IF one could rise in the air like a bird and look down upon the island of Corsica, he might think that he saw before him the petrified skeleton of some great marine monster. From north to south, through the centre of the island, runs a ridge of mountains resembling a spinal column, while upon either side of this central ridge branch a number of shorter parallel ridges bearing a close resemblance to the ribs of such an animal. In each of these valleys, near the central ridge, are the sources of small rivers which run east or west, as the case may be, into the Mediterranean Sea. The banks are composed of alluvial soil, and, for that reason, near the sea the rivers widen out, covering large areas of land which become marshes, full, at certain seasons of the year, of pestilential vapours, the cause of disease and death among the inhabitants. The sides of the mountains and the borders of the adjacent ravines are covered by dense masses of shrubbery and groves or forests of trees. In Australia, the outlaw, fleeing from justice, takes refuge in “the bush,” from which circumstance he has derived the characteristic name of “bushranger.” On the other hand, the Corsican outlaws or banditti take refuge, when pursued by the officers of the law, in the maquis, which, in the Corsican vernacular, has the same meaning as the Australian “bush.”
In one of the deepest of the ravines on the western side of the central ridge of mountains which traverses the island of Corsica, a band of some twenty men was assembled. They were nondescript in appearance, each being dressed after a fashion of his own, although there was one point of resemblance between them, for each was armed with a rifle, had a pair of pistols in his belt, and a closer examination would have revealed a stiletto hidden away beneath the folds of his shirt or jacket. They were what they appeared to be—Corsican banditti or, in other words, outlaws—men wanted by the police—chiefly for murder.
And yet they were different from the usual banditti which infest Corsica, as a closer acquaintance with their leader will soon determine. He was a man of gigantic stature and the possessor of great physical strength. He was seated apart from the members of his band in company with his lieutenant, a man much smaller in size, but muscular and agile, as a natural result of a continual outdoor life.
The leader was called Cromillian. No one of his band supposed that this was his real name, but he offered no explanation and none was asked. He had suddenly appeared in Corsica, gathered a band of trusted followers, and for a year had carried on a peculiar system of brigandage. As the plan followed by him supplied his adherents with the means of subsistence, they ventured no criticism of his peculiar manner of doing business, although they often wondered among themselves as to what the final outcome of it would be.
The lieutenant’s name was Paoli, and, although next in command to Cromillian, he had no clearer idea of his leader’s ultimate object than had the other members of the band. The wild, roving life suited him and he was content to remain where he was, for he had long ago forfeited his rights as a law-abiding citizen and was a marked man in the eyes of the emissaries of the law.
It is a natural characteristic of some people, when they have nothing else to do, to think of the present or to look forward to the future; but a Corsican, when he has time for contemplation, always reverts to the past. When he recalls it, he does not dwell upon its pleasant features, but, if possible, fastens his thoughts upon some real or imaginary wrong which he fancies his ancestors or his friends have suffered.
An American Indian, when contemplating an attack upon his enemies, precedes active hostilities by singing a war song, and the Corsican unconsciously resembles him by singing, or rather chanting, a recital of past wrongs or injuries, followed by a unique vocal declaration of his intention to secure reparation or execute vengeance for such acts.
The Corsicans are strong partisans. They not only take part in the feuds with which their own families are connected, but embrace the causes of other families to which they are not related, but to which, for some reason or other, they become attached.
Paoli sat upon a log, his hands tightly clasped together, gazing up at the sky through a rift in the branches of the trees. There was a wild look in his eye, such as might be seen in those of some religious devotee. Suddenly, as though under the influence of some magic power or spell, he found voice. The words of his chant, or vocero, as it is called by the Corsicans, certainly boded no good fortune to a person named Vandemar, who was referred to therein:
“Place on the wall before my bed my cross of honour well gained. To my sons, my sons in a far country, convey my cross and bloody vest. He, my first-born, will see the rents—for each rent, a rent in another shirt, a wound in another’s heart! Vengeance! The hour of vengeance is nigh! Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls. He comes, the last of his race, but he comes to his couch with a stain on his shroud, only to die. The vendetta, the spirit of vendetta is awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood! The noble house of Batistelli no longer shall bear the dread reproach of rimbeccare. The stain shall now be washed away in blood. Vandemar Della Coscia must die!”
Cromillian’s attention had been attracted by the first words of the chant and he listened intently to the improvisatore. When Paoli ceased, he turned and approached him:
“Thy heart rebukes thee whilst thou singest. There are whispers of other orgies than those thou hast sung. I, too, can improvise. Now listen, Paoli, and remember that I never chant the ancient gabble of old women and silly girls. I will make my own songs and, better still, I will make them come true, every word true. Listen, and be sure that you do not forget.
“The noble young Vandemar returns, returns to his native mountains, to the home of his childhood, to the friends who have waited so long to embrace him. But no sooner do his feet touch the shores, the green banks of his early home, than the hungry vultures are on his track eager to drink the red blood in his veins. But the eagle will turn to defend his life. He will not die. The death song will resound for his enemies, the vengeful tribe of the Batistellis. Even this clown, this fool Paoli, will change the tone of his song, ere long! Ere long!!”
Paoli took his chief’s words pleasantly. “Hold on!” he cried. “Don’t you know that they have an adage among the French: ‘Never hit a man when he is down’?” As he said this, he arose:
“I am, as you well know, a descendant of the great Paoli, at whose name all Corsica thrilled, a just man, and the most distinguished general in the world.”
“It is a great pity,” said Cromillian, sarcastically, “that he is not living, and here to give advice to his kinsman. I know not whether it is an adage, but it is a well-known fact that the sons and grandsons of great men seldom resemble them.”
“Your wits are too much for me,” said Paoli, “but please have the grace to hear me out. It was a maxim of my illustrious ancestor that every citizen should constitute himself a soldier and defend his rights by force of arms. Not to avenge wrongs committed against one’s own blood or that of his friends, has always been deemed by the Corsicans to denote a coward. I am a true son of Corsica and, for that, you call me a clown, a fool. If you and I were not sworn friends, there might be cause for a coolness between us. Heed this now, and say whether I was right or wrong.
“My dearest friend, Antonio Marcelli, had a beautiful sister, Vinetta. A man from Bastia, named Ossa d’Oria, came to Ajaccio. He was young and handsome, and reputed to be a single man. Young Vinetta was misled by him and, to conceal her shame, committed suicide. I wrote to Antonio, but he was down sick with a fever and unable to return to Corsica. I made my friend’s cause my own and went to Bastia. I found that I was to be deprived of a sweet revenge, for the scoundrel had been drowned while bathing. His father was dead and he had no brothers or near relatives. But he had a wife. What was I to do?”
“That was embarrassing,” Cromillian remarked. “What did you do?”
“This was one of the cases,” answered Paoli, “where the flint of your gun must serve you. I put a ball through the head of the wife. That is what I call good old Corsican justice. Then I took to the mountains, and here I am, a jolly bandit like yourself.”
Cromillian turned upon him, savagely: “You call that justice? I call it murder! Cold-blooded murder!! This savage custom of vengeance executed upon relatives for wrongs committed by an ancestor, the lives of sons sacrificed for fancied wrongs alleged against fathers, has been the curse and blight of Corsica for the last five hundred years. The vendetta, that hydra-headed monster, strikes its fangs deep into the heart of every Corsican child before it is able to lisp its own name. Mothers lull their babies to sleep crooning the death song, nurses inflame their young imaginations with frightful stories of blood, revenge, and death. It has grown with their growth, strengthened with their strength, until to-day we stand before the world distinguished only as being the most savage, the most barbarous people upon the face of this fair earth.”
“Do they say that of us?” asked Paoli.
“Listen!” said Cromillian, “I read in an old newspaper when I was in France that if the island of Corsica could vomit forth all the blood which has been poured out upon its soil, in the course of time, in the vendetta and on the field of battle, it would overwhelm its cities and villages, drown its people, and crimson the sea from its shores to Genoa. Six hundred and sixty-six thousand slain by the hand of the assassin alone! Dost like the picture?”
“Well,” said Paoli, “what are we going to do about it? We take up life where our fathers left it.”
“There is going to be a change, a reformation!” cried Cromillian. “I, with my single arm, with the help of God, will commence the work. There will, necessarily, be much bloodshed at first—there always has been in every case where great evils were to be overcome. My life will be sacrificed, but it will be in a good and merciful cause, and when I shall have done my work, some other man will take it up just where I leave it, and so it will go on until your children’s children and mine may be able to look a civilised man in the face.”
“Are you in earnest?” asked Paoli. “Do you mean it?”
“Mean it!” cried Cromillian. “Why did I leave a comfortable home in England, where I lived like a gentleman, to come here and turn bandit? Was it to plunder, to rob, to execute vengeance? Answer me, Paoli. Why am I a voluntary outlaw, destined to know no other home on earth but that which the clefts in the rocks and mountains or the maquis afford me? Say, is it to rob, think you?”
“No, no, not that, surely!” cried Paoli. “I have been with you for a year and I know that you have only taken from the rich in order to give to the poor. I know you have so frightened several who had declared the vendetta and were on the tracks of their would-be victims that they have given up the pursuit. I have seen what you have done, although I could not understand your method. But what is to be our next work, if it is not an impertinent question?”
Cromillian eyed his interrogator closely: “Well,” he said finally, “you have, undoubtedly, heard the rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is to visit his native land, which he has not seen since he was a child.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Paoli, “and I know that the Batistellis will declare the vendetta against him if he dares to come. Now, my father was a friend of Conrad Batistelli, and I am a friend of the brothers, Pascal and Julien. I gave my word to my father on his death-bed that I would be true to the Batistellis, and their cause is my cause. If Pascal and Julien declare that Vandemar must die, I shall aid them. If I do not, I shall be false to the oath given to my father.”
“You can do as you please,” replied Cromillian, “but, from what I have told you, you know that I shall consider it my duty to protect Vandemar from the Batistellis, and from you. Besides, how do you know that Manuel Della Coscia killed Conrad Batistelli?”
“Why, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Paoli. “Was not Conrad found in his own field, stabbed to the heart by a stiletto, upon the handle of which were found the initials of Manuel Della Coscia? And did he not confess his guilt by fleeing from the island, taking his little son with him? I cannot understand why Vandemar can have the temerity to return to Corsica when the case against his father and himself is so strong. He simply invites the doom which surely awaits him.”
“I do not think he comes for any such reason,” said Cromillian. “I think the result of his visit will be to show that his father was innocent of that crime and that the Batistellis have no cause for enmity against him.”
“He will have no time to prove that,” answered Paoli. “As soon as the Batistelli brothers know that he is in Corsica, his death will be but a question of a few hours.”
“But supposing they do not know him?” said Cromillian. “Supposing they do not recognise him?”
“I am sure that I should know him,” replied Paoli. “I knew his father well, and the sons of Corsicans too closely resemble their fathers to render his recognition improbable.”
“I am not a rich man, as you know,” said Cromillian, “but I’ll wager ten louis d’or, Paoli, that, if you saw Vandemar Della Coscia, you would not know him.”
“But if I do,” cried Paoli, “and I point him out to the Batistellis, do I get the ten louis d’or?”
“If you point him out to me first,” said Cromillian, “you will get the ten louis d’or. If you point him out to anybody else, what you will get will be determined hereafter. Is it a wager?” he asked.
“It is,” cried Paoli, and the men shook hands.
Paoli could not refrain from referring again to the vendetta between the Batistellis and the Della Coscias.
“The Batistellis are rich and powerful,” he began, “and who is there so bold as to think of contending against them?”
“I dare!” cried Cromillian. “I will shed every drop of my blood to prevent such diabolical injustice.”
“But not with your single arm?” questioned Paoli. “None could be found rash enough to join you in so mad a scheme.”
“Yes, one will,” answered Cromillian, “one who is trusty and true—my Protector!”
“Your Protector?” Paoli asked, inquiringly.
“There is my Protector,” said Cromillian, pointing to his gun, “a double-barrelled orator who preaches the gospel right into a man every time. Of what use are the tongues of a hundred missionaries? When the gospel is preached in Corsica to-day, it must spring from the muzzle of a gun or the point of a stiletto; it must be forced into the people with leaden balls or shining steel. Come to my heart, faithful guardian!” As he spoke, he embraced his weapon with fervour: “Thou wilt be true to poor Corsica, and to me, defender of the right, protector of the innocent, friend of the poor, merciful to the just, who smiteth only to bless. Dear Goddess, I love thee! Swear that thou wilt be true to me; speak, let me hear thy voice.” Raising his weapon, he discharged both barrels. Then he continued: “Sweeter to my ears is thy voice than the cooing of doves.”
On the evening of the same day, and at about the same hour at which the colloquy had taken place between Cromillian and his lieutenant, Countess Mont d’Oro and Bertha had come to what was called, by the inhabitants of Alfieri, Mont d’Oro Castle.
It is usually dispiriting to arrive late in the afternoon at a house with which you have previously been unacquainted. The glorious morning sun is needed to bring out local beauties and points of interest which escape the attention when day is waning. Besides, Bertha was weary and nervous. The passage from Marseilles to Ajaccio had been made upon a sailing vessel, the accommodations of which were far from palatial. To add to their discomfiture, a storm had overtaken them and the qualms of seasickness had been added to their other troubles. Again, the ride from Ajaccio to Altieri had been made in a tumble-down vehicle over a rough road, and the Countess declared that every bone in her body was aching when she reached home. To this remark Bertha silently assented, for she said to herself that if the Countess felt any worse than she did, she must be miserable indeed.
There being no actual head to the household during the Countess’s absence, it was in a most disordered condition at the time of their arrival, and considerable time passed before the energetic orders of the mistress secured a semblance of household unity and led to the preparation of a supper for the weary travellers.
Bertha retired early to her room. It was comfortable, even cosey, being located upon the third floor in one of those towers which are characteristic features of Corsican architecture. It was with a feeling of great relief that Bertha threw herself upon the couch; but she could not sleep. After a long period of wakefulness and tossing, she arose and went to the latticed window. The moon was shining brightly. She opened the lattice and looked out upon the beautiful grounds which surrounded the castle.
Suddenly, she started back. A high hedge divided the grounds belonging to the Mont d’Oro estate from that adjoining, but, from her elevated position, she commanded a full view of the grounds of the neighboring estate. The house was fully as imposing as that of Countess Mont d’Oro; in fact, more so, for while the Mont d’Oro mansion was built of wood, the one upon which she was now gazing was constructed of stone and seemed, as it was, a much more substantial building.
But it was not the building which had attracted her attention, although it presented an imposing appearance, lighted by the moon, with the portions in shadow accentuating the sharp contrasts. No, what caught her eye and riveted her attention was the figure of a young girl dressed in white, who, standing in the moonlight, looked like some spirit rather than a human being. Bertha partially closed the lattice, leaving only a narrow space through which she could watch the strange figure, which stood motionless. She could not see the girl’s face, for it was turned in the opposite direction and her dark hair, which was unfastened, shrouded even the side of her face from view.
It seemed a long time to Bertha that she sat there and watched the motionless figure. Suddenly, the sound of a voice fell upon her ear. She listened and, although she could not understand the words, she knew by the melody and the manner in which the song was sung that it was a boisterous drinking song. The voice came nearer, and soon the figure of a man entered the grounds where the young girl stood. At sight of him, she started forward with a glad cry which was distinctly audible to Bertha. Had she been waiting for a lover? The figure in white approached the man and threw her arms about his neck, but, to Bertha’s surprise, the man repelled her advances, pushing her away from him with such violence that she fell to the ground.
Bertha started to her feet, full of indignation. It seemed as though she must go to the assistance of the young girl who had been so cruelly treated. She quickly realised the impossibility of such an action on her part and, resuming her seat, watched to see what would happen. The young girl rose slowly to her feet and disappeared within a doorway. The man, whoever he was, was evidently so intoxicated as to be unable to maintain a standing position, for, after several efforts to reach the door through which the young girl had gone, he lost his balance and fell prone to the ground. A few minutes later, the girl emerged from the doorway, accompanied by an old man and an old woman, and by their combined efforts the drunken man was taken into the house, and the door closed behind them.
The next morning, after breakfast, while sitting in the Countess’s boudoir, Bertha could not refrain from giving an account of what she had seen the previous night.
“Oh, that is a common occurrence,” said the Countess. “The girl whom you saw was Vivienne Batistelli. The drunken man was her younger brother, Julien, who is going to the bad very fast, they say. Her elder brother, Pascal, is very correct in his habits, although of a very bitter and revengeful disposition. Julien is a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow, intent upon having a good time. As is often the case, the sister has no love for her elder brother, but bestows it all upon this young profligate. I used to do the same when my son was young.
“For a time, I thought he could do no wrong, no matter how badly he acted, but when he showed such complete disregard for my wishes, when he told me plainly that he intended to do as he pleased, no matter what I said or what I wished, there came a revulsion. Although I am his mother, I am not ashamed to say that instead of loving him, I came to hate the sight of him, and am never happy when he is near me. He is virtually betrothed, with the consent of her brother Pascal, to this Vivienne Batistelli, but that would make no difference to him if he saw another young face that pleased him. He is a consummate flirt, if no worse.
“I sincerely hope that nothing will happen to bring him here to Corsica; but if he does come, he will find that I am mistress of this castle, and that he cannot remain in it, unless with my permission.”