THE CORSICAN BROTHERS (Historical Novel). Alexandre Dumas
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would your Excellency wish to stay the night?” asked the guide.
I looked down upon the village, the streets of which appeared almost deserted. Only a few women were visible, and they walked quickly along, and frequently looked cautiously around them.
As in virtue of the rules of Corsican hospitality, to which I have already referred, it was open to me to choose for my resting place any one of the hundred or hundred and twenty houses of which the village was composed, I therefore carried my eyes from house to house till they lighted upon one which promised comfortable quarters. It was a square mansion, built in a fortified sort of style and machicolated in front of the windows and above the door.
This was the first time I had seen these domestic fortifications; but I may mention that the province of Sartène is the classic ground of the Vendetta.
“Ah, good!” said my guide, as he followed the direction of my hand—“that is the house of Madame Savilia de Franchi. Go on, go on, Signor, you have not made a bad choice, and I can see you do not want for experience in these matters.”
I should note here that in this 86th department of France Italian is universally spoken.
“But,” I said, “may it not be inconvenient if Idemand hospitality from a lady, for if I understand you rightly, this house belongs to a lady.”
“No doubt,” he replied, with an air of astonishment; “but what inconvenience does your lordship think you will cause?”
“If the lady be young,” I replied, moved by a feeling of propriety—or, perhaps, let us say, of Parisian self-respect—“a night passed under her roof might compromise her.”
“Compromise her!” repeated the guide, endeavouring to probe the meaning of the word I had rendered in Italian with all the emphasis which one would hazard a word in a strange tongue.
“Yes, of course,” I replied, beginning to feel impatient; “the lady is a widow, I suppose?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Well, then, will she receive a young man into her house?”
In 1841 I was thirty-six years old, or thereabouts, and was entitled to call myself young.
“Will she receive a young man!” exclaimed the guide; “why, what difference can it make whether you are young or old?”
I saw that I should get no information out of him by this mode of interrogation, so I resumed—
“How old is Madame Savilia?”
“Forty, or nearly so.”
“Ah,” I said, replying more to my thoughts than to my guide, “all the better. She has children, no doubt?”
“Yes, two sons—fine young men both.”
“Shall I see them?”
“You will see one of them—he lives at home.”
“Where is the other, then?”
“He lives in Paris.”
“How old are these sons?”
“Twenty-one.”
“What, both?”
“Yes, they are twins.”
“What professions do they follow?”
“The one in Paris is studying law.”
“And the other?”
“The other is a Corsican.”
“Indeed!” was my reply to this characteristic answer, made in the most matter-of-fact tone. “Well, now, let us push on for the house of Madame Savilia de Franchi.”
We accordingly resumed our journey, and entered the village about ten minutes afterwards.
I now remarked what I had not noticed from the hill, namely, that every house was fortified similarly to Madame Savilia’s. Not so completely, perhaps, for that the poverty of the inhabitants could not attain to, but purely and simply with oaken planks, by which the windows were protected, loop-holes only being left for rifle barrels; some apertures were simply bricked up.
I asked my guide what he called these loop-holes, and he said they were known as archères—a reply which convinced me that they were used anterior to the invention of firearms.
As we advanced through the streets we were able the more fully to comprehend the profound character of the solitude and sadness of the place.
Many houses appeared to have sustained a siege, and the marks of the bullets dotted the walls.
From time to time as we proceeded we caught sight of a curious eye flashing upon us from an embrasure; but it was impossible to distinguish whether the spectator were a man or a woman.
We at length reached the house which I had indicated to my guide, and which was evidently the most considerable in the village.
As we approached it more nearly, one thing struck me, and that was, fortified to all outward appearance as it was, it was not so in reality, for there were neither oaken planks, bricks, nor loop-holes, but simple squares of glass, protected at night by wooden shutters.
It is true that the shutters showed holes which could only have been made by the passage of a bullet; but they were of old date, and could not have been made within the previous ten years.
Scarcely had my guide knocked, when the door was opened, not hesitatingly, nor in a timid manner, but widely, and a valet, or rather I should say a man appeared.
It is the livery that makes the valet, and the individual who then opened the door to us wore a velvet waistcoat, trowsers of the same material, and leather gaiters. The breeches were fastened at the waist by a parti-coloured silk sash, from the folds of which protruded the handle of a Spanish knife.
“My friend,” I said, “is it indiscreet of me, who knows nobody in Sullacaro, to ask hospitality of your mistress?”
“Certainly not, your Excellency,” he replied; “thestranger does honour to the house before which he stops.” “Maria,” he continued, turning to a servant, who was standing behind him, “will you inform Madame Savilia that a French traveller seeks hospitality?”
As he finished speaking he came down the eight rough ladder-like steps which led to the entrance door, and took the bridle of my horse.
I dismounted.
“Your Excellency need have no further concern,” he said; “all your luggage will be taken to your room.”
I profited by this gracious invitation to idleness—one of the most agreeable which can be extended to a traveller.
Chapter II.
I slowly ascended the steps and entered the house, and at a corner of the corridor I found myself face to face with a tall lady dressed in black.
I understood at once that this lady of thirty-eight or forty years of age, and still beautiful, was the mistress of the house.
“Madame,” said I, bowing deeply, “I am afraid you will think me intrusive, but the custom of the country may be my excuse, and your servant’s invitation my authority to enter.”
“You are welcome to the mother,” replied Madame de Franchi, “and you will almost immediately be welcomed by the son. From this moment, sir, the house belongs to you; use it as if it were your own.”
“I come but to beg hospitality for one night, madame,” I answered; “to-morrow morning, at daybreak, I will take my departure.”
“You are free to do as you please, sir; but I hope that you