Whether it was that the arrival of his sister had reminded Orso forcibly
of his paternal home, or that Colomba’s unconventional dress and manners
made him feel shy before his civilized friends, he announced, the
very next day, his determination to leave Ajaccio, and to return to
Pietranera. But he made the colonel promise that when he went to Bastia
he would come and stay in his modest manor-house, and undertook, in
return, to provide him with plenty of buck, pheasant, boar, and other
game.
On the day before that of his departure Orso proposed that, instead of
going out shooting, they should all take a walk along the shores of
the gulf. With Miss Lydia on his arm he was able to talk in perfect
freedom--for Colomba had stayed in the town to do her shopping, and
the colonel was perpetually leaving the young people to fire shots at
sea-gulls and gannets, greatly to the astonishment of the passers-by,
who could not conceive why any man should waste his powder on such
paltry game.
They were walking along the path leading to the Greek Chapel, which
commands the finest view to be had of the bay, but they paid no
attention to it.
“Miss Lydia,” said Orso, after a silence which had lasted long enough to
become embarrassing, “tell me frankly, what do you think of my sister?”
“I like her very much,” answered Miss Nevil. “Better than you,” she
added, with a smile; “for she is a true Corsican, and you are rather too
civilized a savage!”
“Too civilized! Well, in spite of myself, I feel that I am growing a
savage again, since I have set my foot on the island! A thousand horrid
thoughts disturb and torment me, and I wanted to talk with you a little
before I plunge into my desert!”
“You must be brave, monsieur! Look at your sister’s resignation; she
sets you an example!”
“Ah! do not be deceived! Do not believe in her resignation. She has
not said a word to me as yet, but every look of hers tells me what she
expects of me.”
“What does she expect of you, then?”
“Oh, nothing! Except that I should try whether your father’s gun will
kill a man as surely as it kills a partridge.”
“What an idea! You can actually believe that, when you have just
acknowledged that she has said nothing to you yet? It really is too
dreadful of you!”
“If her thoughts were not fixed on vengeance, she would have spoken
to me at once about our father; she has never done it. She would have
mentioned the names of those she considers--wrongly, I know--to be his
murderers. But no; not a word! That is because we Corsicans, you
see, are a cunning race. My sister realizes that she does not hold me
completely in her power, and she does not choose to startle me while I
may still escape her. Once she has led me to the edge of the precipice,
and once I turn giddy there, she will thrust me into the abyss.”
Then Orso gave Miss Nevil some details of his father’s death, and
recounted the principal proofs which had culminated in his belief that
Agostini was the assassin.
“Nothing,” he added, “has been able to convince Colomba. I saw that by
her last letter. She has sworn the Barricini shall die, and--you see,
Miss Nevil, what confidence I have in you!--they would not be alive now,
perhaps, if one of the prejudices for which her uncivilized education
must be the excuse had not convinced her that the execution of this
vengeance belongs to me, as head of her family, and that my honour
depends upon it!”
“Really and truly, Monsieur della Rebbia!” said Miss Nevil, “you slander
your sister!”
“No. As you have said it yourself, she is a Corsican; she thinks as they
all think. Do you know why I was so sad yesterday?”
“No. But for some time past you have been subject to these fits
of sadness. You were much pleasanter in the earlier days of our
acquaintance.”
“Yesterday, on the contrary, I was more cheery and happy than I
generally am. I had seen how kind, how indulgent, you were to my sister.
The colonel and I were coming home in a boat. Do you know what one of
the boatmen said to me in his infernal _patois_? ‘You’ve killed a deal
of game, Ors’ Anton’, but you’ll find Orlanduccio Barricini a better
shot than you!’”
“Well, what was there so very dreadful in that remark? Are you so very
much set upon being considered a skilful sportsman?”
“But don’t you see the ruffian was telling me I shouldn’t have courage
to kill Orlanduccio!”
“Do you know, M. della Rebbia, you frighten me! The air of this island
of yours seems not only to give people fevers, but to drive them mad.
Luckily we shall be leaving it soon!”
“Not without coming to Pietranera--you have promised my sister that.”
“And if we were to fail in that promise, we should bring down some
terrible vengeance on our heads, no doubt!”
“Do you remember that story your father was telling us, the other day,
about the Indians who threatened the company’s agents that, if they
would not grant their prayer, they would starve themselves to death?”
“That means that you would starve yourself to death! I doubt it very
much! You would go hungry for one day and then Mademoiselle Colomba
would bring you such a tempting _bruccio_[*] that you would quite
relinquish your plan.”
[*] A sort of baked cream cheese, a national dish in Corsica.
“Your jests are cruel, Miss Nevil. You might spare me. Listen, I am
alone here; I have no one but you to prevent me from going mad, as you
call it. You have been my guardian angel, and now----!”
“Now,” said Miss Lydia gravely, “to steady this reason of yours, which
is so easily shaken, you have the honour of a soldier and a man, and,”
she added, turning away to pluck a flower, “if that will be any help to
you, you have the memory of your guardian angel, too!”
“Ah, Miss Nevil, if I could only think you really take some interest!”
“Listen, M. della Rebbia,” said Miss Nevil, with some emotion. “As you
are a child, I will treat you as I would treat a child. When I was a
little girl my mother gave me a beautiful necklace, which I had longed
for greatly; but she said to me, ‘Every time you put on this necklace,
remember you do not know French yet.’ The necklace lost some of its
value in my eyes, it was a source of constant self-reproach. But I
wore it, and in the end I knew French. Do you see this ring? It is an
Egyptian scarabaeus, found, if you please, in a pyramid. That strange
figure, which you may perhaps take for a bottle, stands for ‘_human
life_.’ There are certain people in my country to whom this hieroglyphic
should appear exceedingly appropriate. This, which comes after it, is a
shield upon an arm, holding a lance; that means ‘_struggle_, _battle_.’
Thus the two characters, together, form this motto, which strikes me
as a fine one, ‘_Life is a battle_.’ Pray do not fancy I can translate
hieroglyphics at sight! It was a man learned in such matters who
explained these to me. Here, I will give you my scarabaeus. Whenever you
feel some wicked Corsican thought stir in you, look at my talisman, and
tell yourself you must win the battle our evil passions wage against us.
Why, really, I don’t preach at all badly!”
“I shall think of you, Miss Nevil, and I shall say to myself----”
“Say to yourself you have a friend who would be in despair at the idea
of your being hanged--and besides it would be too distressing for your
ancestors the corporals!”
With these words she dropped Orso’s arm, laughing and running to her
father.
“Papa,” she said, “do leave those poor birds alone, and come and make up
poetry with us, in Napoleon’s grotto!”