The Isle of Unrest

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE PROMISED LAND.

  “I do not ask that flowers should always spring beneath my feet.”

  Colonel Gilbert was not one of those visionaries who think that the lotof the individual man is to be bettered by a change from, say, an empireto a republic. Indeed, the late transformation from a republic to anempire had made no difference to him, for he was neither a friend nor afoe of the emperor. He had nothing in common with those soldiers of theSecond Empire who had won their spurs in the Tuileries, and owedpromotion to a woman’s favouritism. He was, in a word, too good a soldierto be a good courtier; and politics represented for him, as they do formost wise men, an after-breakfast interest, and an edifying study of thecareers of a certain number of persons who mean to make themselves a namein the easiest arena that is open to ambition.

  The colonel read the newspapers because there was little else to do inBastia, 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 ofBastia with that leisurely air which seems to invite the passer-by tostop and exchange something more than a formal salutation.

  The days, indeed, were long enough; for his service often got the colonelout of bed at dawn, and his work was frequently done before civilianswere awake. It thus happened that Colonel Gilbert was riding along thecoast-road from Brando to Bastia one morning before the sun had risenvery high above the heights of Elba. The day was so clear that not onlywere the rocky islands of Gorgona and Capraja and Monte Cristo visible,but also the mysterious flat Pianosa, so rarely seen, so capricious andsingular in its comings and goings that it fades from sight before thevery eyes, and in clear weather seems to lie like a raft on the stillwater.

  The colonel was contemplating the scene with a leisurely, artistic eye,when some instinct made him turn his head and look over his shouldertowards the north.

  “Ah!” he muttered, with a nod of satisfaction.

  A steamer was slowly pounding down towards Bastia. It was the Marseillesboat--the old _Persévérance._ And for Colonel Gilbert she was sure tobring news from France, possibly some one with whom to while away an houror so in talk. He rode more leisurely now, and the steamer passed him. Bythe time he reached the dried-fruit factory on the northern outskirt ofthe town, the _Persévérance_ had rounded the pier-head, and was gentlyedging alongside the quay. By the time he reached the harbour she wasmoored, and her captain enjoying a morning cigar on the wharf.

  Of course Colonel Gilbert knew the captain of the _Persévérance._ Was henot friendly with the driver of the St. Florent diligence? All whobrought news from the outside world were the friends of this idlesoldier.

  “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 isalways brewing it in the Tuileries, but it is not ripe for the publicpalate yet.”

  “Ah!”

  “And in the mean time,” said the captain, testing with his foot thetautness of the hawser that moored the _Persévérance_ to the quay--“inthe mean time they are busy at Cherbourg and Toulon. As to the army, youprobably know that better than I, mon colonel.”

  And he finished with his jovial laugh. Then he jerked his thumb in thedirection of the steamer.

  “Your newspapers are, no doubt, in the mail-bags,” he said. “We had agood 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, whomyou 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 heracres. It will be a _pré salé_ with a vengeance. I caught a glimpse ofher as we came out of harbour. I did not see the other, who is young--herniece, I understand. There she is, coming on deck now--the heiress, Imean. 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 deckof the _Persévérance._ It happened to be Mademoiselle Brun, who, as amatter of fact, looked no different after a night at sea to what she hadlooked in the drawing-room of the Baroness de Mélide. She was too old ortoo tough to take her colour from her environments. She was standing withher back towards the quay, talking to the steward, and did not,therefore, see the colonel until the clank of his spurred heel on thedeck made her turn sharply.

  “You, mademoiselle!” exclaimed the colonel, on seeing her face as hestood, _képi_ in hand, staring at her in astonishment.

  “Yes; I am the ogre chosen by Fate to watch over Denise Lange,” sheanswered, 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, ofMattei 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. Achance word often is the “open sesame” to that cupboard where we keep ourcherished skeleton. Colonel Gilbert saw the quick glance, andmisconstrued it.

  “I wrote a letter some time ago,” he said, “to Mademoiselle Lange, makingher an offer for her property, little dreaming that I had so old a friendas 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 oldtown.

  “There are not many buyers of land in Corsica,” he explained, halfindifferently, “and there are plenty of other plots which would serve mypurpose. However, I will not buy elsewhere until you and MademoiselleLange have had an opportunity of seeing Perucca--that is certain. No; itis only friendly to keep my offer open.”

  He was standing with his face turned towards the deck-house and thesaloon stairway, and tapped his boot idly with his whip. There wassomething expectant and almost anxious in his demeanour. MademoiselleBrun was looking at his face, and he was perhaps not aware that itchanged at this moment.

  “Yes,” she said, without looking round; “that is my niece. You find herpretty?”

  “Present me,” answered the colonel, turning to hook his sword to hisbelt.

  Denise came hurriedly across the deck, her eyes bright with anticipationand happiness. This was a better life than that of the Rue duCherche-Midi, and the stir and bustle of the sailors, already at work onthe cargo, were contagious. She noticed that Mademoiselle Brun wasspeaking to an officer, but was more interested in the carriage, which,in accordance with an order sent by the captain, was at this momentrattling across the stones towards the steamer.

  “This,” said Mademoiselle Brun, “is Colonel Gilbert, whose letter youanswered a few weeks ago.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Denise, returning his bow, and looking at him with frankeyes. “Thank you very much, monsieur, but we are going to live at Peruccaourselves.”

  “By all means,” laughed the colonel, “try it, mademoiselle; try it. It isan impossibility, I tell you frankly. And Corsica is not a country inwhich to attempt impossibilities. See here! I perceive you have yourcarriage ready, and the sailors are now carrying your baggage ashore. Youare going to drive to Perucca. Good! Now, as you pass along the road, youwill perceive on either side quite a number of small crosses, simplyplanted 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 ofevery road. Those are people, mademoiselle, who have attemptedimpossibilities in this country and have failed--at
the very spot wherethe cross is planted. You understand? I speak as a soldier to a soldier’sdaughter.”

  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 toour garden. I am told that the house and servants are as my father’scousin left them, and we are expected to-day.”

  “And you, colonel, shall be our protector,” added Mademoiselle Brun, withone of her straight looks.

  The colonel laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and accompanied them to thecarriage which awaited them.

  “If one only knew whether you approve or disapprove of these hair-brainedproceedings,” he took an opportunity of saying to Mademoiselle Brun, whenDenise was out of earshot.

  “If I only knew myself,” she replied coldly.

  They climbed into the high, old-fashioned carriage, and drove through thenew Boulevard du Palais, upward to the hills above the town. And if theyobserved the small crosses on either side of the road, marking the spotwhere some poor wight had come to what is here called an accidentaldeath, they took care to make no mention of it. For Denise persisted inseeing everything in that rose light which illumines the world when weare young. She had even a good word to say for the _Persévérance_, whichvessel had assuredly need of such, and said that the captain was a goodFrench 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 throughthe macquis from the cool mountain-tops. There is no air like that whichcomes as through a filter made of a hundred scented trees--a subtlemingling of their clean woody odours.

  “Look!” she added, pointing down to the sea, which looked calm from thisgreat height. “Look at that queer flat island there. That is Pianosa. Andthere is Elba. Elba! Cannot the magic of that word rouse you? But no, youhave no Corsican blood in you; and you sit there with your uncompromisingold face and your black bonnet a little bit on one side, if I may mentionit”--and she proceeded to put Mademoiselle Brun’s bonnet straight--“you,who are always in mourning for something--I don’t know what,” she addedhalf reflectively, as she sat down again.

  The road to St. Florent mounts in a semi-circle behind Bastia throughorange-groves and vineyards, and the tiny private burial-grounds so dearto Corsican families of position. These, indeed, are a proud people, forthey are too good to await the last day in the company of their humblerbrethren, but must needs have a small garden and a hideous littlemausoleum 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, andsoon leaving Bastia behind, takes a southern trend, and suddenly commandsfrom a height a matchless view of the Lake of Biguglia and the littlehillside village where a Corsican parliament once sat, which was once,indeed, the capital of this war-torn island. For every village can boastof a battle, and the rocky earth has run with the blood of almost everyEuropean nation, as well as that of Turk and Moor. Beyond the lake, andstretching away into a blue haze where sea and land melt into one, liesthe great salt marsh where the first Greek colony was located, where theruins of Mariana remain to this day.

  Soon the road mounts above the level of the semi-tropical vegetation, andpasses along the face of bare and stony heights, where the pines aresmall and the macquis no higher than a man’s head.

  Denise, tired with so long a drive at a snail’s pace, jumped from thecarriage.

  “I will walk up this hill,” she cried to the driver, who had never turnedin 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 furtheranswer. Mademoiselle Brun said nothing, but presently, when the driverpaused to rest the horses, she descended from the carriage and walkedwith 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 thatborder the great plain of Biguglia, had rolled northward before a hot andoppressive breeze, and the sun was now hidden. The carriage descended ata 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 astumble or the slipping of a brake-block would inevitably send thecarriage 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, whichare small, and presently passed a piece of virgin forest--of those greatpines which have no like in Europe.

  “Look!” said Denise, gazing up at the great trees with a sort of gasp ofexcitement.

  But mademoiselle had only eyes for the road in front. Before long theypassed into the region of chestnuts, and soon saw the first habitationthey had seen for two hours. For this is one of the most thinly peopledlands of Europe, and four great nations of the Continent have at one timeor other done their best to exterminate this untameable race. Then a fewmore houses and a smaller road branching off to the left from thehighway. The carriage swung round into this, which led straight to a wallbuilt right across it. The driver pulled up, and, turning, brought thehorses to a standstill at a door built in the solid wall. With his whiphe indicated a bell-chain, rusty and worn, that swung in the breeze.

  There was nobody to be seen. The clouds had closed down over themountains. 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 openedby a woman in black, with a black silk handkerchief over her head, wholooked gravely at them.

  “I am Denise Lange,” said the girl.

  “And I,” said the woman, stepping back to admit them, “am the widow ofPietro Andrei, who was shot at Olmeta.”

  And Denise Lange entered her own door followed by Mademoiselle Brun.