A Tale of Corsica
by Astley H. Baldwin.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.4 #14 (Dec 1867).
IN TWO PARTS:—PART I.
CHAPTER I.
CAUGHT IN THE DARKNESS.
Towards the close of the summer of 18—, which had been characterised by extreme drought, a couple of young travellers, attended by a guide, were journeying through the interior of Corsica on their way towards Ajaccio.
The day had been exceedingly hot, for it was the end of August, but the sun was now beginning to decline, and the stifling sensation so often occasioned in this island by the effects of his rays upon the vegetable matter collected in the beds of the dried-up streams which abound here, had become exchanged for that peculiarly grateful and mellow influence which pervades the atmosphere in nearly all climes towards the evening of a sultry day.
The companions were mounted on two of the stout-hearted and sure-footed horses so useful in a country which is mountainous and stony throughout, and where forest and rock alternate in endless succession. The underwood, too, was excessively dangerous from the numerous stumps of felled trees which here and there protruded a few inches from the ground. The country through which the travellers were passing was plentifully studded with these, and more than once they were obliged to halt in consequence. They had ascended a very mountainous path which lay in their direct way, and were now descending the other side of the mountain towards a small hostelry which their guide informed them was but two miles distant, and would be a suitable place of rest for the night.
Both travellers were French. The elder, who might have been about six-and-twenty, was a small lithe wiry man with bright dark eyes and complexion, and of exceedingly vivacious manners; whilst his companion, who was perhaps three years younger, was of a somewhat taller and more powerful build, and rather reserved than otherwise in demeanour. He was the son of a Paris merchant, and was simply journeying for the pleasure of accompanying his friend, Adolphe Dufour. The younger man was called Jules Previn.
M. Dufour was journeying on a business of some importance. He was the only son of a widow lady of property, who, either from inclination or otherwise, had taken up her residence at Ajaccio, whilst her lively son, who could not endure the dull wildness of Corsica, spent the greater part of the year in a place which had far greater charms for him, namely Paris. Madame Dufour had also one daughter, Celeste—who had just come of age, and was on the point of marriage with a Corsican landholder of some substance. Adolphe's journey was taken with a twofold purpose—that of being present at the wedding, and also of carrying with him his sister's dower, a considerable sum to which she became entitled on attaining her majority; according to the laws of France twenty-five, and not twenty-one, years of age.
As the friends and their guide slowly descended the defile, an idea seemed to strike the lively little Adolphe, who suddenly exclaimed,
"Mon ami, we have heard much of Corsican hospitality, why should we not billet ourselves upon some farm-house, instead of a nasty little hostelry? bah!"
"No," said his more reserved friend, "let us at least seek shelter where by payment we are entitled to whatever we require. Obligations—"
"Obligations? chut! who ever heard of obligations in Corsica? Why, every traveller here is received open-armed; and then the important trust I at present hold—it would be safer." Previn frowned, and cast a side-glance at the guide.
"True; ah well, as you will," continued the volatile Dufour; "let us on then for the hostelry."
"And besides, signor," interposed the guide, "there is no farm-house, no private dwelling within some miles of here."
"No farm-house? ah bah! then that settles the matter."
They rode, or rather stumbled on for a few moments in silence, which was broken by Previn, who addressed himself to their guide.
"Are you a Corsican?"
The guide appeared a little confused.
"No, signor, I am a Neapolitan; but my mother was Corsican, and it is her son who now keeps the hostelry La Rouge-gorge."
"What, yourself?"
"No, no, signor, my brother, that is to say, my half-brother—he is my mother's son by her first husband."
"O, I understand."
"And," interposed Adolphe, "you wished, I suppose, to recommend us to your relatives, by way of sending a little grist to their mill?"
"Why, signor, a poor aubergiste must live, and—"
"O, I do not quarrel with your fraternal regard, my friend; not at all, not at all."
"La Rouge-gorge—the Redbreast," exclaimed Dufour cheerily; "well, I hope he will pipe us his best welcome."
"The name has another strange significance," muttered Previn in an undertone to his friend.
"Ah, pooh! mon ami, what gloomy ideas, and in Corsica too, where they so well understand the parable of the Good Samaritan! To hesitate would appear cowardly, et je suis Français, moi!" and he drew himself up proudly, with an emphasis on the word moi impossible to describe.
Previn took this as a reproof, and said no more, but he felt far from comfortable; nor could his companion altogether succeed in rallying his spirits.
It was indeed a gloomy, though picturesque, part of the island. On either side of the prospect precipitous mountain ascents rose frowning, till in the darkness they almost appeared to touch the clouds. Round and about the travellers were scattered thousands of heavy dismal-looking clumps of pine and cypress, intermingled with larch and the evergreen oak. Of all trees, with the exception perhaps of cedar and yew, none give so gloomy-looking an appearance to the phases of a landscape as the cypress and the pine, which here seemed to form the boundary of some sombre resting-place for the dead. So black were their outlines that they appeared to stand out against the darkness, clearly defined; as a piece of black velvet would show darkly on a ground of black silk. Night too came on as with seven-leagued boots, till the obscurity might almost be said, like that which formed one of the plagues of Egypt, to be a darkness that "could be felt."
Neither Dufour nor Previn could longer conceal their uneasiness. They exclaimed simultaneously,
"But, Caravarri" (this was the name of the guide), "are we really near your brother's house?"
"Si, signori, but a quarter of a mile. I can discern the outline of the auberge."
"I can see nothing but these gloomy trees," said Dufour; and he could not avoid a shudder; for the scene was far from congenial to the mercurial temperament of the warm-hearted little Frenchman.
"I can rather feel them than see them," rejoined his friend.
"What was that noise?"
"Only my mare, signor. She stumbled over one of these accursed stumps.—Coraggio, Giuglia, the stable is near!"
"I wish with all my heart it were reached," returned Dufour, whose horse also came nearly down with his rider.
"It is here, signor," said the guide, pointing with his finger in a direction a couple of hundred yards a-head, where at last a glimmer of light was discernible; "those are the windows of my good brother's inn."
"Well, the saints be praised!" interposed Dufour. The other traveller said nothing, but breathed a deep sigh of relief.
It was a long, low, and not very comfortable-looking house which they now approached; but the weary friends were only too well satisfied to reach any sort of haven, and were therefore not inclined to be particular as to its appearance. Just, however, as they turned into a sort of rude path which formed the approach to the inn, the horse on which Previn was seated stumbled and threw his rider violently. The traveller uttered a cry of pain, and then all was still.
"Santa Maria!" ejaculated the guide, "the poor gentleman is killed!"
"He is much hurt; God grant the accident may not be serious!" replied Dufour with considerable agitation, for he was greatly attached to his companion.
Adolphe and the guide then dismounted very carefully, for it was pitch dark. They advanced towards the prostrate Jules, who, they found, was only stunned. Cautiously bearing the insensible man between them, the pair then advanced to the door of the hostelry, the horses (sagacious animals as they were) following of themselves, At the low-built door of the house there stood a middle-aged man, who from his appearance was evidently the aubergiste. He was stoutly built, he had a slight stoop in his broad shoulders, which gave him a somewhat ungainly gait. His beard was grizzled, his complexion swarthy, and his eyes black and piercing, like those of his half-brother the guide.
"Annetta, anima mia!" he cried out—and the expression sounded strangely from such lips—" come hither with a light. The good saints have blown some customers to our door."
A woman speedily appeared in obedience to this summons; she carried a feeble light, and advanced with a hurried and uneasy step. Few would have supposed that a creature of such surpassing beauty could have been the wife of so unattractive a husband. Yet such was the fact. She was a lovely young woman of not more than twenty, of the true Scandinavian type—blue eyes, golden hair, and faultless complexion. She was the daughter of a Danish fisherman whom the aubergiste Coletti had encountered in some of his wanderings, and her real name was not Annetta but Brenda, although it pleased her husband to give her the first-named Italian appellation. By that extraordinary attraction which so often brings persons of opposite age, appearance, disposition, and complexion together, had this beautiful Danish girl been drawn towards a man who had few attributes to recommend him to a gentle girl. Strange as it may appear, she loved him, although her affection was mingled with a shrinking awe of him, peculiarly distressing to witness. In fact she was completely under his influence, which knowledge Coletti did not scruple to turn to his own account.
"Si, Carlo," she said in answer to a request, or rather a command, to show the way to the best apartment; and forthwith Dufour and the guide Caravarri deposited the injured man upon a couch in the room to which they were conducted by the hostess. She herself took apparently a very great interest in bringing the stranger round, and the continued exertions of the party were after a while successful. Previn's injuries proved to be no worse than a contused face and a sprained ankle; which last, of course, precluded the hope of his being able to resume the journey on the morrow. This reflection caused much chagrin to both Dufour and himself, as it would prevent his being present at the marriage, which was arranged to take place on the next day but one.
"However," said Dufour, "we will think of that after a night's rest, mon ami.—And now, madame," he added, turning to Annetta, "we can, I suppose, have some supper in this room before retiring?"
"O, certainly, signor; and we have excellent beds; we do not, it is true, have many travellers here, but I keep them well aired. It was our brother Caravarri who recommended you to rest here, I presume, signor?" she added, but was checked by a frowning look from her husband and also from the guide, who both sharply bid her prepare the supper for the "signori." The two men then withdrew; the guide muttering that he would see after the horses, and bring in the gentlemen's valises.
Annetta looked after them with a puzzled expression, then curtsied to Dufour. She lingered for a few moments to arrange the scanty furniture of the room, and murmured apologetically, "The signori will excuse my chattering. I have so little company in this dull place. It is not like dear sociable Denmark; ah, not at all!" She sighed, dropped another curtsey, and withdrew.
Adolphe looked surprised, and regarded her as she passed out with a feeling of indefinable interest and compassion. He had remarked the conduct of both host and guide, and had, when they interchanged glances, felt within himself a certain uneasiness for which he could not account.
"After all," he thought, "I am foolish, and over-excited by fatigue. Corsican hospitality is proverbial, and no doubt the abruptness of those two men was only masculine impatience of a woman's volubility." Then turning to Previn he inquired how he felt. The latter had not as yet spoken. He had lain quietly on his couch, taking note of everything that had occurred. He roused himself with an effort as his friend spoke, and endeavoured to put a cheerful face upon matters, though evidently in pain.
"O," he said, "I am all right. I shall accompany you to-morrow to Ajaccio, come what may."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow, you cannot ride. You must wait till I get there, and send back a vehicle to fetch you, which I will do at once. You cannot put foot in stirrup, and there are no vehicles to be had here."
"I suppose it must be so, Adolphe. But I candidly own I neither like the prospect of remaining here, nor of allowing you to proceed alone."
"Fi done! courage, dear Jules! And why, I pray, should you fear on either account?"
"That is precisely what I cannot tell. I scarcely feel it reasonable, and yet I have an instinctive terror—"
"An instinctive terror of what? Dear friend, it is pain makes you fanciful," said Dufour, who was evidently somewhat troubled by his companion's vague terrors, but who tried to persuade himself that he and Previn were a couple of poltroons.
'Plainly, Dufour, I do not like that Caravarri."
"Nor I. But what harm can he do us? It is not his house."
"No; but there is an understanding between him and our landlord; that is evident."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, I do not like that same landlord."
"He is a sullen-looking animal, certainly, and one whose acquaintance I have no desire to cultivate. But do you think he is one of those terrible ogres in the shape of landlords who used to figure in old romances, and that he means to kill and eat us?"
"It is easy to laugh, Dufour. But you are not on the Boulevard des Italiens, and you seem to forget that you carry a large sum of money."
Dufour started.
"Ah, so I did. But what signifies that? These men do not know that I carry it."
"The guide may have overheard your incautious remark tome. I repeat, I do not like that guide."
"But even if he heard me, he was conducting us here before I said anything about the money."
"Well, it may be his practice to bring plunder here to his dear brother with the grizzled beard. He is like a hyena, that man."
"Still, Jules, we are in Corsica."
"Well?"
"Well, that means our persons are sacred. All Corsicans are hospitable."
"But none of these people are Corsicans."
"True, true," murmured Adolphe, rather crestfallen, as he remembered this fact. "But the little woman I will swear is harmless," he cried presently. "Pretty little flower!"
"She has evidently something on her mind."
"But really now, Jules," remonstrated Dufour, "that Caravarri was not near enough to hear our remarks."
"You do not know the man. These Italians have the eyes of lynxes, the ears of hares, and the footsteps of cats."
"Well, well, nothing can be done now. I will start early in the morning, and you—well, if you will not remain, why we must form a litter of boughs, and hire some stout peasants to carry you. Chut, here is our supper."
The little hostess came in herself, carrying a tray, preceded by her husband bearing a light.
"I hope the signori will find the supper good," he said cringingly; "but we were somewhat taken by surprise."
Whilst laying the cloth and making the necessary table arrangements, it was to be observed that the landlord of the Redbreast took good care not to allow the fair-haired Annetta to slip in so much as a word sideways.
When all was ready, he marched out of the room behind her, quite in the fashion of a gaoler who has all his eyes on a prisoner he could by no means allow to escape from his custody.
The supper was far from a bad one. There was a noble cold ham, from which but a slice or two had been cut, broiled fowls and vegetables, and a dish of roast pigeons and olives. In addition to these there was both white and brown bread, a few spiced biscuits, and two or three light kinds of Southern wines. A piece of hung beef garnished with cypress-leaves stood on a side-table, and by its side, like some stalwart consort, was a large cheese, from Switzerland, probably a Gruyère. There was provision indeed for a band of stout English or Dutch foragers, instead of only two slightly-built young Frenchmen.
The two friends made a hearty meal, for Previn's sprained foot by no means had the effect of crippling his appetite. Both were too weary to talk much; and as soon as their supper was concluded, they agreed to go to bed. The landlord and Adolphe carried Previn to his apartment, after which Dufour retired to his own, to which all the packages of both himself and his friend had been by his orders conveyed. Amongst these was a small valise of chamois leather, containing, with other things, the dowry of his sister, a portion of which was in gold (French Napoleons and Spanish doubloons),—heavy and inconvenient no doubt, but indispensable, since bank-notes were at that period not easily changed in Corsica. This valise the lively little Frenchman, for better security, deposited beneath his head; and, having commended himself to heaven, was soon wrapped in that profound dreamless slumber which is the privilege of a light heart and a clear conscience.
The silence of night, black, still, and impenetrable, was on all within and without the house.
CHAPTER II.
MISSING.
It was eight o'clock on a most glorious summer morning. The sun, which had already attained considerable power, cast a golden glint over the dark-green masses of cypress and pine which surrounded the hostelry of the Rouge-gorge; and the perfume of blossoms was borne on a light breeze through the open windows. Annetta Coletti had long since risen, and had already got her household work forward. By nature she was blithe as a wren, and, like that pretty and diminutive creature, would have skipped and carolled, and carolled and skipped, working all the while with a charming pretence of being exceedingly busy. But her natural gaiety of heart was checked by her consciousness of the near proximity of her lord and master's frowning countenance. On this particular morning she appeared rather more cheerful than usual, and was singing gaily as she laid the cloth for the breakfast of the "signori." But in the midst of her song a heavy step sounded in the passage behind her, and turning round with a frightened gesture, she saw her amiable husband standing on the threshold of the apartment.
"Carissima," he said, "you will have the goodness, my angel, to stop that shrill caterwauling, if you please. I am surprised at you, and the sick signor not yet awake."
"O pardon, Carlo," said the poor little woman, "I had forgotten—"
"Forgotten!—yes, you are always forgetting."
"Carlo," rejoined his wife caressingly, "I did not think there was any harm in my poor song, and I did not sing so very loud. It is so dull in these eternal cypress forests after the bright cheerful frosts and sparkling days of the North—"
"Saints in heaven, is there anything under the sky can stay a woman's tongue!"
"Why, I did but say—"
"Say? Yes, you are quite a poetess, you," he said sneeringly; "with your 'sparkling frosts,' and 'blue skies,' and 'glittering Danish caves,' and your nonsense;—and wherefore are you laying knives and forks for a regiment, I would like to know?"
"Why, I have laid but for two, Carlo," she rejoined, with an air of surprise.
"Two! but why, may I ask, does one man require double accommodation?"
"One man? Why, Carlo, are you asleep? There are two signori here."
"O, there are two signori here, are there?" retorted Coletti, mimicking her accent; "but I say there is but one, mistress. There now!"
"But, Carlo, how could that sick gentleman move without assistance?"
"That sick gentleman," as you call him, lies asleep upstairs."
"Where, then, is the kind little laughing signor?"
"The kind little laughing signor is a league or two on his way from here to Ajaccio, for which he set off before you were awake—lazy hussy that you are!"
"Why, Carlo, I was about at five o'clock; and I saw no one leave the house."
"Very likely not, since the signor went at four."
**O, impossible!"
"And why impossible, I would ask you?" said Coletti, with such a furious look, that his poor frightened wife was almost terrified into fainting. "Why impossible?"
"I did not mean impossible, Carlo," said Annetta tremblingly. "I meant why did the signor go alone?"
"He did not go alone. Caravarri went with him."
"Ah, Caravarri!"
'Yes, Caravarri. And what have you to say against it? Did not the signor want a guide?"
"Yes, certainly; but then to leave his friend—"
"Fool that you are! He will send a conveyance for his friend. How could he go on horseback with his sprained foot? Do you not see that the sooner the gay young signor makes Ajaccio, the sooner can he send for his friend?"
"Ah, yes, that is true," returned Annetta, very much relieved.
"Very well then, little foolish one," responded Coletti, almost fawningly, "remove that second knife and fork, and I will awaken the sick signor;" and he kissed his wife, roughly, as he passed her.
She was scarcely at ease, however; and the caress seemed to her—she knew not why—like that of a Judas.
Coletti went immediately to the chamber of Jules Previn, and knocked lightly on the panel of the door.
"Come in," cried the young man, supposing that it was his friend Dufour who knocked.
The host entered.
*O," said Previn with an air of great surprise, "is it you, master? Why, I thought it was my comrade who knocked. Is he not up?"
"The signor will be surprised perhaps, but the other little gentleman is gone."
"Gone!"
"Yes, signor. As I understood him, he had so arranged with you to do, in order that he might send for you from Ajaccio."
"Ah, yes, that is partly true; but, at least, why did he not bid me adieu?"
"Signor, I suggested it; but it was only four o'clock. You were, as far as we could tell, sleeping soundly; and your friend would not have you disturbed."
"What! he went at four?"
"Si. The morning was fine, and it was a pity not to take advantage of it."
"But he is so sound a sleeper."
"Indeed, signor, he was wakeful this morning, and it was he himself who aroused us."
"But he could not go alone?"
"Caravarri, your guide of last evening, accompanied him, signor, with the baggage."
"The baggage?"
"Certainly, signor. You know that your own and your friend's baggage were, at his express desire, deposited in his sleeping apartment."
"But why take mine? I may require it."
"Why, signor, perdona; but it appears to me that that was to save you the trouble of looking after it."
"But I may require it, I say."
"How so, signor? Your conveyance will be here at noon."
"How far, then, is it to Ajaccio?"
It is a round-about route, and may be sixteen miles."
"O, that is all? Well, then, M. Dufour—"
"Pardon," said Coletti, turning very pale, "but whom did you say?"
"Why, my friend M. Dufour, my fellow-traveller."
"Gran Dio!"
"At what are you astonished? Is that strange?"
"Signor, at Ajaccio resides a widow lady of that name, in whose service I have been some years back."
"Well, that is my friend's mother."
"Santa Maria!" But recovering himself, Coletti added: "I am surprised, signor; that is all. I supposed you to be two unknown French gentlemen, and I find one of you the son of an old patroness. It appeals to my feelings."
Previn said to himself: "Ah, this looks strange. This man is surely not one to give way to sentimental feelings." However, he said presently:
"Yes, yes, very natural. There will be much rejoicing at Ajaccio when my friend arrives."
"Rejoicing?"
"Certainly; why not? He and his family are respected and beloved, and it is the occasion of his sister's wedding."
"0, O!" groaned the host.
"My friend, you are strangely moved."
"At the thoughts of my patroness's happiness, signor. We Italians are impulsive. But if M. Dufour be the son of my former mistress, how is it I am not acquainted with him? for Ajaccio is not so far off but what some of Madame's establishment are known to us."
"Ah, but M. Dufour resides in Paris. The dullness of this island does not suit his tastes. He is here but once a year."
"He resided in Paris, did he?"
"Resided—did he? What do you mean?"
"Does reside, I meant, signor," stammered Coletti.
"Of course. Well, help me to rise, will you?"
"The signor's breakfast is prepared; and I and Antonio (this was a stable-helper) will carry him down-stairs when he is ready," responded Coletti, whose hand shook so that he could hardly assist Jules to put on his clothes.
In due time, however, the toilet was made, and Previn was carried down to the breakfast-room.
The repast was, as before, good and plentiful. Loaves of white and brown bread, broiled ham, fresh eggs, preserved oranges, and chocolate constituted the fare; and Jules, in spite of vague apprehensions which he could not conceal entirely from himself, made an excellent meal, at the conclusion of which he asked for a glass of water. The landlord brought it, saying, "Pardon, signor, that the water is not of first-rate quality, but most of our mountain streams are dried up by the summer heat, and even our well itself is dry and choked up with rubbish."
"Whence, then, did this water come? It is certainly rather brackish."
"From one of the deeper of our streams, signor, which is not entirely dry, but has yet some water left in its channel, muddy it must be confessed, but it is the best we can get."
"You need make no apologies. Your fare is excellent, and travellers must put up with some drawbacks. Have you anything you can give me to read, by the way, to beguile the time until the conveyance comes for me?"
A spasm passed across Coletti's face, but he replied, "I do not read, signor; but there are, I believe, some old books upstairs left by a former proprietor of the house. I will send my wife to look for them, and she shall bring them to you if you have finished breakfast."
"Thanks, friend, I shall be glad of them whatever they may be; I have quite finished."
In a few minutes Annetta made her appearance with a couple of musty old volumes. She courtesied and paid the usual morning compliments to her guest, yet with an expression so obviously troubled, that Previn, like his companion on the previous night, could not avoid feeling for her a sort of compassion.
"I fear the signor will find these somewhat dull, but my husband has no others. He does not read, and he says I have no leisure to waste on books."
"O, never mind; it is ten o'clock now, and I have but a couple of hours to wait, since I expect to go away at twelve. The books will at least serve to occupy that time."
Annetta laid the volumes on a small table near the window, and having cleared away the remains of the meal left Previn alone. He dragged himself to an old carved stool near the table and took up one of the volumes. "Legends of the Robbers of the Rhine," he read, and with a kind of wondering interest he began to peruse the story at which the volume had opened. Gradually he became absorbed in its contents.
Legends of the Robbers of the RhineIt was a story of some travellers who had been drugged and murdered at an inn by some banditti, with whom the proprietor of the hostelry was in league: and Previn shuddered, as he could not help fancying the description of the hostelry would have applied very well to the Rouge-gorge itself.
"Pshaw!" he muttered to himself, "what foolish nonsense! This is a story of the Black Forest, and I am in Corsica. How morbid pain makes a man!"
He completed the story, and then read another, and yet another.
Thus two hours passed away.
Suddenly he roused himself, and looked at his watch. The hands pointed to half-past twelve!
"Well," he thought, "the roads are very bad, if indeed they can be called roads at all; and one must allow something for delay."
Again, he applied himself to his book, trying to interest himself in those familiar legends, rather than abandon himself to his gloomy thoughts.
Thus more than another hour passed away.
Two o'clock!
Previn could not move from his seat, so he called aloud for the host. But there was no answer.
Then he redoubled his cries, and presently Annetta appeared nervously trembling.
"Signor!"
"Why, it is two o'clock; the conveyance should have arrived two hours ago. Send your husband to me directly."
"But he is not in, signor."
"Not in! Where, then, is he?"
"I do not know, signor; but he told me to see to all that you required, and—"
"What does all this mean?"
"Perhaps," suggested the poor woman tearfully, "my husband is alarmed at the non-arrival of the carriage for the signor, and has gone to meet it."
"Perhaps," said Previn, doubtfully. He looked searchingly at his hostess, but poor Annetta was evidently as completely mystified as himself.
Then he bethought himself that it might be wise to try to win her confidence.
"You are not happy?" he said.
Annetta burst into tears.
"I am not, signor! all is so dark here, so mysterious, so different from my dear Denmark. O, if I had but known—but," she added, breaking off suddenly and looking fearfully around her, " Carlo would kill me if he heard me speak thus."
"Is he not kind to you, then?"
"Yes—N—o, signor," stammered the unlucky young woman.
"Well?"
"He goes out for hours, I know not where, and he comes back sometimes sullen and pale. Then if I speak, or if I appear to wish to be cheerful, he scowls at me, and sometimes—sometimes—"
"Well, sometimes?"
"Sometimes he beats me."
"Beats you!" said Previn indignantly.
"Si, signor," and Annetta coloured violently.
"O the coward! But now tell me all you know. Did you see my friend depart this morning with Caravarri?"
"Signor, my husband says—"
"Never mind that. Did you see him yourself?"
"Not so, signor. I was not yet awake."
"So that you cannot undertake to say if a message was left for me by M. Dufour?"
"M. Dufour!" almost screamed Annetta; "ah, cielo!"
"Well, what is the matter, why should the name of my friend so affect both you and your husband?"
"Did it affect my husband, signor?"
"Yes it did," responded Previn; "and why should it affect you also, pray? Tell me at once."
"Signor, I will. My husband said twice aloud this morning, 'Ah, if I had known he had been the son of Madame!' 'Madame' is what my husband always called the lady in whose service he lived at Ajaccio, so that I knew he meant Madame Dufour. Consequently, signor, when you mentioned the name of your friend the little langhing gentleman, I understood that it was to him my husband referred when he exclaimed to himself."
"But why did your husband make that exclamation?"
"Indeed, signor, I cannot imagine."
Previn again looked searchingly at the young woman, but he saw truth written on her face. It was quite impossible to doubt her.
"Madame Coletti," he said, anxiously, "you must do all that I desire, or it will be the worse for you and your husband."
"O, I will—I will, signor!"
"I believe you. I must leave here immediately."
"Immediately?"
"Certainly. Do you think I can wait here in this state of anxiety?"
"But the signor will at least wait till my husband returns?"
"No."
"But you cannot ride, signor; and we have no vehicle."
"I can be carried."
"But, signor—"
"Will you do as I bid you?"
"Yes, yes, signor, per Maria—yes! for I too am anxious about the little laughing gentleman."
"Then send me four of your stoutest peasants. I know you can find as many, for I saw half a dozen helping with the horses last night."
"Si, signor."
"They shall be well paid."
"Si, signor."
"Send them at once."
"Si, signor."
And Annetta withdrew, evidently in earnest.
Presently she returned with four stout young fellows—hangers-on of the Ronge-gorge, who entered in sheepish fashion. But though apparently a little abashed, they had none of the stolid idiocy which unfortunately is a characteristic of our English rustic boobies. On the contrary, they soon recovered their self-possession.
Previn addressed them: "Can I trust you to carry me to Ajaccio? You see I am crippled."
"Si, signor," cried the four.
"Well, will you undertake it?"
"Si, signor," chorused the quartette again.
"Good. You shall be well paid."
Four pairs of eyes brightened amazingly at this; for Corsicans and Italians are not slow to worship the almighty "king dollar," and English gold, wherever it may be spent, is usually deemed a panacea for most evils.
"It will be a long journey, signor," said the spokesman of the four.
"I am prepared for that."
"It will take many hours."
Previn sighed. "I know it, but I will not stay longer here, and we may fall in with some vehicle on the way."
"With your leave we will set to work at once, then, signor," replied the spokesman. And the four departed.
Proceeding to the wood at the back of the hostelry they cut down the largest and strongest boughs procurable, which they constructed rapidly and neatly into a species of cradle-litter, binding the ends together firmly with pieces of rope supplied by Madame Coletti. Previn was light, and easily to be carried by four stout young Corsicans, especially as there was a prospect of a plentiful reward.
In about half an hour the litter was prepared. Jules took leave of and recompensed Madame Coletti; was placed in his extemporised carriage, and with an umbrella held up to keep off the sun, and a mind full of disquieting thoughts, set out for Ajaccio.
"Ah," sobbed poor Annetta, looking after the four stalwart bearers of the litter as their figures receded from her view; "the two gentlemen gone—each gone alone—my husband not to be found! My poor head is in a whirl—what does all this mean?"
And the luckless woman returned to the kitchen of the Rouge-gorge, from which all life seemed to have departed.
It was as silent in the still summer air as the portals of the grave.
CHAPTER III.
AT FAULT.
On the evening of the day on which Jules Previn left the hostelry of the Rouge-gorge for Ajaccio, there was a grand ball given at the house of Madame Dufour. It was the eve of her daughter's wedding. The entertainment had not been put off on account of the non-arrival of Adolphe and his friend, for they were not expected until late; and as the roads in Corsica are not of the best, no uneasiness was created.
The mansion of Madame Dufour was a large but unpretending house on the outskirts of Ajaccio, the approach to the main door lined by a double row of cypress trees, which gave somewhat of a gloomy appearance to the view, especially by night. But the sombre aspect of the mansion was fully compensated for by the cheerfulness and high-bred hilarity which reigned within its hospitable walls. Madame Dufour, in truth, and her daughter Celeste, were thorough ladies of the ancien régime. The elder, when her children were yet young, had removed to Corsica from Paris whilst the great Emperor was at the zenith of his career. Having strong anti-Napoleonic tendencies, she had received a gentle hint to withdraw from the court of the Tuileries; and it was rather remarkable that she should have selected for her retreat the birthplace of the Emperor. Waterloo, however, had afterwards been fought, peace again prevailed on the Continent, and Madame Dufour had long since been forgotten by Parisian friends and foes of all shades of politics. Her high birth, however, her amiable qualities, and, above all, her polished manners and good heart, had drawn around her a large circle of the best society of the island, amongst whom she was a queen. The house was brilliantly illuminated, the staircases and reception-chambers profusely adorned with flowers, and nothing was wanting to complete the festive appearance of the scene. As the guests began to arrive, Madame Dufour descended the chief staircase, with her daughter on her arm.
This is a photograph of the pair.
The elder lady was of a dignified presence, and more than usually tall. She might be somewhat under fifty years of age, although her powdered hair, dressed in the fashion which had prevailed in her youth, gave her an older appearance. Her features were slightly aquiline, but noble in the extreme; and with their sweet, calm expression was mingled a becoming touch of hauteur, strongly reminding one of Delaroche's picture of the unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette. As in the queen, so in Madame Dufour, this trait was but the natural consciousness of nobility of birth and mind. True nobility, in short. This lady was attired simply and richly in a dark-blue silk dress trimmed with black lace. She wore no ornaments save a few diamonds—heirlooms.
Celeste, the daughter of this incomparable woman, had not the high-bred dignity of her mother; and she had passed that first period of girlhood in which artlessness is accepted by the world as a substitute for the dignified demeanour natural to all true ladies. She had lost the claim to be considered a human rosebud, whilst she had not yet acquired a title to the majesty of the full-blown rose, which so grandly became her mother. But she was a charming personage nevertheless; and if she was not outwardly so beautiful as the elder lady, she yet bid fair in inward graces to prove no inapt pupil of a mother who was high-minded even amongst the high-minded. The younger lady did not affect that girlish abandon in dress assumed by some damsels, who at five-and-twenty wish to retain the infantine graces of sweet seventeen. Her attire was a rich white silk, with deep flounces of Mechlin lace; and her sole ornament a necklace of pearls.
As the two ladies entered the chief salon, wherein a few guests had already assembled, it is not surprising that all eyes should greet them with glances of undisguised admiration.
Madame Dufour simply and briefly apologised for herself and her daughter, that they had not been present to receive the first-comers. And then she added, with a touch of womanly feeling that went to every heart:
"It was because we expected my dear son before this, or at least thought it probable he might be here early; and we had wished to receive his first greeting in private."
There was a murmur of polite assent from the little gathering.
"Very proper to avoid a scene," said an ancient maiden lady of strong nerves, in an undertone.
M. Leroux, the fiancé of Celeste, now advanced to claim her hand for the first dance. The young lady gave her mother a look of inexpressible affection, in which the regrets of the daughter mingled with the hopes of the bride, before she moved away on her conqueror's arm.
"Veni, vidi, vici," might have been the motto of M. Leroux as well as of Julius Cæsar.
He was of high family, French, like the Dufours, and of enormous wealth; in every way an unexceptionable match, as a good many ladies both young and old did not hesitate to let him see they considered. Mademoiselle Dufour, however, had not allowed him to achieve an easy conquest. It would never have done for a Dufour to be won like a grisette! Celeste was not one of those little fish who allow the big whale to open his mouth and swallow them down at a mouthful. M. Leroux was piqued. He had begun to think victory as certain in the softer encounters of the salon, as it was to the Roman conqueror in the matter of arms. But he had received a wholesome lesson. He had been courted for his wealth until it was scarcely strange if he thought himself invincible; but with Celeste his wealth had no power. Would it not have been beneath a Dufour to be influenced by so sordid a consideration? But when a handsome and accomplished man follows a woman like her shadow, her vanity is apt to be touched; and when that is touched, the heart soon follows. No fort is impregnable, unless the besiegers are fools or faint-hearted cravens. So the siege was at last raised, and Mademoiselle Dufour surrendered at discretion to the most eligible parti in the island of Corsica.
The arrivals grew more and more frequent. The ball-room filled with a throng so brilliant, that one might have fancied oneself in the most fashionable and aristocratic of Parisian salons.
Two hours passed away.
The lovers had joined the dancers, and were whirling round to the strains of an inspiriting waltz, when a commotion was heard below. Celeste caught her mother's quiet yet energetic exclamation, "C'est mon fils!" She and M. Leroux disengaged themselves hastily from the other couples, and followed Madame Dufour, who, with a graceful explanation to her guests, had already quitted the salon.
Directed by the voices, Celeste and M. Leroux followed Madame Dufour into a large apartment, wherein a crowd of the household domestics had already assembled. On a table was placed a sort of litter made of boughs strongly tied together; and on this lay a young man, deadly pale, with a face in which physical pain and mental emotion were strongly depicted.
"Dear M. Previn," exclaimed Madame Dufour, "why do you arrive thus?"
"It is a sprained ancle, and I was unable to ride. But as Adolphe did not send—"
"Adolphe, my dear son, and where is he?"
"Is he not here?"
"Here? No, certainly not!"
"Good God! Where then is he?"
"You frighten me, dear M. Previn," cried Madame Dufour, looking greatly alarmed. "What do you mean? Did not Adolphe accompany you?"
Jules groaned in utter prostration of spirit.
"I expected to find him here."
"O, explain," responded the mother, struggling bravely against the terror which the young man's words had inspired.
"Last night we slept—that is, Adolphe and I—at a hostelry about sixteen miles from here, when I unfortunately met with this sprain. We agreed that this morning Adolphe should proceed here, and send a vehicle back for me. Well, this morning when I awoke, the landlord told me that Adolphe, unwilling to disturb me, had come on with a guide and the baggage, and that a carriage would be sent at noon for me to follow. I waited until two o'clock; but when that hour came, and there were no tidings of Adolphe, I could no longer endure delay. So I had this litter made as you see, and four young men carried me here."
"Adolphe had a guide, then?"
"0, yes."
"He may have lost his way," said M. Leroux.
"That is not likely, since I who set out last have arrived safely, and he had a guide who knows the country."
"He may have fallen in with banditti," again suggested Leroux.
The poor mother could scarcely suppress a shriek of anguish. What might not have been the fate of that beloved son? She stood breathless and speechless, pale as death, gazing from one to another.
Previn groaned. "Yes, he had all the baggage with him, even mine."
"O," shrieked poor Celeste; "my miserable dower! If through that my poor brother should have lost his life!"
"Courage, my child," said Madame Dufour, who had recovered her calmness with a heroic effort. "All is not lost yet. We have money and friends who will help us to search for my missing son."
"Yes, yes," cried a dozen voices, "yes, madame."
Madame Dufour, much moved, continued: "But your wedding must be deferred, dear girl."
"O, of course," came from the lips of both Celeste and Leroux.
"Well, let us act at once. Tell me, M. Previn, did the landlord of this inn appear uneasy when no carriage came for you?"
"I did not see him, madame, after eight o'clock. He had gone out."
"Gone out!"
"Yes; and there was no one but his wife from whom I could obtain the smallest information."
"And she?"
"O, she is a pretty young woman, who is evidently very much afraid of her husband; and she could tell me nothing, except that her husband was gone out. Then she suggested it was to meet my conveyance."
"Ah, she suggested that?"
"Yes; and I own it struck me as not impossible."
"But then you must have met this landlord on the way as you came."
"No, madame; we passed nobody at all."
*What is his name?"
"Coletti."
"Coletti. O, I had a servant of that name."
"Yes, madame, it is the same."
"Ah, he told you. Then he will find Adolphe; he was rough, but not unfaithful, and—"
"Madame, he did not know my companion was your son."
"Not know it?"
"No. He even appeared distressed when he found it out from me this morning."
"But why should he be distressed?"
"Ah, I know not. That is what puzzles me. If he knew Adolphe had set out safely—"
"If? O," cried Madame Dufour in agony, "you put frightful thoughts into my head. You almost assume that this Coletti knew that some harm had befallen my dear boy."
"Alas, alas, I confess that is my fear, dear madame Dufour. God grant it may prove groundless. But, tell me, what character did this man bear when he was in your service?"
"Indifferent. Yet I know of no serious charge against him; and he was faithful in his way."
"For what, then, did he leave you?"
"He wished to leave my service; and I had detected him in petty thefts, which made me not care about retaining him."
"Thefts?"
"Yes; but ideas on this point are very lax with the lower orders of the south, and he is a Neapolitan."
"But what has been his character since he left you?"
"I cannot say, though I have heard he had fallen into bad company. But I would not condemn any one, not even the worst, on hearsay," added Madame Dufour proudly, with a noble accent, forgetting for an instant her grief.
After a few moments Previn said: "Madame, you see I am crippled. O, that I could search with them! What is to be done?"
"To-night, nothing. You must immediately go to rest. My poor boy, wherever he is, is in God's hands; and as it is now nearly midnight, to begin our search before dawn would do no good, and even might endanger other lives. I will take upon myself all arrangements at day-break. I shall not go to bed myself. Celeste dearest, will you see to M. Previn's apartments; they are already prepared. I must at once disperse our guests." And the noble woman could not repress a few natural tears, for her heart was wrung with maternal anguish, and this calm resolution of manner cost her a terrible effort.
The dismay was great among the guests in the ball-room when Madame Dufour entered it and announced with a sorrowful dignity, that, "her son not having arrived with his companion, from whom he had accidentally been separated, she must under such anxious circumstances beg her dear friends to excuse her, and accept her apologies for requesting their absence. All would be right, she hoped; for misadventures were not uncommon in Corsica, and—"
Here nature had her way, and the mother burst into tears.
Then indeed it was seen that she was a woman really beloved by her friends. They crowded around her. Not one pronounced the unmeaning consolations so often offered by acquaintances on such occasions. But there was a silent and even tearful sympathy from every person there, which went to the poor lady's heart. Hands were extended, and quietly grasped. Adieux were made without a word being spoken. Not a man or a woman present but respected the sanctity of that grief. In less time than it has taken to write these lines, this noble woman was left alone.
Alone in the glittering apartments which a few minutes before had resounded with the strains of soft music, with the ripple of low laughter, with the whispered friendlinesses of happy hearts. Perfumes still exhaled from the calyxes of flowers whose bloom was yet unfaded; the lamps still burned. Yet from one noble heart the light of life, of love, of earthly hope had gone out for ever.