CHEZ CLÉMENT.
“Comme on est heureux quand on sait ce qu'on veut!”
It was the dinner hour at the Hotel Clément at Bastia; and the event was
of greater importance than the outward appearance of the house would
seem to promise. For there is no promise at all about the house on the
left-hand side of Bastia's one street, the Boulevard du Palais, which
bears, as its only sign, a battered lamp with the word “Clément” printed
across it. The ground floor is merely a rope and hemp warehouse. A small
Corsican donkey, no bigger than a Newfoundland dog, lives in the
basement, and passes many of his waking hours in what may be termed the
entrance hall of the hotel, appearing to consider himself in some sort a
concierge. The upper floors of the huge Genoese house are let out in
large or small apartments to mysterious families, of which the younger
members are always to be met carrying jugs carefully up and down the
greasy, common staircase.
The first floor is the Hotel Clément, or, to be more correct, one is
“chez Clément” on the first floor.
“You stay with Clément,” will be the natural remark of any on board the
Marseilles or Leghorn steamer, on being told that the traveller
disembarks at Bastia.
“We shall meet to-night chez Clément,” the officers say to each other on
leaving the parade ground at four o'clock.
“Déjeuner chez Clément,” is the usual ending to a notice of a marriage,
or a first communion, in the _Petit Bastiais_, that greatest of all
foolscap-size journals.
It is comforting to reflect, in these times of hurried changes, that the
traveller to Bastia may still find himself chez Clément--may still have
to kick at the closed door of the first-floor flat, and find that door
opened by Clément himself, always affable, always gentlemanly, with the
same crumbs strewed carelessly down the same waistcoat, or, if it is
evening time, in his spotless cook's dress. One may be sure of the same
grave welcome, and the easy transition from grave to gay, the smiling,
grand manner of conducting the guest to one of those vague and darksome
bedrooms, where the jug and the basin never match, where the floor is of
red tiles, with a piece of uncertain carpet sliding hither and thither,
with the shutters always shut, and the mustiness of the middle ages
hanging heavy in the air. For Bastia has not changed, and never will. And
it is not only to be fervently hoped, but seems likely, that Clément will
never grow old, and never die, but continue to live and demonstrate the
startling fact that one may be born and live all one's life in a remote,
forgotten town, and still be a man of the world.
The soup had been served precisely at six, and the four artillery
officers were already seated at the square table near the fireplace,
which was and is still exclusively the artillery table. The other
_habitués_ were in their places at one or other of the half-dozen tables
that fill the room--two gentlemen from the Prefecture, a civil engineer
of the projected railway to Corte, a commercial traveller of the old
school, and, at the corner table, farthest from the door, Colonel Gilbert
of the Engineers. A clever man this, who had seen service in the Crimea,
and had invariably distinguished himself whenever the opportunity
occurred; but he was one of those who await, and do not seek
opportunities. Perhaps he had enemies, or, what is worse, no friends; for
at the age of forty he found himself appointed to Bastia, one of the
waste places of the War Office, where an inferior man would have done
better.
Colonel Gilbert was a handsome man, with a fair moustache, a high
forehead, surmounted by thin, receding, smooth hair, and good-natured,
idle eyes. He lunched and dined chez Clément always, and was frankly,
good naturedly bored at Bastia. He hated Corsica, had no sympathy with
the Corsican, and was a Northern Frenchman to the tips of his long white
fingers.
“Your Bastia, my good Clément,” he said to the host, who invariably came
to the dining-room with the roast and solicited the opinion of each guest
upon the dinner in a few tactful, easy words--“your Bastia is a sad
place.”
This evening Colonel Gilbert was in a less talkative mood than usual, and
exchanged only a nod with his artillery colleagues as he passed to his
own small table. He opened his newspaper, and became interested in it at
once. It was several days old, and had come by way of Nice and Ajaccio
from Paris. All France was at this time eager for news, and every
Frenchman studied the journal of his choice with that uneasiness which
seems to foreshadow in men's hearts the approach of any great event. For
this was the spring of 1870, when France, under the hitherto iron rule of
her adventurer emperor, suddenly began to plunge and rear, while the
nations stood around her wondering who should receive the first kick. The
emperor was ill; the cheaper journals were already talking of his
funeral. He was uneasy and restless, turning those dull eyes hither
and thither over Europe--a man of inscrutable face and deep hidden
plans--perhaps the greatest adventurer who ever sat a throne. Condemned
by a French Court of Peers in 1840 to imprisonment for life, he went to
Ham with the quiet question, “But how long does perpetuity last in
France?” And eight years later he was absolute master of the country.
Corsica in particular was watching events, for Corsica was cowed. She had
come under the rule of this despot, and for the first time in her history
had found her master. Instead of being numbered by hundreds, as they were
before and are again now at the end of the century, the outlaws hiding in
the mountains scarce exceeded a score. The elections were conducted more
honestly than had ever been before, and the Continental newspapers spoke
hopefully of the dawn of civilization showing itself among a people who
have ever been lawless, have ever loved war better than peace.
“But it is a false dawn,” said the Abbé Susini of Olmeta, himself an
insatiable reader of newspapers, a keen and ardent politician. Like the
majority of Corsicans, he was a staunch Bonapartist, and held that the
founder of that marvellous dynasty was the greatest man to walk this
earth since the days of direct Divine inspiration.
It was only because Napoleon III was a Bonaparte that Corsica endured his
tyranny; perhaps, indeed, tyranny and an iron rule suited better than
equity or tolerance a people descended from the most ancient of the
fighting races, speaking a tongue wherein occur expressions of hate and
strife that are Tuscan, Sicilian, Greek, Spanish, and Arabic.
Now that the emperor's hand was losing its grip on the helm, there were
many in Corsica keenly alive to the fact that any disturbance in France
would probably lead to anarchy in the turbulent island. There were even
some who saw a hidden motive in the appointment of Colonel Gilbert as
engineer officer to a fortified place that had no need of his services.
Gilbert himself probably knew that his appointment had been made in
pursuance of the emperor's policy of road and rail. For Corsica was to be
opened up by a railway, and would have none of it. And though to-day the
railway from Bastia to Ajaccio is at last open, the station at Corte
remains a fortified place with a loopholed wall around it.
But Colonel Gilbert kept his own counsel. He sat, indeed, on the board of
the struggling railway--a gift of the French Government to a department
which has never paid its way, has always been an open wound. But he never
spoke there, and listened to the fierce speeches of the local members
with his idle, easy smile. He seemed to stand aloof from his new
neighbours and their insular interests. He was, it appeared, a cultured
man, and perhaps found none in this wild island who could understand his
thoughts. His attitude towards his surroundings was, in a word, the usual
indifferent attitude of the Frenchman in exile, reading only French
newspapers, fixing his attention only on France, and awaiting with such
patience as he could command the moment to return thither.
“Any news?” asked one of the artillery officers--a sub-lieutenant
recently attached to his battery, a penniless possessor of an historic
name, who perhaps had dreams of carving his way through to the front
again.
The colonel shrugged his shoulders.
“You may have the papers afterwards,” he said; for it was not wise to
discuss any news in a public place at that time. “See you at the Réunion,
no doubt.”
And he did not speak again except to Clément, who came round to take the
opinion of each guest upon the fare provided.
“Passable,” said the colonel--“passable, my good Clément. But do you
know, I could send you to prison for providing this excellent leveret at
this time of year. Are there no game laws, my friend?”
But Clement only laughed and spread out his hands, for Corsica chooses to
ignore the game laws. And the colonel, having finished his coffee,
buckled on his sword, and went out into the twilight streets of what was
once the capital of Corsica. Bastia, indeed, has, like the majority of
men and women, its history written on its face. On the high land above
the old port stands the citadel, just as the Genoese merchant-adventurers
planned it five hundred years ago. Beneath the citadel, and clustered
round the port, is the little old Genoese town, no bigger than a village,
which served for two hundred and fifty years as capital to an island in
constant war, against which it had always to defend itself.
It would seem that some hundred years ago, just before the island became
nominally a French possession, Bastia, for some reason or another, took
it into its municipal head to grow, and it ran as it were all down the
hill to that which is now the new harbour. It built two broad streets of
tall Genoese houses, of which one somehow missed fire, and became a slum,
while the other, with its great houses but half inhabited, is to-day the
Boulevard du Palais, where fashionable Bastia promenades itself--when
it is too windy, as it almost always is, to walk on the Place St.
Nicholas--where all the shops are, and where the modern European
necessities of daily life are not to be bought for love or money.
There are, however, two excellent knife-shops in the Boulevard du Palais,
where every description of stiletto may be purchased, where, indeed, the
enterprising may buy a knife which will not only go shrewdly into a foe,
but come right out on the other side--in front, that is to say, for no
true Corsican is so foolish as to stab anywhere but in the back--and,
protruding thus, will display some pleasing legend, such as “Vendetta,”
or “I serve my master,” or “Viva Corsica,” roughly engraved on the long
blade. There is a macaroni warehouse. There are two of those mysterious
Mediterranean provision warehouses, with some ancient dried sausages
hanging in the window, and either doorpost flanked by a tub of sardines,
highly, and yet, it would seem, insufficiently, cured. There is a tiny
book-shop displaying a choice of religious pamphlets and a fly-blown
copy of a treatise on viniculture. And finally, an ironmonger will sell
you anything but a bath, while he thrives on a lively trade in
percussion-caps and gunpowder.
Colonel Gilbert did not pause to look at these bewildering shop-windows,
for the simple reason that he knew every article there displayed.
He was, it will be remembered, a leisurely Frenchman, than whom there are
few human beings of a more easily aroused attention. Any small street
incident sufficed to make him pause. He had the air of one waiting for a
train, who knows that it will not come for hours yet. He strolled down
the boulevard, smoking a cigarette, and presently turned to the right,
emerging with head raised to meet the sea-breeze upon that deserted
promenade, the Place St. Nicholas.
Here he paused, and stood with his head slightly inclined to one side--an
attitude usually considered to be indicative of the artistic temperament,
and admired the prospect. The “Place” was deserted, and in the middle the
great statue of Napoleon stood staring blankly across the sea towards
Elba. There is, whether the artist intended it or not, a look of stony
amazement on this marble face as it gazes at the island of Elba lying
pink and hazy a few miles across that rippled sea; for on this side of
Corsica there is more peace than in the open waters of the Gulf of Lyons.
“Surely,” that look seems to say, “the world could never expect that puny
island to hold me.”
Colonel Gilbert stood and looked dreamily across the sea. It was plain to
the most incompetent observer that the statue represented one class of
men--those who make their opportunities; while Gilbert, with his high and
slightly receding forehead, his lazy eyes and good-natured mouth, was a
fair type of that other class which may take advantage of opportunities
that offer themselves. The majority of men have not even the pluck to do
that, which makes it easy for mediocre people to get on in this world.
Colonel Gilbert turned on his heel and walked slowly back to the Reunion
des Officiers--the military club which stands on the Place St. Nicholas
immediately behind the statue of Napoleon--a not too lively place of
entertainment, with a billiard-room, a reading-room, and half a dozen
iron tables and chairs on the pavement in front of the house. Here the
colonel seated himself, called for a liqueur, and sat watching a clear
moon rise from the sea beyond the Islet of Capraja.
It was the month of February, and the southern spring was already in the
air. The twilight is short in these latitudes, and it was now nearly
night. In Corsica, as in Spain, the coolest hour is between sunset and
nightfall. With complete darkness there comes a warm air from the ground.
This was now beginning to make itself felt; but Gilbert had not only the
pavement, but the whole Place St. Nicholas to himself. There are two
reasons why Corsicans do not walk abroad at night--the risk of a chill
and the risk of meeting one's enemy.
Colonel Gilbert gave no thought to these matters, but sat with crossed
legs and one spurred heel thrown out, contentedly waiting as if for that
train which he must assuredly catch, or for that opportunity, perhaps,
which was so long in coming that he no longer seemed to look for it. And
while he sat there a man came clanking from the town--a tired man, with
heavy feet and the iron heels of the labourer. He passed Colonel Gilbert,
and then, seeming to have recognized him by the light of the moon,
paused, and came back.
“Monsieur le colonel,” he said, without raising his hand to his hat, as a
Frenchman would have done.
“Yes,” replied the colonel's pleasant voice, with no ring of recognition
in it.
“It is Mattei--the driver of the St. Florent diligence,” explained the
man, who, indeed, carried his badge of office, a long whip.
“Of course; but I recognized you almost at once,” said the colonel, with
that friendliness which is so noticeable in the Republic to-day.
“You have seen me on the road often enough,” said the man, “and I have
seen you, Monsieur le Colonel, riding over to the Casa Perucca.”
“Of course.”
“You know Perucca's agent, Pietro Andrei?”
“Yes.”
“He was shot in the back on the Olmeta road this afternoon.”
Colonel Gilbert gave a slight start.
“Is that so?” he said at length, quietly, after a pause.
“Yes,” said the diligence-driver; and without further comment he walked
on, keeping well in the middle of the road, as it is wise to do when one
has enemies.