I arrived at Solenzara between four and five o'clock. The place is
populated in winter by workmen, fishermen, and Customs officials, but in
summer everyone who can shifts his quarters up in the mountains on
account of fever. The village was, therefore, nearly deserted when I
reached it that Sunday afternoon.
I entered a small inn and had something to eat, while waiting for
Matteo. Time went on, and the fellow did not put in an appearance; the
innkeeper began to look at me suspiciously, and I felt rather
uncomfortable. At last there came a knock, and Matteo entered.
"He has come to my house," he said, raising his hand to his hat. "Will
you follow me there?"
We went outside. It was very dark and windy; we stumbled along a stony
path for about three miles--a narrow path, full of small stones and
overgrown with luxuriant vegetation, which prevented us from going
quickly.
[Illustration: "'THAT'S MY HOUSE,' SAID MATTEO."]
"That's my house," said Matteo, pointing among the bushes to a light
which was flickering at a short distance from us.
A minute later we were confronted by a big dog, who barked furiously at
us. One would have imagined that he meant to stop us going farther along
the road.
"Here, Bruccio, Bruccio!" cried my guide; then, leaning towards me, he
said: "That's Quastana's dog. A ferocious animal. He has no equal for
keeping watch." Turning to the dog again, he called out: "That's all
right, old fellow! Do you take us for policemen?"
The enormous animal quieted down and came and sniffed around our legs.
It was a splendid Newfoundland dog, with a thick, white, woolly coat
which had obtained for him the name of Bruccio (white cheese). He ran on
in front of us to the house, a kind of stone hut, with a large hole in
the roof which did duty for both chimney and window.
In the centre of the room stood a rough table, around which were several
"seats" made of portions of trunks of trees, hacked into shape with a
chopper. A torch stuck in a piece of wood gave a flickering light,
around which flew a swarm of moths and other insects.
At the table sat a man who looked like an Italian or Provençal
fisherman, with a shrewd, sunburnt, clean-shaven face. He was leaning
over a pack of cards, and was enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke.
"Cousin Quastana," said Matteo as we went in, "this is a gentleman who
is going shooting with me in the morning. He will sleep here to-night,
so as to be close to the spot in good time to-morrow."
When you have been an outlaw and had to fly for your life, you look with
suspicion upon a stranger. Quastana looked me straight in the eyes for a
second; then, apparently satisfied, he saluted me and took no further
notice of me. Two minutes later the cousins were absorbed in a game of
_scopa_.
It is astonishing what a mania for card-playing existed in Corsica at
that time--and it is probably the same now. The clubs and cafés were
watched by the police, for the young men ruined themselves at a game
called _bouillotte_. In the villages it was the same; the peasants were
mad for a game at cards, and when they had no money they played for
their pipes, knives, sheep--anything.
I watched the two men with great interest as they sat opposite each
other, silently playing the game. They watched each other's movements,
the cards either face downwards upon the table or carefully held so that
the opponent might not catch a glimpse of them, and gave an occasional
quick glance at their "hand" without losing sight of the other player's
face. I was especially interested in watching Quastana. The photograph
was a very good one, but it could not reproduce the sunburnt face, the
vivacity and agility of movement, surprising in a man of his age, and
the hoarse, hollow voice peculiar to those who spend most of their time
in solitude.
Between two and three hours passed in this way, and I had some
difficulty in keeping awake in the stuffy air of the hut and the long
stretches of silence broken only by an occasional exclamation:
"Seventeen!" "Eighteen!" From time to time I was aroused by a heavy gust
of wind, or a dispute between the players.
Suddenly there was a savage bark from Bruccio, like a cry of alarm. We
all sprang up, and Quastana rushed out of the door, returning an instant
afterwards and seizing his gun. With an exclamation of rage he darted
out of the door again and was gone. Matteo and I were looking at one
another in surprise, when a dozen armed men entered and called upon us
to surrender. And in less time than it takes to tell you we were on the
ground, bound, and prisoners. In vain I tried to make the gendarmes
understand who I was; they would not listen to me. "That's all right;
you will have an opportunity of making an explanation when we get to
Bastia."
[Illustration: "HE DARTED OUT OF THE DOOR AGAIN."]
They dragged us to our feet and drove us out with the butt-ends of their
carbines. Handcuffed, and pushed about by one and another, we reached
the bottom of the slope, where a prison-van was waiting for us--a vile
box, without ventilation and full of vermin--into which we were thrown
and driven to Bastia, escorted by gendarmes with drawn swords.
A nice position for a Government official!