Misadventures? Well, if I were an author by profession, I could make a
pretty big book of the administrative mishaps which befell me during the
three years I spent in Corsica as legal adviser to the French
Prefecture. Here is one which will probably amuse you:--
I had just entered upon my duties at Ajaccio. One morning I was at the
club, reading the papers which had just arrived from Paris, when the
Prefect's man-servant brought me a note, hastily written in pencil:
"Come at once; I want you. We have got the brigand, Quastana." I uttered
an exclamation of joy, and went off as fast as I could to the
Prefecture. I must tell you that, under the Empire, the arrest of a
Corsican _banditto_ was looked upon as a brilliant exploit, and meant
promotion, especially if you threw a certain dash of romance about it in
your official report.
Unfortunately brigands had become scarce. The people were getting more
civilized and the _vendetta_ was dying out. If by chance a man did kill
another in a row, or do something which made it advisable for him to
keep clear of the police, he generally bolted to Sardinia instead of
turning brigand. This was not to our liking; for no brigand, no
promotion. However, our Prefect had succeeded in finding one; he was an
old rascal, Quastana by name, who, to avenge the murder of his brother,
had killed goodness knows how many people. He had been pursued with
vigour, but had escaped, and after a time the hue and cry had subsided
and he had been forgotten. Fifteen years had passed, and the man had
lived in seclusion; but our Prefect, having heard of the affair and
obtained a clue to his whereabouts, endeavoured to capture him, with no
more success than his predecessor. We were beginning to despair of our
promotion; you can, therefore, imagine how pleased I was to receive the
note from my chief.
I found him in his study, talking very confidentially to a man of the
true Corsican peasant type.
"This is Quastana's cousin," said the Prefect to me, in a low tone. "He
lives in the little village of Solenzara, just above Porto-Vecchio, and
the brigand pays him a visit every Sunday evening to have a game of
_scopa_. Now, it seems that these two had some words the other Sunday,
and this fellow has determined to have revenge; so he proposes to hand
his cousin over to justice, and, between you and me, I believe he means
it. But as I want to make the capture myself, and in as brilliant a
manner as possible, it is advisable to take precautions in order not to
expose the Government to ridicule. That's what I want you for. You are
quite a stranger in the country and nobody knows you; I want you to go
and see for certain if it really is Quastana who goes to this man's
house."
"But I have never seen this Quastana," I began.
My chief pulled out his pocket-book and drew forth a photograph much the
worse for wear.
"Here you are!" he exclaimed. "The rascal had the cheek to have his
portrait taken last year at Porto-Vecchio!"
While we were looking at the photo the peasant drew near, and I saw his
eyes flash vengefully; but the look quickly vanished and his face
resumed its usual stolid appearance.
"Are you not afraid that the presence of a stranger will frighten your
cousin, and make him stay away on the following Sunday?" we asked.
"No!" replied the man. "He is too fond of cards. Besides, there are many
new faces about here now on account of the shooting. I'll say that this
gentleman has come for me to show him where the game is to be found."
Thereupon we made an appointment for the next Sunday, and the fellow
walked off without the least compunction for his dirty trick. When he
was gone, the Prefect impressed upon me the necessity for keeping the
matter very quiet, because he intended that nobody else should share the
credit of the capture. I assured him that I would not breathe a word,
thanked him for his kindness in asking me to assist him, and we
separated to go to our work and dream of promotion.
The next morning I set out in full shooting costume, and took the coach
which does the journey from Ajaccio to Bastia. For those who love
Nature, there is no better ride in the world, but I was too busy with my
castles in the air to notice any of the beauties of the landscape.
At Bonifacio we stopped for dinner. When I got on the coach again, just
a little elevated by the contents of a good-sized bottle, I found that I
had a fresh travelling companion, who had taken a seat next to me. He
was an official at Bastia, and I had already met him; a man about my own
age, and a native of Paris like myself. A decent sort of fellow.
You are probably aware that the Administration, as represented by the
Prefect, etc., and the magistrature never get on well together; in
Corsica it is worse than elsewhere. The seat of the Administration is at
Ajaccio, that of the magistrature at Bastia; we two therefore belonged
to hostile parties. But when you are a long way from home and meet
someone from your native place, you forget all else, and talk of the old
country.
[Illustration: "I SET OUT IN FULL SHOOTING COSTUME."]
We were fast friends in less than no time, and were consoling each other
for being in "exile" as we termed it. The bottle of wine had loosened my
tongue, and I soon told him, in strict confidence, that I was looking
forward to going back to France to take up some good post as a reward
for my share in the capture of Quastana, whom we hoped to arrest at his
cousin's house one Sunday evening. When my companion got off the coach
at Porto-Vecchio, we felt as though we had known each other for years.