Colonel, said the young man, when he had recovered his gravity, allow me to offer you two pieces of advicethe first is never to offer money to a Corsican, for some of my fellow-countrymen would be rude enough to throw it back in your face; the second is not to give people titles they do not claim. You call me corporal, and I am a lieutenantthe difference is not very great, no doubt, still
Lieutenant! Lieutenant! exclaimed Sir Thomas. But the skipper told me you were a corporal, and that your father and all your family had been corporals before you!
At these words the young man threw himself back and laughed louder than ever, so merrily that the skipper and his two sailors joined the chorus.
Forgive me, colonel! he cried at last. The mistake is so comical, and I have only just realized it. It is quite true that my family glories in the fact that it can reckon many corporals among its ancestorsbut our Corsican corporals never wore stripes upon their sleeves! Toward the year of grace 1100 certain villages revolted against the tyranny of the great mountain nobles, and chose leaders of their own, whom they called corporals. In our island we think a great deal of being descended from these tribunes.
I beg your pardon, sir, exclaimed the colonel, I beg your pardon a thousand times! As you understand the cause of my mistake, I hope you will do me the kindness of forgiving it! and he held out his hand.
It is the just punishment of my petty pride, said the young man, still laughing, and cordially shaking the Englishmans hand. I am not at all offended. As my friend Mattei has introduced me so unsuccessfully, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Orso della Rebbia; I am a lieutenant on half-pay; and if, as the sight of those two fine dogs of yours leads me to believe, you are coming to Corsica to hunt, I shall be very proud to do you the honours of our mountains and our maquisif, indeed, I have not forgotten them altogether! he added, with a sigh.
At this moment the gig came alongside the schooner, the lieutenant offered his hand to Miss Lydia, and then helped the colonel to swing himself up on deck. Once there, Sir Thomas, who was still very much ashamed of his blunder, and at a loss to know what he had better do to make the man whose ancestry dated from the year 1100 forget it, invited him to supper, without waiting for his daughters consent, and with many fresh apologies and handshakes. Miss Lydia frowned a little, but, after all, she was not sorry to know what a corporal really was. She rather liked there guest, and was even beginning to fancy there was something aristocratic about himonly she thought him too frank and merry for a hero of romance.
Lieutenant della Rebbia, said the colonel, bowing to him, English fashion, over a glass of Madeira, I met a great many of your countrymen in Spainthey were splendid sharp-shooters.
Yes, and a great many of them have stayed in Spain, replied the young lieutenant gravely.
I shall never forget the behaviour of a Corsican battalion at the Battle of Vittoria, said the colonel; I have good reason to remember it, indeed, he added, rubbing his chest. All day long they had been skirmishing in the gardens, behind the hedges, and had killed I dont know how many of our horses and men. When the retreat was sounded, they rallied and made off at a great pace. We had hoped to take our revenge on them in the open plain, but the scoundrelsI beg your pardon, lieutenant; the brave fellows, I should have saidhad formed a square, and there was no breaking it. In the middle of the squareI fancy I can see him stillrode an officer on a little black horse. He kept close beside the standard, smoking his cigar as coolly as if he had been in a café. Every now and then their bugles played a flourish, as if to defy us. I sent my two leading squadrons at them. Whew! Instead of breaking the front of the square, my dragoons passed along the sides, wheeled, and came back in great disorder, and with several riderless horsesand all the time those cursed bugles went on playing. When the smoke which had hung over the battalion cleared away, I saw the officer still puffing at his cigar beside his eagle. I was furious, and led a final charge myself. Their muskets, foul with continual firing, would not go off, but the men had drawn up, six deep, with their bayonets pointed at the noses of our horses; you might have taken them for a wall. I was shouting, urging on my dragoons, and spurring my horse forward, when the officer I have mentioned, at length throwing away his cigar, pointed me out to one of his men, and I heard him say something like Al capello bianco!I wore a white plume. Then I did not hear any more, for a bullet passed through my chest. That was a splendid battalion, M. della Rebbia, that first battalion of the Eighteenthall of them Corsicans, as I was afterward told!
Yes, said Orso, whose eyes had shone as he listened to the story. They covered the retreat, and brought back their eagle. Two thirds of those brave fellows are sleeping now on the plains of Vittoria!
And, perhaps, you can tell me the name of the officer in command?
It was my fatherhe was then a major in the Eighteenth, and was promoted colonel for his conduct on that terrible day.
Your father! Upon my word, he was a brave man! I should be glad to see him again, and I am certain I should recognise him. Is he still alive?
No, colonel, said the young man, turning slightly pale.
Was he at Waterloo?
Yes, colonel; but he had not the happiness of dying on the field of battle. He died in Corsica two years ago. How beautiful the sea is! It is ten years since I have seen the Mediterranean! Dont you think the Mediterranean much more beautiful than the ocean, mademoiselle?
I think it too blue, and its waves lack grandeur.
You like wild beauty then, mademoiselle! In that case, I am sure you will be delighted with Corsica.
My daughter, said the colonel, delights in everything that is out of the common, and for that reason she did not care much for Italy.
The only place in Italy that I know, said Orso, is Pisa, where I was at school for some time. But I can not think, without admiration, of the Campo-Santo, the Duomo, and the Leaning Towerespecially of the Campo-Santo. Do you remember Orcagnas Death? I think I could draw every line of itit is so graven on my memory.
Miss Lydia was afraid the lieutenant was going to deliver an enthusiastic tirade.
It is very pretty, she said, with a yawn. Excuse me, papa, my head aches a little; I am going down to my cabin.
She kissed her father on the forehead, inclined her head majestically to Orso, and disappeared. Then the two men talked about hunting and war. They discovered that at Waterloo they had been posted opposite each other, and had no doubt exchanged many a bullet. This knowledge strengthened their good understanding. Turning about, they criticised Napoleon, Wellington, and Blucher, and then they hunted buck, boar, and mountain sheep in company. At last, when night was far advanced, and the last bottle of claret had been emptied, the colonel wrung the lieutenants hand once more and wished him good-night, expressing his hope that an acquaintance, which had begun in such ridiculous fashion, might be continued. They parted, and each went to bed.
CHAPTER III
It was a lovely night. The moonlight was dancing on the waves, the ship glided smoothly on before a gentle breeze. Miss Lydia was not sleepy, and nothing but the presence of an unpoetical person had prevented her from enjoying those emotions which every human being possessing a touch of poetry must experience at sea by moonlight. When she felt sure the young lieutenant must be sound asleep, like the prosaic creature he was, she got up, took her cloak, woke her maid, and went on deck. Nobody was to be seen except the sailor at the helm, who was singing a sort of dirge in the Corsican dialect, to some wild and monotonous tune. In the silence of the night this strange music had its charm. Unluckily Miss Lydia did not understand perfectly what the sailor was singing. Amid a good deal that was commonplace, a passionate line would occasionally excite her liveliest curiosity. But just at the most important moment some words of patois would occur, the sense of which utterly escaped her. Yet she did make out that the subject was connected with a murder. Curses against the assassin, threats of vengeance, praise of the dead were all mingled confusedly. She remembered some of the lines. I will endeavour to translate them here.
. . . Neither cannon nor bayonets . . . Brought pallor to his brow. . . As serene on the battlefield . . . as a summer sky. He was the falconthe eagles friend . . . Honey of the sand to his friends . . . To his enemies, a tempestuous sea. . . . . . . Prouder than the sun . . . gentler than the moon . . . He for whom the enemies of France . . . never waited . . . Murderers in his own land . . . struck him from behind . . . As Vittolo slew Sampiero Corso . . . Never would they have dared to look him in The face . . . Set up on the wall Before my bed . . . my well-earned cross of honour . . . red is its ribbon . . . redder is my shirt! . . . For my son, my son in a far country . . . keep my cross and my blood-stained shirt! . . .
. . . He will see two holes in it . . . For each hole a hole in another shirt! . . . But will that accomplish the vengeance? . . . I must have the hand that fired, the eye that aimed . . . the heart that planned! . . .
Suddenly the sailor stopped short.
Why dont you go on, my good man? inquired Miss Nevil.
The sailor, with a jerk of his head, pointed to a figure appearing through the main hatchway of the schooner: it was Orso, coming up to enjoy the moonlight. Pray finish your song, said Miss Lydia. It interests me greatly!
The sailor leaned toward her, and said, in a very low tone, I dont give the rimbecco to anybody!
The what?
The sailor, without replying, began to whistle.
I have caught you admiring our Mediterranean, Miss Nevil, said Orso, coming toward her. You must allow you never see a moon like this anywhere else!
I was not looking at it, I was altogether occupied in studying Corsican. That sailor, who has been singing a most tragic dirge, stopped short at the most interesting point.
The sailor bent down, as if to see the compass more clearly, and tugged sharply at Miss Nevils fur cloak. It was quite evident his lament could not be sung before Lieutenant Orso.
What were you singing, Paolo France? said Orso. Was it a ballata or a vocero? Mademoiselle understands you, and would like to hear the end.
I have forgotten it, Ors Anton, said the sailor.
And instantly he began a hymn to the Virgin, at the top of his voice.
Miss Lydia listened absent-mindedly to the hymn, and did not press the singer any furtherthough she was quite resolved, in her own mind, to find out the meaning of the riddle later. But her maid, who, being a Florentine, could not understand the Corsican dialect any better than her mistress, was as eager as Miss Lydia for information, and, turning to Orso, before the English lady could warn her by a nudge, she said: Captain what does giving the rimbecco mean?
The rimbecco! said Orso. Why, its the most deadly insult that can be offered to a Corsican. It means reproaching him with not having avenged his wrong. Who mentioned the rimbecco to you?
Yesterday, at Marseilles, replied Miss Lydia hurriedly, the captain of the schooner used the word.
And whom was he talking about? inquired Orso eagerly.
Oh, he was telling us some odd story about the timeyes, I think it was about Vannina dOrnano.
I suppose, mademoiselle, that Vanninas death has not inspired you with any great love for our national hero, the brave Sampiero?
But do you think his conduct was so very heroic?
The excuse for his crime lies in the savage customs of the period. And then Sampiero was waging deadly war against the Genoese. What confidence could his fellow-countrymen have felt in him if he had not punished his wife, who tried to treat with Genoa?
Vannina, said the sailor, had started off without her husbands leave. Sampiero did quite right to wring her neck!
But, said Miss Lydia, it was to save her husband, it was out of love for him, that she was going to ask his pardon from the Genoese.
To ask his pardon was to degrade him! exclaimed Orso.
And then to kill her himself! said Miss Lydia. What a monster he must have been!
You know she begged as a favour that she might die by his hand. What about Othello, mademoiselle, do you look on him, too, as a monster?
There is a difference; he was jealous. Sampiero was only vain!
And after all is not jealousy a kind of vanity? It is the vanity of love; will you not excuse it on account of its motive?
Miss Lydia looked at him with an air of great dignity, and turning to the sailor, inquired when the schooner would reach port.
The day after to-morrow, said he, if the wind holds.
I wish Ajaccio were in sight already, for I am sick of this ship. She rose, took her maids arm, and walked a few paces on the deck. Orso stood motionless beside the helm, not knowing whether he had better walk beside her, or end a conversation which seemed displeasing to her.
Blood of the Madonna, what a handsome girl! said the sailor. If every flea in my bed were like her, I shouldnt complain of their biting me!
Miss Lydia may possibly have overheard this artless praise of her beauty and been startled by it; for she went below almost immediately. Shortly after Orso also retired. As soon as he had left the deck the maid reappeared, and, having cross-questioned the sailor, carried back the following information to her mistress. The ballata which had been broken off on Orsos appearance had been composed on the occasion of the death of his father, Colonel della Rebbia, who had been murdered two years previously. The sailor had no doubt at all that Orso was coming back to Corsica per fare la vendetta, such was his expression, and he affirmed that before long there would be fresh meat to be seen in the village of Pietranera. This national expression, being interpreted, meant that Signor Orso proposed to murder two or three individuals suspected of having assassinated his fatherindividuals who had, indeed, been prosecuted on that account, but had come out of the trial as white as snow, for they were hand and glove with the judges, lawyers, prefect, and gendarmes.
There is no justice in Corsica, added the sailor, and I put much more faith in a good gun than in a judge of the Royal Court. If a man has an enemy he must choose one of the three Ss. (A national expression meaning schioppetto, stiletto, stradathat is, gun, dagger, or flight.)
These interesting pieces of information wrought a notable change in Miss Lydias manner and feeling with regard to Lieutenant della Rebbia. From that moment he became a person of importance in the romantic Englishwomans eyes.
His careless air, his frank and good humour, which had at first impressed her so unfavourably, now seemed to her an additional merit, as being proofs of the deep dissimulation of a strong nature, which will not allow any inner feeling to appear upon the surface. Orso seemed to her a sort of Fieschi, who hid mighty designs under an appearance of frivolity, and, though it is less noble to kill a few rascals than to free ones country, still a fine deed of vengeance is a fine thing, and besides, women are rather glad to find their hero is not a politician. Then Miss Nevil remarked for the first time that the young lieutenant had large eyes, white teeth, an elegant figure, that he was well-educated, and possessed the habits of good society. During the following day she talked to him frequently, and found his conversation interesting. He was asked many questions about his own country, and described it well. Corsica, which he had left when young, to go first to college, and then to the Ecole militaire, had remained in his imagination surrounded with poetic associations. When he talked of its mountains, its forests, and the quaint customs of its inhabitants he grew eager and animated. As may be imagined, the word vengeance occurred more than once in the stories he toldfor it is impossible to speak of the Corsicans without either attacking or justifying their proverbial passion. Orso somewhat surprised Miss Nevil by his general condemnation of the undying hatreds nursed by his fellow-countrymen. As regarded the peasants, however, he endeavoured to excuse them, and claimed that the vendetta is the poor mans duel. So true is this, he said, that no assassination takes place till a formal challenge has been delivered. Be on your guard yourself, I am on mine! are the sacramental words exchanged, from time immemorial, between two enemies, before they begin to lie in wait for each other. There are more assassinations among us, he added, than anywhere else. But you will never discover an ignoble cause for any of these crimes. We have many murderers, it is true, but not a single thief.