The Isle of Unrest

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XI.

  BY SURPRISE.

  “C’est ce qu’on ne dit pas qui explique ce qu’on dit.”

  From the Rue du Cherche-Midi in Paris to the Casa Perucca in Corsica isas complete a change as even the heart of woman may desire. For the Ruedu Cherche-Midi is probably the noisiest corner of that noisy Paris thatlies south of the Seine; and the Casa Perucca is one of the few quietcorners of Europe where the madding crowd is non-existent, and thatcrowning effort of philanthropic folly, the statute holiday, has yet topenetrate.

  “Yes,” said Mademoiselle Brun, one morning, after she and Denise hadpassed two months in what she was pleased to term exile--“yes; it ispeaceful. Give me war,” she added grimly, after a pause.

  They were standing on the terrace that looked down over the great valleyof Vasselot. There was not a house in sight except the crumbling chateau.The month was June, and the river, which could be heard in winter, wasnow little more than a trickling stream. A faint breeze stirred the youngleaves of the copper-beech, which is a silent tree by nature, and did notso much as whisper now. There are few birds in Corsica, for the nativesare great sportsmen, and will shoot, sitting, anything from a man to asparrow in season and out.

  “Listen,” said Mademoiselle Brun, holding up one steady, yellow finger;but the silence was such as will make itself felt. “And the neighbours donot call much,” added mademoiselle, in completion of her own thoughts.

  Denise laughed. She had been up early, for they were almost alone in theCasa Perucca now. The servants who had obeyed Mattei Perucca in fear andtrembling, had refused to obey Denise, who, with much spirit, haddismissed them one and all. An old man remained, who was generallyconsidered to be half-witted; and Maria Andrei, the widow of Pietro, whowas shot at Olmeta. Denise superintended the small farm.

  “That cheery Maria,” said Mademoiselle Brun, “she is our only resource,and reminds me of a cheap funeral.”

  “There is the colonel,” said Denise. “You forget him.”

  “Yes; there is the colonel, who is so kind to us.”

  And Mademoiselle Brun slowly contemplated the whole landscape, taking inDenise, as it were, in passing.

  “And there is our little friend,” she added, “down in the valley therewho does not call.”

  “Why do you call him little?” asked Denise, looking down at the Chateaude Vasselot. “He is not little.”

  “He is not so large as the colonel,” explained mademoiselle.

  “I wonder why he does not call?” said Denise, presently, looking downinto the valley, as if she could perhaps see the explanation there.

  “It has something to do with the social geography of the district,” saidmademoiselle, “which we do not understand. The Cheap Funeral alone knowsit. Half of the country she colours red, the other half black.Theoretically, we hate a number of persons who reciprocate the feelingheartily. Practically, we do not know of their existence. I imagine theCount de Vasselot hates us on the same principle.”

  “But we are not going to be dictated to by a number of ignorantpeasants,” cried Denise, angrily.

  “I rather fancy we are.”

  Denise was standing by the low wall, with her head thrown back. She wasnaturally energetic, and had the carriage that usually goes with thatquality.

  “Are you sure he is there?” she asked, still looking down at the château.

  “No, I am not. I have only Maria’s word for it.”

  “Then I am going to the village of Olmeta to find out,” said Denise.

  And mademoiselle followed her to the house without comment. Indeed, sheseemed willing enough to do that which they had been warned not to do.

  On the road that skirts the hill and turns amid groves of chestnut trees,they met two men, loitering along with no business in hand, who scowledat them and made no salutation.

  “They may scowl beneath their great hats,” said Denise; “I am not afraidof them.” And she walked on with her chin well up.

  Below them, on the left, the terraces of vine and olive were weed-grownand neglected; for Denise had found no one to work on her land, and thesoil here is damp and warm, favouring a rapid growth.

  Colonel Gilbert had been unable to help them in this matter. Hisofficial position necessarily prevented his taking an active part in anylocal differences. There were Luccans, he said, to be hired at Bastia,hard-working men and skilled vine-dressers, but they would not come to acommune where such active hostility existed, and to induce them to do sowould inevitably lead to bloodshed.

  The Abbé Susini had called, and told a similar tale in more guardedlanguage. Finding the ladies good Catholics, he pleaded for and abusedhis poor in one breath, and then returned half the money that Denise gavehim.

  “As likely as not you will be given credit for the whole in heaven,mademoiselle, but I will only take part of it,” he said.

  “A masterful man,” commented Mademoiselle Brun, when he was gone.

  But the abbé had suggested no solution to Denise’s difficulties. Theestate seemed to be drifting naturally into the hands of the only man whowanted it, and, after all, had offered a good price for it.

  “I will find out from the Abbé Susini or the mayor whether the Count deVasselot is really here,” Denise said, as they approached the village.“And if he is, we will go and see him. We cannot go on like this. He saysdo not sell, and then he does not come near us. He must give his reasons.Why should I take his advice?”

  “Why, indeed?” said Mademoiselle Brun, to whom the question was not quitea new one.

  She knew that though Denise would rebel against de Vasselot’s advice, shewould continue to follow it.

  “It seems to be luncheon-time,” said Denise, when they reached thevillage. “The place is deserted. It must be their _déjeuner_.”

  “It may be,” responded mademoiselle, with her manlike curtness of speech.

  They went into the church, which was empty, and stayed but a few minutesthere, for Mademoiselle Brun was as short in her speech with God as withmen. When they came out to the market-place, that also was deserted,which was singular, because the villagers in Corsica spend nearly thewhole day on the market-place, talking politics and whispering a hundredintrigues of parochial policy; for here a municipal councillor is a greatman, and usually a great scoundrel, selling his favour and his vote,trafficking for power, and misappropriating the public funds. Not onlywas the market-place empty, but some of the house-doors were closed. Thedoor of a small shop was even shut from within as they approached, andsurreptitiously barred. Mademoiselle Brun noticed it, and Denise did notpretend to ignore it.

  “One would say that we had an infectious complaint,” she said, with ashort laugh.

  They went to the house of the Abbé Susini. Even this door was shut.

  “The abbé is out,” said the old woman, who came in answer to theirsummons, and she closed the door again with more speed than politeness.

  Denise did not need to ask which was the mayor’s house, for a board, withthe word “Mairie” painted upon it (appropriately enough a movable board),was affixed to a house nearly opposite to the church. As they walkedtowards it, a stone, thrown from the far corner of the Place, under thetrees, narrowly missed Denise, and rolled at her feet. Mademoiselle Brunwalked on, but Denise swung round on her heel. There was no one to beseen, so she had to follow Mademoiselle Brun, after all, in silence. Shewas rather pale, but it was anger that lighted her eyes, and not fear.

  Almost immediately a volley of stones followed, and a laugh rang out frombeneath the trees. And, strange to say, it was the laugh that at lastfrightened Denise, and not the stones; for it was a cruel laugh--thelaugh of a brutal fool, such as one may still hear in a few Europeancountries when boys are torturing dumb animals.

  “Let us hurry,” said Denise, hastily. “Let us get to the Mairie.”

  “Where we shall find the biggest scoundrel of them all, no doubt,” addedmademoiselle, who was alert and cool.

  But before they reached t
he Mairie the stones had ceased, and they bothturned at the sound of a horse’s feet. It was Colonel Gilbert ridinghastily into the Place. He saw the stones lying there and the two womenstanding alone in the sunlight. He looked towards the trees, and thenround at the closed houses. With a shrug of the shoulders, he rodetowards Denise and dismounted.

  “Mademoiselle”, he said, “they have been frightening you.”

  “Yes”, she answered. “They are not men, but brutes.”

  The colonel, who was always gentle in manner, made a deprecatory gesturewith the great riding-whip that he invariably carried.

  “You must remember”, he said, “that they are but half civilized. You knowtheir history--they have been conquered by all the greedy nations insuccession, and they have never known peace from the time that historybegan until a hundred years ago. They are barbarians, mademoiselle, andbarbarians always distrust a new-comer.”

  “But why do they hate me?”

  “Because they do not know you, mademoiselle,” replied the colonel, withperhaps a second meaning in his blue eyes.

  And, after a pause, he explained further.

  “Because they do not understand you. They belong to one of the strongestclans in Corsica, and it is the ambition of every one to belong to astrong clan. But the Peruccas are in danger of falling into dissensionand disorder, for they have no head. You are the head, mademoiselle. Andthe work they expect of you is not work for such hands as yours.”

  And again Colonel Gilbert looked at Denise slowly and thoughtfully. Shedid not perceive the glance, for she was standing with her head halfturned towards the trees.

  “Ah!” he said, noting the direction of her glance, “they will throw nomore stones, mademoiselle. You need have no anxiety. They fear a uniformas much as they hate it.”

  “And if you had not come at that moment?”

  “Ah!” said the colonel, gravely; and that was all. “At any rate, I amglad I came,” he added, in a lighter tone, after a pause. “You were goingto the Mairie, mesdemoiselles, when I arrived. Take my advice, and do notgo there. Go to the abbé if you like--as a man, not as a priest--and cometo me whenever you desire a service, but to no one else in Corsica.”

  Denise turned as if she were going to make an exception to this sweepingrestriction, but she checked herself and said nothing. And all the whileMademoiselle Brun stood by in silence, a little, patient, bent woman,with compressed lips, and those steady hazel eyes that see so much andbetray so little.

  “The abbé is not at home,” continued the colonel. “I saw him many milesfrom here not long ago; and although he is quick on his legs--nonequicker--He cannot be here yet. If you are going towards the CasaPerucca, you will perhaps allow me to accompany you”.

  He led the way as he spoke, leading loosely by the bridle the horse whichfollowed him, and nuzzled thoughtfully at his shoulder. The colonel was,it appeared, one whose gentle ways endeared him to animals.

  It was glaringly hot, and when they reached the Casa Perucca, Deniseasked the colonel to come in and rest. It was, moreover, luncheon-time,and in a thinly populated country the great distances between neighboursare conducive to an easier hospitality than that which exists in closerquarters. The colonel naturally stayed to luncheon.

  He was kind and affable, and had a hundred little scraps of gossip suchas exiles love. He made no mention of his offer to buy Perucca,remembered only the fact that he was a gentleman accepting frankly alady’s frank hospitality, and if the conversation turned to localmatters, he gracefully guided it elsewhere.

  Immediately after luncheon he rose from the table, refusing even to waitfor coffee.

  “I have my duties,” he explained. “The War Office is, for reasons knownto itself, moving troops, and I have gradually crept up the ladder atBastia, till I am nearly at the top there.”

  Denise went with him to the stable to see that his horse had been caredfor.

  “They have only left me the decrepit and the half-witted,” she said, “butI am not beaten yet.”

  Colonel Gilbert fetched the horse himself and tightened the girths. Theywalked together towards the great gate of solid wood which fitted intothe high wall so closely that none could peep through so much as a crack.At the door the colonel lingered, leaning against his great horse andstroking its shoulder thoughtfully with a gloved finger.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said at length.

  “Yes,” answered Denise, looking at him so honestly in the face that hehad to turn away.

  “I want to ask you,” he said slowly, “to marry me.”

  Denise looked at him in utter astonishment, her face suddenly red, hereyes half afraid.

  “I do not understand you,” she said.

  “And yet it is simple enough,” answered the colonel, who himself wasembarrassed and ill at ease. “I ask you to marry me. You think I am tooold--” He paused, seeking his words. “I am not forty yet, and, at allevents, I am not making the mistake usually made by very young men. I donot imagine that I love you--I know it.”

  They stood for a minute in silence; then the colonel spoke again.

  “Of what are you thinking, mademoiselle?”

  “That it is hard to lose the only friend we have in Corsica.”

  “You need not do that,” replied the colonel. “I do not even ask you toanswer now.”

  “Oh, I can answer at once.”

  Colonel Gilbert bit his lip, and looked at the ground in silence.

  “Then I am too old?” he said at length.

  “I do not know whether it is that or not,” answered Denise; and neitherspoke while the colonel mounted and rode slowly away. Denise closed thedoor quite softly behind him.