THE PROMISED LAND.
“I do not ask that flowers should always spring beneath my
feet.”
Colonel Gilbert was not one of those visionaries who think that the lot
of the individual man is to be bettered by a change from, say, an empire
to a republic. Indeed, the late transformation from a republic to an
empire had made no difference to him, for he was neither a friend nor a
foe of the emperor. He had nothing in common with those soldiers of the
Second Empire who had won their spurs in the Tuileries, and owed
promotion to a woman's favouritism. He was, in a word, too good a soldier
to be a good courtier; and politics represented for him, as they do for
most wise men, an after-breakfast interest, and an edifying study of the
careers of a certain number of persons who mean to make themselves a name
in the easiest arena that is open to ambition.
The colonel read the newspapers because there was little else to do in
Bastia, and the local gossip “on tap,” as it were, at the cafés and the
“Réunion des Officiers,” had but a limited interest for him. He was,
however, at heart a gossip, and rode or walked through the streets of
Bastia with that leisurely air which seems to invite the passer-by to
stop and exchange something more than a formal salutation.
The days, indeed, were long enough; for his service often got the colonel
out of bed at dawn, and his work was frequently done before civilians
were awake. It thus happened that Colonel Gilbert was riding along the
coast-road from Brando to Bastia one morning before the sun had risen
very high above the heights of Elba. The day was so clear that not only
were the rocky islands of Gorgona and Capraja and Monte Cristo visible,
but also the mysterious flat Pianosa, so rarely seen, so capricious and
singular in its comings and goings that it fades from sight before the
very eyes, and in clear weather seems to lie like a raft on the still
water.
The colonel was contemplating the scene with a leisurely, artistic eye,
when some instinct made him turn his head and look over his shoulder
towards the north.
“Ah!” he muttered, with a nod of satisfaction.
A steamer was slowly pounding down towards Bastia. It was the Marseilles
boat--the old _Persévérance._ And for Colonel Gilbert she was sure to
bring news from France, possibly some one with whom to while away an hour
or so in talk. He rode more leisurely now, and the steamer passed him. By
the time he reached the dried-fruit factory on the northern outskirt of
the town, the _Persévérance_ had rounded the pier-head, and was gently
edging alongside the quay. By the time he reached the harbour she was
moored, and her captain enjoying a morning cigar on the wharf.
Of course Colonel Gilbert knew the captain of the _Persévérance._ Was he
not friendly with the driver of the St. Florent diligence? All who
brought news from the outside world were the friends of this idle
soldier.
“Good morning, captain,” he cried. “What news of France?”
The captain was a jovial man, with unkempt hair and a smoke-grimed face.
“News, colonel,” he answered. “It is not quite ready yet. The emperor is
always brewing it in the Tuileries, but it is not ripe for the public
palate yet.”
“Ah!”
“And in the mean time,” said the captain, testing with his foot the
tautness of the hawser that moored the _Persévérance_ to the quay--“in
the mean time they are busy at Cherbourg and Toulon. As to the army, you
probably know that better than I, mon colonel.”
And he finished with his jovial laugh. Then he jerked his thumb in the
direction of the steamer.
“Your newspapers are, no doubt, in the mail-bags,” he said. “We had a
good passage, and are a full ship. Of passengers I have two--and ladies.
One, by the way, is the heiress of Mattei Perucca over at Olmeta, whom
you doubtless knew.”
The colonel turned, and looked towards the steamer with some interest.
“Is that so?” he said reflectively.
“Yes; a pinched old maid in a black dress. None will marry her for her
acres. It will be a _pré salé_ with a vengeance. I caught a glimpse of
her as we came out of harbour. I did not see the other, who is young--her
niece, I understand. There she is, coming on deck now--the heiress, I
mean. She will not look her best after a night at sea.”
And, with a jerk of the head, he indicated a black-clad form on the deck
of the _Persévérance._ It happened to be Mademoiselle Brun, who, as a
matter of fact, looked no different after a night at sea to what she had
looked in the drawing-room of the Baroness de Mélide. She was too old or
too tough to take her colour from her environments. She was standing with
her back towards the quay, talking to the steward, and did not,
therefore, see the colonel until the clank of his spurred heel on the
deck made her turn sharply.
“You, mademoiselle!” exclaimed the colonel, on seeing her face as he
stood, _képi_ in hand, staring at her in astonishment.
“Yes; I am the ogre chosen by Fate to watch over Denise Lange,” she
answered, holding out her withered hand.
“But this is indeed a pleasure,” said the colonel, with his ready smile.
“I came by a mere accident to offer my services, as any Frenchman would,
to ladies arriving at such a place as Bastia, as a friend, moreover, of
Mattei Perucca, and never expected to see a face I knew. It is years,
mademoiselle, since we met--since before the war--before Solferino.”
“Yes,” said Mademoiselle Brun; “since before Solferino.”
And she glanced suspiciously at him, as if she had something to hide. A
chance word often is the “open sesame” to that cupboard where we keep our
cherished skeleton. Colonel Gilbert saw the quick glance, and
misconstrued it.
“I wrote a letter some time ago,” he said, “to Mademoiselle Lange, making
her an offer for her property, little dreaming that I had so old a friend
as yourself at hand, as one may say, to introduce us to each other.”
“No,” said Mademoiselle Brun.
“And I was surprised to receive a refusal.”
“Yes,” said Mademoiselle Brun, looking across the harbour towards the old
town.
“There are not many buyers of land in Corsica,” he explained, half
indifferently, “and there are plenty of other plots which would serve my
purpose. However, I will not buy elsewhere until you and Mademoiselle
Lange have had an opportunity of seeing Perucca--that is certain. No; it
is only friendly to keep my offer open.”
He was standing with his face turned towards the deck-house and the
saloon stairway, and tapped his boot idly with his whip. There was
something expectant and almost anxious in his demeanour. Mademoiselle
Brun was looking at his face, and he was perhaps not aware that it
changed at this moment.
“Yes,” she said, without looking round; “that is my niece. You find her
pretty?”
“Present me,” answered the colonel, turning to hook his sword to his
belt.
Denise came hurriedly across the deck, her eyes bright with anticipation
and happiness. This was a better life than that of the Rue du
Cherche-Midi, and the stir and bustle of the sailors, already at work on
the cargo, were contagious. She noticed that Mademoiselle Brun was
speaking to an officer, but was more interested in the carriage, which,
in accordance with an order sent by the captain, was at this moment
rattling across the stones towards the steamer.
“This,” said Mademoiselle Brun, “is Colonel Gilbert, whose letter you
answered a few weeks ago.”
“Ah, yes,” said Denise, returning his bow, and looking at him with frank
eyes. “Thank you very much, monsieur, but we are going to live at Perucca
ourselves.”
“By all means,” laughed the colonel, “try it, mademoiselle; try it. It is
an impossibility, I tell you frankly. And Corsica is not a country in
which to attempt impossibilities. See here! I perceive you have your
carriage ready, and the sailors are now carrying your baggage ashore. You
are going to drive to Perucca. Good! Now, as you pass along the road, you
will perceive on either side quite a number of small crosses, simply
planted at the roadside--some of iron, some of wood, some with a name,
some with initials. They are to be found all over Corsica, at the side of
every road. Those are people, mademoiselle, who have attempted
impossibilities in this country and have failed--at the very spot where
the cross is planted. You understand? I speak as a soldier to a soldier's
daughter.”
He looked at her, and nodded slowly and gravely with compressed lips.
“Rest assured that we shall not attempt impossibilities,” replied Denise,
gaily. “We only ask to be left alone to feed our poultry and attend to
our garden. I am told that the house and servants are as my father's
cousin left them, and we are expected to-day.”
“And you, colonel, shall be our protector,” added Mademoiselle Brun, with
one of her straight looks.
The colonel laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and accompanied them to the
carriage which awaited them.
“If one only knew whether you approve or disapprove of these hair-brained
proceedings,” he took an opportunity of saying to Mademoiselle Brun, when
Denise was out of earshot.
“If I only knew myself,” she replied coldly.
They climbed into the high, old-fashioned carriage, and drove through the
new Boulevard du Palais, upward to the hills above the town. And if they
observed the small crosses on either side of the road, marking the spot
where some poor wight had come to what is here called an accidental
death, they took care to make no mention of it. For Denise persisted in
seeing everything in that rose light which illumines the world when we
are young. She had even a good word to say for the _Persévérance_, which
vessel had assuredly need of such, and said that the captain was a good
French sailor, despite his grimy face.
“This,” she cried, “is better than your stuffy schoolroom!”
And she stood up in the carriage to inhale the breeze that hummed through
the macquis from the cool mountain-tops. There is no air like that which
comes as through a filter made of a hundred scented trees--a subtle
mingling of their clean woody odours.
“Look!” she added, pointing down to the sea, which looked calm from this
great height. “Look at that queer flat island there. That is Pianosa. And
there is Elba. Elba! Cannot the magic of that word rouse you? But no, you
have no Corsican blood in you; and you sit there with your uncompromising
old face and your black bonnet a little bit on one side, if I may mention
it”--and she proceeded to put Mademoiselle Brun's bonnet straight--“you,
who are always in mourning for something--I don't know what,” she added
half reflectively, as she sat down again.
The road to St. Florent mounts in a semi-circle behind Bastia through
orange-groves and vineyards, and the tiny private burial-grounds so dear
to Corsican families of position. These, indeed, are a proud people, for
they are too good to await the last day in the company of their humbler
brethren, but must needs have a small garden and a hideous little
mausoleum of their own, with a fine view and easy access to the highroad.
With many turns the great road climbs round the face of the mountain, and
soon leaving Bastia behind, takes a southern trend, and suddenly commands
from a height a matchless view of the Lake of Biguglia and the little
hillside village where a Corsican parliament once sat, which was once,
indeed, the capital of this war-torn island. For every village can boast
of a battle, and the rocky earth has run with the blood of almost every
European nation, as well as that of Turk and Moor. Beyond the lake, and
stretching away into a blue haze where sea and land melt into one, lies
the great salt marsh where the first Greek colony was located, where the
ruins of Mariana remain to this day.
Soon the road mounts above the level of the semi-tropical vegetation, and
passes along the face of bare and stony heights, where the pines are
small and the macquis no higher than a man's head.
Denise, tired with so long a drive at a snail's pace, jumped from the
carriage.
“I will walk up this hill,” she cried to the driver, who had never turned
in his seat or spoken a word to them.
“Then keep close to the carriage,” he answered.
“Why?”
But he only indicated the macquis with his whip, and made no further
answer. Mademoiselle Brun said nothing, but presently, when the driver
paused to rest the horses, she descended from the carriage and walked
with Denise.
It was nearly midday when they at last reached the summit of the pass.
The heavy clouds, which had been long hanging over the mountains that
border the great plain of Biguglia, had rolled northward before a hot and
oppressive breeze, and the sun was now hidden. The carriage descended at
a rapid trot, and once the man got down and silently examined his brakes.
The road was a sort of cornice cut on the bare mountain side, and a
stumble or the slipping of a brake-block would inevitably send the
carriage rolling into the valley below.
Denise sat upright, and looked quickly, with eager movements of the head,
from side to side. Soon they reached the region of the upper pines, which
are small, and presently passed a piece of virgin forest--of those great
pines which have no like in Europe.
“Look!” said Denise, gazing up at the great trees with a sort of gasp of
excitement.
But mademoiselle had only eyes for the road in front. Before long they
passed into the region of chestnuts, and soon saw the first habitation
they had seen for two hours. For this is one of the most thinly peopled
lands of Europe, and four great nations of the Continent have at one time
or other done their best to exterminate this untameable race. Then a few
more houses and a smaller road branching off to the left from the
highway. The carriage swung round into this, which led straight to a wall
built right across it. The driver pulled up, and, turning, brought the
horses to a standstill at a door built in the solid wall. With his whip
he indicated a bell-chain, rusty and worn, that swung in the breeze.
There was nobody to be seen. The clouds had closed down over the
mountains. Even the tops of the great pines were hidden in a thin mist.
Denise got down and rang the bell. After a long pause the door was opened
by a woman in black, with a black silk handkerchief over her head, who
looked gravely at them.
“I am Denise Lange,” said the girl.
“And I,” said the woman, stepping back to admit them, “am the widow of
Pietro Andrei, who was shot at Olmeta.”
And Denise Lange entered her own door followed by Mademoiselle Brun.