyes from his mother, saw her grow weak, frightened at the thought of losing the son now so worthy of her love.
So Marie, holding Frederick in her arms to prevent his departure, cried, with a heartrending voice:
"No, no, I cannot let him go!"
"Mother," said Frederick to her, in a low voice, "I once wished to kill, and there are people there whom I can save from death."
Marie was heroic.
"Go, my child; we will go together," said she.
And she took a step which indicated her desire to go with the boat.
"Madame," cried David, divining her purpose, "this is impossible!"
"M. David, I will not abandon my son."
"Mother!"
"Where you go, Frederick, I will go."
"Madame," answered David, "the boat can only hold five persons. There is a man, a woman, and three children to save; to accompany us in the boat is to force us to leave to certain death the father, the mother, and the children."
At these words, Madame Bastien said to her son, "Go then alone, my child."
And the mother and son mingled their tears and their kisses in a last embrace.
Frederick, as he left his mother"s arms, saw David, in spite of his firmness, weeping.
"Mother!" said Frederick, showing his friend to her. "Look at him."
"Save his body as you have saved his soul!" cried the young woman, pressing David convulsively against her palpitating bosom. "Bring him back to me or I shall die."
David was worthy of the chaste and sacred embrace of this young woman, who saw her son about to brave death.
It was a weeping sister that he pressed to his heart.
Then, taking Frederick by the hand, he darted in the direction of the cart; both gave a last look at Madame Bastien, whose strength was exhausted, as she sank upon one of the rustic benches in the grove.
This attack of weakness past, Marie rose and stood, following her son and David with her eyes as long as she could see them.
CHAPTER XXIX.
In a quarter of an hour the little boat was lifted from the cart, and soon after was set afloat on the dead waters of the inundation.
"Andre, stay there with the cart," said the preceptor, "because the miserable people, to whose rescue we are going, will be altogether too feeble to walk to Madame Bastien"s house."
"Well, M. David," said the old man.
And he added with emotion:
"Good courage, my poor M. Frederick."
"My child," said David, just as the boat was leaving the sh.o.r.e, "in order to be prepared for any emergency, do as I do. Take off your shoes and stockings, your coat and your cravat; throw your coat over your shoulders to prevent your taking cold. Whatever happens to me, do not concern yourself about me. I am a good swimmer, and in trying to save me, you would drown us both. Now, my child, at your oars, and row hard, but not too fast; husband your strength. I will be on the watch in front, and will sound the waters. Come now, with calmness and presence of mind, all will go well."
The boat now had left the sh.o.r.e.
Courage, energy, and the consciousness of the n.o.ble expiation he was about to attempt, supplied Frederick with all the strength that he had lost during his long illness of mind and body.
His beautiful features animated with enthusiasm, his eyes fixed on David, watching for every order, the son of Madame Bastien rowed with vigour and precision. At each stroke of the oar, the little boat advanced rapidly and without obstruction.
David, standing in front, straightening his tall form to its utmost height, his head bare, his black hair floating in the wind, his eye sometimes fixed on the almost submerged farmhouse, and sometimes on objects which might prove an obstacle in their course,--cool, prudent and attentive, showed a calm intrepidity. For some moments the progress of the boat was unimpeded, but suddenly the preceptor called: "Hold oars!"
Frederick executed this order, and after a few seconds the boat stopped.
David, leaning over the craft in front, sounded with his boat-hook the spot where he had seen light bubbles rising to the surface, for fear the boat might break against some obstacle under the water.
In fact, David discovered that the boat was almost immediately over a ma.s.s of willow branches, in which the little craft might have become entangled if it had been going at its highest speed. Leaning then his boat-hook against a log he met in the water, David turned his boat out of the way of this perilous obstruction.
"Now, my child," said he, "row in front of you, turning a little to the left, so as to reach those three tall poplars you see down there, half submerged in the water. Once arrived there, we will enter the middle of the overflow"s current, which we feel even here, although we are still in dead water."
At the end of a few minutes David called again:
"Hold oars!"
And with these words David hooked his boat-hook among the branches of one of the poplars toward which Frederick was rowing; these trees, thirty feet in height, were three-quarters submerged. Sustained by the boat-hook, the little craft remained immovable.
"What! we are going to stop, M. David?" cried Frederick.
"You must rest a moment, my child, and drink a few swallows of this wine."