CHAPTER XII.
A SUMMONS.
“One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave.”
All round the Mediterranean Sea there dwell people who understand the artof doing nothing. They do it unblushingly, peaceably, and of a setpurpose. Moreover, their forefathers must have been addicted to a similarphilosophy; for there is no Mediterranean town or village without itspromenade or lounging-place, where the trees have grown quite large, andthe shade is quite deep, and the wooden or stone seats are shiny withuse. Here those whom the French call “worth-nothings” congregatepeacefully and happily, to look at the sea and contemplate life from thatreflective and calm standpoint which is only to be enjoyed by the man whohas nothing to lose. To begin at Valentia, one will find these humanweeds almost Oriental in their apathy. Farther north, at Barcelona, theyare given to fitful lapses into activity before the heat of the day. AtMarseilles they are almost energetic, and are even known to take thetrouble of asking the passer for alms. But eastward, beyond Toulon, theyunderstand their business better, and do not even trouble to talk amongthemselves. The French worth-nothing is, in a word, worth less than anyof his brothers--much less than the Italian, who is quite easily rousedto a display of temper and a rusty knife--and more nearly approaches thesupreme calm of the Moor, who, across the Mediterranean, will sit all dayand stare at nothing with any man in the world. And between these dreamycoasts there lie half a dozen islands which, strange to say, are islandsof unrest. In Majorca every man works from morn till eve. In Minorca theydo the same, and quarrel after nightfall. In Iviza they quarrel all day.In Corsica they do nothing, restlessly; while Sardinia, as all the worldknows, is a hotbed of active discontent.
At Ajaccio there are half a dozen idlers on the Place Bonaparte, who situnder the trees against the wall; but they never sit there long, and donot know their business. At St. Florent, in the north of the island,which has a western aspect--the best for idling--there are but two real,unadulterated knights of industry, who sit on the low wall of that whichis called the New Quay, and conscientiously do nothing from morning tillnight.
“Of course I know him,” one was saying to the other. “Do I not rememberhis father, and are not all the de Vasselots cut with the same knife? Itell you there was a moon, and I saw him get off his horse, just here atthe very door of Rutali’s stable, and unstrap his sack, which he carriedhimself, and set off towards Olmeta.”
The speaker lapsed into silence, and Colonel Gilbert, who had lunched,and was now sitting at the open window of the little inn, which hasneither sign nor license, leant farther forward. For the word “Olmeta” never failed to bring a light of energy and enterprise into his quieteyes.
The inn has its entrance in the main street of St. Florent, and only theback windows look out upon the quay and across the bay. It was at one ofthese windows that Colonel Gilbert was enjoying a cigarette and a cup ofcoffee, and the loafers on the quay were unaware of his presence there.And for the sixth time at least, the story of Lory de Vasselot’s arrivalat St. Florent and departure for Olmeta was told and patiently heard. Hasnot one of the great students of human nature said that the _canaille_ ofall nations are much alike? And the dull or idle of intellect assuredlyresemble each other in the patience with which they will listen to ortell the same story over and over again.
The colonel heard the tale, listlessly gazing across the bay with dreamyeyes, and only gave the talker his full attention when more ancienthistory was touched upon.
“Yes,” said the idler; “and I remember his father when he was just atthat age--as like this one as one sheep is like another. Nor have Iforgotten the story which few remember now.”
He pressed down the tobacco into his wooden pipe--for they arepipe-smokers in a cigarette latitude--and waited cunningly for curiosityto grow. His companion showed no sign, though the colonel set his emptycoffee-cup noiselessly aside and leant his elbow on the window-sill.
The speaker jerked his thumb in the direction of Olmeta over his leftshoulder far up on the mountainside.
“That story was buried with Perucca,” he said, after a long pause.“Perhaps the Abbé Susini knows it. Who can tell what a priest knows?There were two Peruccas once--fine, big men--and neither married. Theother--Andrei Perucca--who has been in hell these thirty years, madesheep’s eyes, they told me, at de Vasselot’s young wife. She was French,and willing enough, no doubt. She was dull, down there in that greatchateau; and when a woman is dull she must either go to church or to thedevil. She cannot content herself with tobacco or the drink, like a man.De Vasselot heard of it. He was a quiet man, and he waited. One day hebegan to carry a gun, like you and me--a bad example, eh? Then AndreiPerucca was seen to carry a gun also. And, of course, in time theymet--up there on the road from Pruneta to Murato. The clouds were down,and the gregale was blowing cold and showery. It is when the gregaleblows that the clouds seem to whisper as they crowd through the narrowplaces up among the peaks, and there was no other sound while these twomen crept round each other among the rocks, like two cats upon a roof. DeVasselot was quicker and smaller, and as agile as a goat, and AndreiPerucca lost him altogether. He was a fool. He went to look for him. Asif any one in his senses would go to look for a Corsican in the rocks!That is how the gendarmes get killed. At length Andrei Perucca raised hishead over a big stone, and looked right into the muzzle of de Vasselot’sgun. The next minute there was no head upon Perucca’s shoulders.”
The narrator paused, and relighted his pipe with a foul-smelling sulphurmatch.
“Yes,” he said reflectively; “they are fine men, the de Vasselots.”
He tapped himself on the chest with the stem of his pipe, and made agesture towards the mountains and the sky, as if calling upon the gods tohear him.
“I am all for the de Vasselots--I,” he said.
Colonel Gilbert leant out of the window, and quietly took stock of thisvaluable adherent.
“At that time,” continued the speaker, “we had at Bastia a young prefectwho took himself seriously. He was going to reform the world. Theydecided to arrest the Count de Vasselot, though they had not a scrap ofevidence, and the clan was strong in those days, stronger than thePeruccas are to-day. But they never caught him. They disappeared bag andbaggage--went to Paris, I understand; and they say the count died there,or was perhaps killed by the Peruccas, who grew strong under Mattei, sothat in a few years it would have been impossible for a de Vasselot toshow his face in this country. Then Mattei Perucca died, and was hardlyin his grave before this man came. I tell you, I saw him myself, a deVasselot, with his father’s quick way of turning his head, of sitting inthe saddle lightly like a Spaniard or a Corsican. That was in the spring,and it is now July--three months ago. And he has never been seen or heardof since. But he is here, I tell you; he is here in the island. As likelyas not he is in the old chateau down there in the valley. No honest manhas set his foot across the threshold since the de Vasselots left itthirty years ago--only Jean is there, who has the evil eye. But there areplenty of Perucca’s people up at Olmeta who would risk Jean’s eye, andbreak down the doors of the chateau at a word from the Casa Perucca. Butthe girl there who is the head of the clan will not say the word. Shedoes not understand that she is powerful if she would only go to work inthe right way, and help her people. Instead of that, she quarrels withthem over such small matters as the right of grazing or of cutting wood.She will make the place too hot for her--” He broke off suddenly. “Whatis that?” he said, turning on the wall, which was polished smooth byconstant friction.
He turned to the north and listened, looking in the direction of CapCorse, from whence the Bastia road comes winding down the mountainslopes.
“I hear nothing,” said his companion.
“Then you are deaf. It is the diligence half an hour before its time, andthe driver of it is shouting as he comes--shouting to the people on theroad. It seems that there is news--”
But Colonel Gilbert heard no more, for he had seized his sword,
and wasalready halfway down the stone stairs. It appeared that he expected news,and when the diligence drew up in the narrow street, he was thereawaiting it, amid a buzzing crowd, which had inexplicably assembled inthe twinkling of an eye. Yes; there was assuredly news, for the diligencecame in at a gallop though there was no one on it but the driver. Heshouted incoherently, and waved his whip above his head. Then, quitesuddenly, perceiving Colonel Gilbert, he snapped his lips together, threwaside the reins, and leapt to the ground.
“Mon colonel,” he said, “a word with you.”
And they went apart into a doorway. Three words sufficed to tell all thatthe diligence driver knew, and a minute later the colonel hurried towardsthe stable of the inn, where his horse stood ready. He rode away at asharp trot, not towards Bastia, but down the valley of Vasselot. Althoughit was evident that he was pressed for time, the colonel did not hurryhis horse, but rather relieved it when he could by dismounting, at everysharp ascent, and riding where possible in the deep shade of the chestnuttrees. He turned aside from the main road that climbs laboriously toOletta and Olmeta, and followed the river-path. In order to gain time hepresently left the path, and made a short cut across the open land,glancing up at the Casa Perucca as he did so. For he was trespassing.
He was riding leisurely enough when his horse stumbled, and, inrecovering itself, clumsily kicked a great stone with such force that heshattered it to a hundred pieces, and then stood on three legs, awkwardlyswinging his hoof in a way that horses have when the bone has beenjarred. In a moment the colonel dismounted, and felt the injured legcarefully.
“My friend,” he said kindly, “you are a fool. What are you doing? Name ofa dog”--he paused, and collecting the pieces of broken quartz, threw themaway into the brush--“name of a dog, what are you doing?”
With an odd laugh Colonel Gilbert climbed into the saddle again, andalthough he looked carefully up at the Casa Perucca, he failed to seeMademoiselle Brun’s grey face amid the grey shadows of an olive tree. Thehorse limped at first, but presently forgot his grievance against the bigstone that had lain in his path. The colonel laughed to himself in asingular way more than once at the seemingly trivial accident, and onregaining the path, turned in his saddle to look again at the spot whereit had occurred.
On nearing the chateau he urged his horse to a better pace, and reachedthe great door at a sharp trot. He rang the bell without dismounting, andleisurely quitted the saddle. But the summons was not immediatelyanswered. He jerked at the chain again, and rattled on the door with thehandle of his riding whip. At length the bolts were withdrawn, and theheavy door opened sufficiently to admit a glance of that evil eye whichthe peasants did not care to face.
Before speaking the colonel made a step forward, so that his foot mustnecessarily prevent the closing of the door.
“The Count de Vasselot,” said he.
“Take away your foot,” replied Jean.
The colonel noted with a good-natured surprise the position of his stoutriding-boot, and withdrew it.
“The Count de Vasselot,” he repeated. “You need not trouble, my friend,to tell any lies or to look at me with your evil eye. I know the count ishere, for I saw him in Paris just before he came, and I spoke to him atthis very door a few weeks ago. He knows me, and I think you know me too,my friend. Tell your master I have news from France. He will see me.”
Jean unceremoniously closed the door, and the colonel, who was movingaway towards his horse, turned sharply on his heel when he heard thebolts being surreptitiously pushed back again.
“Ah!” he said, and he stood outside the door with his hand at hismoustache, reflectively following Jean’s movements, “they are singularlycareful to keep me out, these people.”
He had not long to wait, however, for presently Lory came, steppingquickly over the high threshold and closing the door behind him. ButGilbert was taller than de Vasselot, and could see over his head. Helooked right through the house into the little garden on the terrace, andsaw someone there who was not Jean. And the light of surprise was stillin his eyes as he shook hands with Lory de Vasselot.
“You have news for me?” inquired de Vasselot.
“News for every Frenchman.”
“Ah!”
“Yes. The emperor has declared war against Germany.”
“War!” echoed Lory, with a sudden laugh.
“Yes; and your regiment is the first on the list.”
“I know, I know!” cried de Vasselot, his eyes alight with excitement.“But this is good news that you tell me. How can I thank you for coming?I must get home--I mean to France--at once. But this is great news!” Heseized the colonel’s hand and shook it. “Great news, mon colonel--greatnews!”
“Good news for you, for you are going. But I shall be left behind asusual. Yes; it is good news for you.”
“And for France,” cried Lory, with both hands outspread, as if toindicate the glory that was awaiting them.
“For France,” said the colonel, gravely, “it cannot fail to be bad. Butwe must not think of that now.”
“We shall never think of it,” answered Lory. “This is Monday; there is aboat for Marseilles to-night. I leave Bastia to-night, colonel.”
“And I must get back there,” said the colonel, holding out his hand.
He rode thoughtfully back by the shortest route through the LanconeDefile, and, as he approached Bastia, from the heights behind the town hesaw the steamer that would convey Lory to France coming northward fromBonifacio.
“Yes,” he said; “he will leave Bastia to-night; and assuredly the goodGod, or the devil, helps me at every turn of this affair.”
The Isle of Unrest Page 12
