Mathieu Ropars: et cetera. William Young
it the germ of one of those antique bas-reliefs, of which the marble has become more precious than gold.
Two little girls and a goat were coming up the winding path together. The elder of the two, who might be eleven years old, was holding the freakish animal by one of those long pieces of sea-weed that resemble strips of Spanish leather. Her black hair fell down upon a neck embrowned like a raven's wing, and threw something of a wild hardihood into her expression, tempered however by the velvety softness of her eye. The younger, seated on the goat as though it were her customary place, was of such rosy-white complexion as you see in the flower of the eglantine. A tuft of broom, mingling with her golden hair, fell down upon her shoulder, and gave her an indescribably coquettish grace. The two sisters compelled the goat, which submitted most unwillingly, to moderate its pace; but still, as they proceeded, they were obliged to double the slender reins by which they kept it within bounds, and anon to catch hold of the wreath of sea-flowers twisted about its horns. Then what joyous shouts and peals of laughter were there without end, broken in upon by the gentle bleatings of Brunette as she pawed the ground with her foot, and shook her saucy little head! Any other hands but those of Josèphe and Francine would have tried in vain to make her even so far submissive; but for the latter the goat had been a foster-mother, a circumstance evidently not forgotten.
Mathieu Ropars had been watching for some time this pleasant little contest between the fantastic Brunette and his daughters, when he felt a hand laid upon his arm; he turned round and encountered, so to say, close against his shoulder the bronzed and smiling face of their mother.
—"Just look at those children," said he, nodding his head in the direction of the merry group.
—"Heavens! Francine will fall," exclaimed the mother, stepping towards the path. He drew her back.
—"Let them be," said he; "don't you know that there is nothing to fear when Josèphe has her eye upon them? Besides, Brunette loves them better than her own kids; nor are they behind-hand in returning it. Heaven forgive me, if that creature isn't what they think most of—after us!"
—"And after Monsieur Gabriel," chimed in their mother—"at least so far as Josèphe is concerned; for although he scarcely stayed more than a week in the lazaretto, and that's three years ago, the child never lets a day pass by without speaking of him."
—"To tell the truth, the Lieutenant is a sort of man not easily to be forgotten," replied Ropars, "especially by the little one yonder, to whom he was so kind and made so many promises. Why, wasn't he to bring her all manner of wonderful things from the East? And by the bye, if nothing has happened to him, I believe that we shall pretty soon see him again, as well as the Thetis."
—"In the meantime I must tell the children of another visit, which will also be no small treat for them."
—"Whose?"
—"Cousin's, and little Michael's."
—"Dorot's coming?" inquired Mathieu, looking towards the platform of the Ile des Morts. "How do you know?"
—"Can't we talk by signal just as well as his Majesty's ships?" said Geneviève laughing. "Look, he has hung out of his window three small red handkerchiefs; that's to tell us that he's coming over. Besides, I saw Michael going down to the Superintendent's."
—"Bravo!" cried Ropars, his face lighting up; "your cousin and the boy must sup with us—that is to say, if your pantry is not quite so empty as your hospital."
Geneviève protested, and then enumerated with an air of complacency all her culinary resources, which had fortunately been replenished, two days before, by the Superintendent, who supplied at the same time the powder-magazine and the lazaretto. Mathieu promised to complete the feast by broaching for the artillery-man an old bottle of Rousillon wine, stowed away for a long time under the sand of his cellar.
The two little girls at this moment came up on to the terrace.
—"Quick, here!" cried Geneviève, "quick; there's somebody coming."
—"Monsieur Gabriel?" asked Josèphe, springing forward with this exclamation.
—"No, no, goose-cap—cousin Dorot and little Michael."
An involuntary gesture of disappointment escaped from the child; but Francine clapped her hands and broke out into shouts of joy. The goat, left to herself, bounded along the precipitous slopes of the rocks, where she set to work browsing on the tufts of brackish herbage; the sisters took each other's hand to go down towards the little landing-place; whilst their mother went into the house with a view of getting everything in readiness.
As had been remarked by the last-named, the special affection of Josèphe for Monsieur Gabriel was already of several years standing. It dated from a quarantine performed at Trébéron by the Lieutenant, who, charmed by her grace, bordering though it was upon the savage, had exhibited towards her a marked regard, to which the child had responded with what amounted almost to a passion. Having entered the navy against his inclination, Monsieur Gabriel had adopted little of it but its uniform. In the midst of a life of change, hardship, and adventure, he dreamed unceasingly of the unchangeableness of the domestic hearth, and of peaceful family enjoyments. He was one of those lovers of solitude, who are born to live amongst labourers, and women, and children. Confined to the lazaretto of Trébéron, he had brought thither a few favourite books, and his violin, on which he played for hours at a time, with no other end than the listening to its melodious vibrations. When he went out, Josèphe ran to meet him, acted as his guide along the rocks, and escorted him to their most secluded recesses, in which, day by day, he discovered some unknown plant, or moss that was new to him. In the evening, be paid a visit to the old quarter-master whose quiet enjoyment of life had attracted his notice. Geneviève talked to him of her children; Josèphe begged of him a story or a song; and when it was time for him to retire for the night, he went back to his cell, light hearted and with tranquil mind. A fortnight thus slipped away as if it had been an hour; so that when his quarantine was at length performed, and it was necessary for him to leave Trébéron, his deliverance did but awaken in him a feeling of regret. He came back several times to pass whole days upon the lonely islet; and when finally he was embarking for a distant voyage of discovery, he promised the solitary family that he would occasionally write to them. Ropars had in fact received some letters from him; and, as we have seen, was expecting his speedy return. For the moment, the visit announced by Geneviève exclusively occupied the keeper of the lazaretto. He remained alone upon the esplanade, whence he continued to look towards the Ile des Morts. The distance rendered visible everything done there; it was easy to recognize persons and to distinguish their movements. He could therefore see Dorot take his way towards the skiff, set up the mast, and hoist the sail; and the little Michael catching hold, with some difficulty, of the tiller.
Previously to the two families becoming allied by marriage, the keepers of the powder-magazine and of the lazaretto had known each other in the navy, wherein one was a quarter-master and the other a sergeant of artillery. Appointed to Trébéron, Mathieu Ropars had rejoiced at the idea of meeting his old ship-mate Dorot, already several years established at the Ile des Morts, with his wife, his son, and a female orphan relative. The lazaretto being almost always deserted, he was left with ample leisure for frequent visits to the powder-magazine, and for becoming well known there and thoroughly appreciated. Geneviève, Dorot's cousin, was particularly taken with such a character, so straight-forward and yet so gentle. She had been tried, until she was sixteen, by all the pains and penalties of misery. Taken then, from charitable motives, into the house of her cousin whose wife occasionally made her pay dearly enough for his hospitality, the poor orphan had accustomed herself to expecting nothing at any one's hands, and to receiving as a favour whatever was accorded her. Thus the frank cordiality of Mathieu was more touching in her eyes than it would have been in those of another. She welcomed it with a gratitude half filial, to which insensibly became added that shade of a more tender feeling, always blended into the attachments of a woman whose heart is disengaged. An intimacy between herself and Ropars went on, strengthening from day to day, whilst neither of them took account of their predilections. As he marked the young girl in the bloom of her expanding beauty, Mathieu, who already felt the weight of years upon him, would