feet.”
Colonel Gilbert was not one of those visionaries who think that the lot of the individual man is to be bettered by a change from, say, an empire to a republic. Indeed, the late transformation from a republic to an empire had made no difference to him, for he was neither a friend nor a foe of the emperor. He had nothing in common with those soldiers of the Second Empire who had won their spurs in the Tuileries, and owed promotion to a woman's favouritism. He was, in a word, too good a soldier to be a good courtier; and politics represented for him, as they do for most wise men, an after-breakfast interest, and an edifying study of the careers of a certain number of persons who mean to make themselves a name in the easiest arena that is open to ambition.
The colonel read the newspapers because there was little else to do in Bastia, and the local gossip “on tap,” as it were, at the cafés and the “Réunion des Officiers,” had but a limited interest for him. He was, however, at heart a gossip, and rode or walked through the streets of Bastia with that leisurely air which seems to invite the passer-by to stop and exchange something more than a formal salutation.
The days, indeed, were long enough; for his service often got the colonel out of bed at dawn, and his work was frequently done before civilians were awake. It thus happened that Colonel Gilbert was riding along the coast-road from Brando to Bastia one morning before the sun had risen very high above the heights of Elba. The day was so clear that not only were the rocky islands of Gorgona and Capraja and Monte Cristo visible, but also the mysterious flat Pianosa, so rarely seen, so capricious and singular in its comings and goings that it fades from sight before the very eyes, and in clear weather seems to lie like a raft on the still water.
The colonel was contemplating the scene with a leisurely, artistic eye, when some instinct made him turn his head and look over his shoulder towards the north.
“Ah!” he muttered, with a nod of satisfaction.
A steamer was slowly pounding down towards Bastia. It was the Marseilles boat—the old Persévérance. And for Colonel Gilbert she was sure to bring news from France, possibly some one with whom to while away an hour or so in talk. He rode more leisurely now, and the steamer passed him. By the time he reached the dried-fruit factory on the northern outskirt of the town, the Persévérance had rounded the pier-head, and was gently edging alongside the quay. By the time he reached the harbour she was moored, and her captain enjoying a morning cigar on the wharf.
Of course Colonel Gilbert knew the captain of the Persévérance. Was he not friendly with the driver of the St. Florent diligence? All who brought news from the outside world were the friends of this idle soldier.
“Good morning, captain,” he cried. “What news of France?”
The captain was a jovial man, with unkempt hair and a smoke-grimed face.
“News, colonel,” he answered. “It is not quite ready yet. The emperor is always brewing it in the Tuileries, but it is not ripe for the public palate yet.”
“Ah!”
“And in the mean time,” said the captain, testing with his foot the tautness of the hawser that moored the Persévérance to the quay—“in the mean time they are busy at Cherbourg and Toulon. As to the army, you probably know that better than I, mon colonel.”
And he finished with his jovial laugh. Then he jerked his thumb in the direction of the steamer.
“Your newspapers are, no doubt, in the mail-bags,” he said. “We had a good passage, and are a full ship. Of passengers I have two—and ladies. One, by the way, is the heiress of Mattei Perucca over at Olmeta, whom you doubtless knew.”
The colonel turned, and looked towards the steamer with some interest.
“Is that so?” he said reflectively.
“Yes; a pinched old maid in a black dress. None will marry her for her acres. It will be a pré salé with a vengeance. I caught a glimpse of her as we came out of harbour. I did not see the other, who is young—her niece, I understand. There she is, coming on deck now—the heiress, I mean. She will not look her best after a night at sea.”
And, with a jerk of the head, he indicated a black-clad form on the deck of the Persévérance. It happened to be Mademoiselle Brun, who, as a matter of fact, looked no different after a night at sea to what she had looked in the drawing-room of the Baroness de Mélide. She was too old or too tough to take her colour from her environments. She was standing with her back towards the quay, talking to the steward, and did not, therefore, see the colonel until the clank of his spurred heel on the deck made her turn sharply.
“You, mademoiselle!” exclaimed the colonel, on seeing her face as he stood, képi in hand, staring at her in astonishment.
“Yes; I am the ogre chosen by Fate to watch over Denise Lange,” she answered, holding out her withered hand.
“But this is indeed a pleasure,” said the colonel, with his ready smile. “I came by a mere accident to offer my services, as any Frenchman would, to ladies arriving at such a place as Bastia, as a friend, moreover, of Mattei Perucca, and never expected to see a face I knew. It is years, mademoiselle, since we met—since before the war—before Solferino.”
“Yes,” said Mademoiselle Brun; “since before Solferino.”
And she glanced suspiciously at him, as if she had something to hide. A chance word often is the “open sesame” to that cupboard where we keep our cherished skeleton. Colonel Gilbert saw the quick glance, and misconstrued it.
“I wrote a letter some time ago,” he said, “to Mademoiselle Lange, making her an offer for her property, little dreaming that I had so old a friend as yourself at hand, as one may say, to introduce us to each other.”
“No,” said Mademoiselle Brun.
“And I was surprised to receive a refusal.”
“Yes,” said Mademoiselle Brun, looking across the harbour towards the old town.
“There are not many buyers of land in Corsica,” he explained, half indifferently, “and there are plenty of other plots which would serve my purpose. However, I will not buy elsewhere until you and Mademoiselle Lange have had an opportunity of seeing Perucca—that is certain. No; it is only friendly to keep my offer open.”
He was standing with his face turned towards the deck-house and the saloon stairway, and tapped his boot idly with his whip. There was something expectant and almost anxious in his demeanour. Mademoiselle Brun was looking at his face, and he was perhaps not aware that it changed at this moment.
“Yes,” she said, without looking round; “that is my niece. You find her pretty?”
“Present me,” answered the colonel, turning to hook his sword to his belt.
Denise came hurriedly across the deck, her eyes bright with anticipation and happiness. This was a better life than that of the Rue du Cherche-Midi, and the stir and bustle of the sailors, already at work on the cargo, were contagious. She noticed that Mademoiselle Brun was speaking to an officer, but was more interested in the carriage, which, in accordance with an order sent by the captain, was at this moment rattling across the stones towards the steamer.
“This,” said Mademoiselle Brun, “is Colonel Gilbert, whose letter you answered a few weeks ago.”
“Ah, yes,” said Denise, returning his bow, and looking at him with frank eyes. “Thank you very much, monsieur, but we are going to live at Perucca ourselves.”
“By all means,” laughed the colonel, “try it, mademoiselle; try it. It is an impossibility, I tell you frankly. And Corsica is not a country in which to attempt impossibilities. See here! I perceive you have your carriage ready, and the sailors are now carrying your baggage ashore. You are going to drive to Perucca. Good! Now, as you pass along the road, you will perceive on either side quite a number of small crosses, simply planted at the roadside—some of iron, some of wood, some with a name, some with initials. They are to be found all over Corsica, at the side of every road. Those are people, mademoiselle, who have attempted impossibilities in this country and have failed—at the very spot where the cross is planted. You understand? I speak as a soldier to a soldier's daughter.”
He looked at her, and nodded slowly and gravely with compressed lips.
“Rest assured that we shall not attempt impossibilities,” replied Denise, gaily. “We only ask to be left alone to feed our poultry and attend to our garden. I am told that the house and servants are as my father's cousin left them, and we are expected to-day.”
“And you, colonel, shall be our protector,” added Mademoiselle Brun, with one of her straight looks.
The colonel laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and accompanied them to the carriage which awaited them.
“If one only knew whether you approve or disapprove of these hair-brained proceedings,” he took an opportunity of saying to Mademoiselle Brun, when Denise was out of earshot.
“If I only knew myself,” she replied coldly.
They climbed into the high, old-fashioned carriage, and drove through the new Boulevard du Palais, upward to the hills above the town. And if they observed the small crosses on either side of the road, marking the spot where some poor wight had come to what is here called an accidental death, they took care to make no mention of it. For Denise persisted in seeing everything in that rose light which illumines the world when we are young. She had even a good word to say for the Persévérance, which vessel had assuredly need of such, and said that the captain was a good French sailor, despite his grimy face.
“This,” she cried, “is better than your stuffy schoolroom!”
And she stood up in the carriage to inhale the breeze that hummed through the macquis from the cool mountain-tops. There is no air like that which comes as through a filter made of a hundred scented trees—a subtle mingling of their clean woody odours.
“Look!” she added, pointing down to the sea, which looked calm from this great height. “Look at that queer flat island there. That is Pianosa. And there is Elba. Elba! Cannot the magic of that word rouse you? But no, you have no Corsican blood in you; and you sit there with your uncompromising old face and your black bonnet a little bit on one side, if I may mention it”—and she proceeded to put Mademoiselle Brun's bonnet straight—“you, who are always in mourning for something—I don't know what,” she added half reflectively, as she sat down again.
The road to St. Florent mounts in a semi-circle behind Bastia through orange-groves and vineyards, and the tiny private burial-grounds so dear to Corsican families of position. These, indeed, are a proud people, for they are too good to await the last day in the company of their humbler brethren, but must needs have a small garden and a hideous little mausoleum of their own, with a fine view and easy access to the highroad.
With many turns the great road climbs round the face of the mountain, and soon leaving Bastia behind, takes a southern trend, and suddenly commands from a height a matchless view of the Lake of Biguglia and the little hillside village where a Corsican parliament once sat, which was once, indeed, the capital of this war-torn island. For every village can boast of a battle, and the rocky earth has run with the blood of almost every European nation, as well as that of Turk and Moor. Beyond the lake, and stretching away into a blue haze where sea and land melt into one, lies the great salt marsh where the first Greek colony was located, where the ruins of Mariana remain to this day.
Soon the road mounts above the level of the semi-tropical vegetation, and passes along the face of bare and stony heights, where the pines are small and the macquis no higher than a man's head.
Denise, tired with so long a drive at a snail's pace, jumped from the carriage.
“I will walk up this hill,” she cried to the driver, who had never turned in his seat or spoken a word to them.
“Then keep close to the carriage,” he answered.
“Why?”
But he only indicated the macquis with his whip, and made no further answer. Mademoiselle Brun said nothing, but presently, when the driver paused to rest the horses, she descended from the carriage and walked with Denise.
It was nearly midday when they at last reached the summit of the pass. The heavy clouds, which had been long hanging over the mountains that border the great plain of Biguglia, had rolled northward before a hot and oppressive breeze, and the sun was now hidden. The carriage descended at a rapid trot, and once the man got down and silently examined his brakes. The road was a sort of cornice cut on the bare mountain side, and a stumble or the slipping of a brake-block would inevitably send the carriage rolling into the valley below.
Denise sat upright, and looked quickly, with eager movements of the head, from side to side. Soon they reached the region of the upper pines, which are small, and presently passed a piece of virgin forest—of those great pines which have no like in Europe.
“Look!” said Denise, gazing up at the great trees with a sort of gasp of excitement.
But mademoiselle had only eyes for the road in front. Before long they passed into the region of chestnuts, and soon saw the first habitation they had seen for two hours. For this is one of the most thinly peopled lands of Europe, and four great nations of the Continent have at one time or other done their best to exterminate this untameable race. Then a few more houses and a smaller road branching off to the left from the highway. The carriage swung round into this, which led straight to a wall built right across it. The driver pulled up, and, turning, brought the horses to a standstill at a door built in the solid wall. With his whip he indicated a bell-chain, rusty and worn, that swung in the breeze.
There was nobody to be seen. The clouds had closed down over the mountains. Even the tops of the great pines were hidden in a thin mist.
Denise got down and rang the bell. After a long pause the door was opened by a woman in black, with a black silk handkerchief over her head, who looked gravely at them.
“I am Denise Lange,” said the girl.
“And I,” said the woman, stepping back to admit them, “am the widow of Pietro Andrei, who was shot at Olmeta.”
And Denise Lange entered her own door followed by Mademoiselle Brun.