"Oh, my friend," cried Virginia to him in terror, "I swear by all that could ever unite two unhappy beings that if I remain here I will only live for you; and if I depart, I will one day return to be yours!"

His head drooped; a torrent of tears gushed from his eyes.

"Come to-night to my home, my friend," I said. "We will talk this matter over to-morrow."

"I cannot let her go!" cried madame, in distraction.

Paul accompanied me in silence. After a restless night he arose at daybreak, and returned to his own home.

Virginia had gone! The vessel had sailed at daybreak, and she was on board.

By intricate paths Paul climbed to the summit of a rock cone, from which a vast area of sea was visible. From here he perceived the vessel that bore away Virginia; and here I found him in the evening, his head leaning against the rock, his eyes fixed on the ground.

When I had persuaded him to return home, he bitterly reproached madame with having so cruelly deceived him. She told us that a breeze had sprung up in the early morning, and that the governor himself, his officers, and the confessor has come and carried Virginia off in spite of all their tears and protests, the governor declaring that it was for their good that she was thus hurried away.

Paul wandered miserably among all the spots that had been Virginia's favourites. He looked at her goats, and at the birds that came fluttering to be fed by the hand of her who had gone. He watched the dog vainly searching, following the scent up and down. He cherished little things that had been hers--the last nosegay she had worn, the coconut cup out of which she was accustomed to drink.

At length he began to labour in the plantation again. He also besought me to teach him reading and writing, so that he might correspond with Virginia; and geography and history, that he might learn the situation and character of the country whither she had gone.

We heard a report that Virginia had reached France in safety; but for two years we heard no other news of her.

_IV.--Virginia's Return_

When at length a letter arrived from Virginia it appeared that she had written several times before, but as she had received no replies, she feared that her great-aunt had intercepted her former letters.

She had been placed in a convent school, and although she lived in the midst of riches, she had not the disposal of a single farthing. She was not allowed to mention her mother's name, and was bidden to forget the land of savages where she was born; but she would sooner forget herself.

To Paul she sent some flower-seeds in a small purse, on which were embroidered the letters "P" and "V" formed of hair that he knew to be Virginia's.

But reports were current that gave him great uneasiness. The people of the vessel that had brought the letter a.s.serted that Virginia was about to be married to a great n.o.bleman; some even declared that the wedding was already over.

But soon afterwards his disquietude ceased at the news that Virginia was about to return.

On the morning of December 24, 1752, Paul saw a signal indicating that a vessel was descried at sea, and he hastened to the city. A pilot went out to reconnoitre her according to the custom of the port; he came back in the evening with the news that the vessel was the Saint Gerard, and that her captain hoped to bring her to anchor off Port Louis on the following afternoon. Virginia was on board, and sent by the pilot a letter to her mother which Paul, after kissing it with transport, carried hurriedly to the plantation.

Virginia wrote that her great-aunt had tried to force her into marriage, had disinherited her on her refusal, and had sent her back to the island. Her only wish now was once more to see and embrace her dear family.

Paul, in his excitement, rushed to tell me the news, although it was late at night. As we walked together we were overtaken by a breathless negro.

"A vessel from France has just cast anchor under Amber Island," he said.

"She is firing distress guns, for the sea is very heavy."

"That will be Virginia's vessel," I said. "Let us go that way to meet her."

The heat was stifling, and the flashes of lightning that illumined the dense darkness revealed ma.s.ses of thick clouds lowering over the island.

In the distance we heard the boom of the distress-gun. We quickened our pace without saying a word, not daring to communicate our anxiety to each other.

When we reached the coast by Amber Island, we found several planters gathered round a fire, discussing whether the vessel could enter the channel in the morning and find safety.

Soon after dawn the governor arrived with a detachment of soldiers, who immediately fired a volley. Close at hand came the answering boom of the ship's gun; in the dim light we could see her masts and yards, and hear the voices of the sailors. She had pa.s.sed through the channel, and was secure--save from the hurricane.

But the hurricane came. Black clouds with copper edging hung in the zenith; seabirds made their way, screaming, to shelter in the island.

Then fearful noises as of torrents were heard from the sea; the mists of the morning were swept away and the storm was upon us.

The vessel was now in deadly peril, and ere long what we had feared took place. The cables on her bows snapped, and she was dashed upon the rocks half a cable's length from the sh.o.r.e. A cry of grief burst from every breast.

Paul was about to fling himself into the sea, when I seized him by the arm.

"Oh. let me go to her rescue," he cried, "or let me die!"

I tied a rope round his waist, and he advanced toward the ship, sometimes walking, sometimes swimming. He hoped to get on board the vessel, for the sea in its irregular movements left her almost dry. But presently it returned with redoubled fury, and the unhappy Paul was hurled back upon the sh.o.r.e, bleeding, bruised, and senseless.

The ship was now going to pieces, and the despairing crew were flinging themselves into the sea. On the stern gallery stood Virginia, stretching out her arms towards the lover who sought to save her. When he was thrust back she waved her hand towards us, as if bidding us an eternal farewell.

One sailor remained with her, striving to persuade her to undress and try to swim ash.o.r.e. With a dignified gesture she repelled him. Then a prodigious mountain of water swept towards the vessel. The sailor sprang off, and was carried ash.o.r.e. Virginia vanished from our sight.

We found her body on the beach of a bay near at hand, whither much of the wreckage had been carried. Her eyes were closed, but her countenance showed perfect calm; only the pale violet of death blended itself upon her cheeks with the rose of modesty. One of her hands was firmly closed.

I disengaged from it, with much difficulty, a little casket; within the casket was a portrait of Paul--a gift from him which she had promised never to part with while she lived.

Paul was taken home stretched on a palanquin. His coming brought a ray of comfort to the unhappy mothers; the tears, which had been till then restrained through excess of sorrow, now began to flow, and, nature being thus relieved, all the three bereaved ones fell into a lethargic repose.

It was three weeks ere Paul was sufficiently recovered to walk. For day after day, when his strength was restored, he wandered among the places endeared to him by memories of Virginia. His eyes grew hollow, his colour faded, his health gradually but visibly declined. I strove to mitigate his feelings by giving him change of scene, by taking him to the busy inhabited parts of the island. My efforts proving quite ineffectual, I tried to console him by reminding him that Virginia had gained eternal happiness.

"Since death is a blessing, and Virginia is happy," he replied mournfully, "I will die, also, that I may again be united to her."

Thus, the consolation I sought to administer only aggravated his despair.

Paul died two months after his beloved Virginia, whose name was ever on his lips to the last. Margaret survived her son only by a week, and Madame de la Tour, who had borne all her terrible losses with a greatness of soul beyond belief, lived but another month.

By the side of Virginia, at the foot of the bamboos near the church of Pamplemousses, Paul was laid to rest. Close at hand the two mothers were buried. No marble is raised over their humble graves, no inscriptions record their virtues, but in the hearts of those who loved them, they have left a memory that time can never efface.

With these words the old man, tears flowing from his eyes, arose and went away.

GEORGE SAND

Consuelo

The life of the great French novelist, George Sand, is as romantic as any of the characters in her novels. She was born at Paris in July, 1804, her real name being Armandine Lucile Aurore Dupin. At eighteen she married the son of a colonel and baron of the empire, by name Dudevant, but after nine years she separated from her husband, and, bent upon a literary career, made her way to Paris. Success came quickly. Entering into a literary partnership with her masculine friend, Jules Sandeau, the chief fruit of their joint enterprise was "Rose et Blanche." This was followed by her independent novel, "Indiana," a story that brought her the enthusiastic praises of the reading public, and the warm friendship of the most distinguished personages in French literary society. A few years later her relations with the poet Alfred De Musset provided the matter for what is now an historic episode. Her literary output was enormous, consisting of a hundred or more volumes of novels and stories, four volumes of autobiography, and six of correspondence. Yet everything that she wrote is marked by that richness, delicacy and power of style and of thought which const.i.tutes her genius. "Consuelo," which appeared in 1844, is typical of all these in its sparkling dialogue, flowing narrative, and vivid description. George Sand died on June 7, 1876.