CHAPTER XII.
CROMILLIAN, THE MORAL BANDIT.
WHEN Cromillian uttered his fervent invocation to his gun and then discharged both barrels into the air, he may have thought that his lieutenant, Paoli, would have signified his allegiance to the cause, and his endorsement of the sentiments expressed by a similar declaration, and an equally vociferous attestation, but if such a thought was in Cromillian’s mind, he was destined to be disappointed. The lieutenant evinced no surprise at Cromillian’s procedure and said nothing.
Cromillian’s next speech was a marked drop to the commonplace:
“I wonder where Lulie is? She was to bring some food for us to this place. If she does not come, we shall have to share with the others. There is a savoury smell in the air, so I think we shall not go hungry.”
Cromillian’s favourite haunt in the ravine was only about five miles from Alfieri, but this fact was, of course, unknown to the villagers, who seldom came in that direction. A band of four shepherds, however, in search of some stray sheep, was unconsciously within a short distance of Cromillian’s camp at the time he was waiting for the appearance of Lulie.
The search for the sheep was unsuccessful and the shepherds, inwardly cursing their luck, were on their way homeward.
“They are probably at the bottom of the river, or perhaps they have gone up the mountain,” said one of the men.
“Perhaps,” replied another; “but I am inclined to think that some of Cromillian’s band came across them and we shall never see or hear of them again.”
The second speaker was right. Three of the carcasses were hanging from the limb of a tree where Cromillian’s band was encamped, while the other had given forth the savoury smell which had been noticed by Cromillian.
The second speaker went on: “Corsicans used to be considered brave men, but we might as well call ourselves cowards if we much longer allow this Cromillian and his band to lord it over us, and tell us what we shall do and what we shall not do.”
“What has Cromillian done to you?” asked the first speaker. “Perhaps we have more reason to complain than you have. I do not think I am a coward, but when it comes to dealing with Cromillian, I think discretion is the better part of valour. But what has he done to you?”
“Nothing, yet,” the other replied; “but I suppose my time will come. He knows I have some property and that when a man owes me money I follow it up until I get it. If a man has money or property, Cromillian seems to be his natural enemy. Why, it was only day before yesterday that old Lamont showed me a note he had received from Cromillian. It was short and to the point: ‘Send the Widow Nafilet a bag of flour and a quarter of beef.’ This impudent piece of paper was signed ‘Cromillian.’”
“What did old Lamont do?” asked the first speaker. “Did he tear the letter in pieces and tell Cromillian to go to the devil?”
“Hardly,” was the reply. “He did not tell me what he did, but Jean said that within fifteen minutes after he got the letter, Lamont told him to take the flour and beef over to the widow as soon as possible.”
The first speaker laughed: “Yes, and I think if you had received the letter you would have done just as old Lamont did. I had the honour, about six months ago, to receive a note from Cromillian, commanding me to marry a certain girl who claimed that I had wronged her. Perhaps I had, but that was my business, was it not?”
“Yes, yes, to be sure it was,” said the others. Then one of them asked: “But what did you do?”
“T married her,” was the reply.
There was a general laugh, in which the speaker joined; then the third shepherd said:
“My experience with Cromillian was not a very pleasant one; in fact, I carried about with me, for fully a week, some very uncomfortable reminders. You see for nearly two hundred years there has been a vendetta between my family and that of the Bendelas. The Bendelas have all died out with the exception of the widow, whom you all know, and her little son, who is about ten years old, I think. Less than a month ago I happened to meet him and, having my sheep-staff with me, gave him a good pounding from which I did not suppose he could recover. I left him in the forest, feeling quite sure that he would die there, but as it so happened that rascal Cromillian found him, and the boy told him that I was the one who had struck him. Three days afterwards, as I was coming home from Ajaccio, one dark night, Cromillian and his gang captured me. They took me into the maquis, bound me to a tree, and Cromillian himself gave me thirty sturdy whacks upon the back. Then he dismissed me with the polite admonition that if I touched the boy again he would shoot me at sight.”
“Have you met the boy since?” asked one of the shepherds.
“Oh, yes, often,” was the reply. “About a week ago I called upon the Widow Bendela and told her that I would consider the vendetta closed and that she need have no fear for her boy in the future. He, on his part, promised that he would bear no ill-will against me or mine.”
“You got off quite easily,” said the fourth shepherd. “Do you see that?” As he spoke, he raised a matted shock of hair from the right side of his head, disclosing the fact that his right ear had been cut off.
“Why, how did that happen?” all three cried in unison.
“Well, you see,” was the reply, “like my friend, I inherited a vendetta. One day I thought I had a remarkably good chance to bring down my enemy. I had come up behind him, and he had no idea of my presence. I am considered a good shot, but I missed it that time. Instead of hitting him in the back of the head, as I intended, the ball struck his right ear and lacerated it so that the greater part of it had to be removed by the surgeon. Somehow or other Cromillian got wind of the affair. Four of his band caught me one day and carried me into the maquis. Cromillian gave me a long lecture on the foolishness and criminality of the vendetta and then told me he would give me something to remember his words by; and he did, for one of the band took his stiletto and cut off my right ear. I have only one good ear now, but I have a good memory and I do not think I shall forget what Cromillian said on that occasion.”
“Ha, who comes here?” cried one of the men. As he spoke a little girl, apparently about ten years of age, and bearing a basket which seemed to be heavily laden, approached them.
“Ah, my little girl,” said one of them, “what’s in your basket?” As he spoke he took it from her and tore off the cloth which covered it. “Cold tongue, venison, bread, butter, cake, chicken pie.”
The shepherds gathered around the basket and looked upon its contents.
“A feast fit for an emperor,” said one.
The little girl began to cry. “I’ll tell uncle if you don’t give me back my basket. He is waiting for me.”
“Who is your uncle, little girl?” was the next question.
“Uncle Cromillian,” said Lulie.
The four men started back, with frightened looks in their faces. “There, we’re only fooling,” said one of them. “See, we have not touched a thing. We were only in play, you know.”
“Just in fun,” said another. “Here, take this,” passing her a small coin.
“Uncle will not allow me to take money,” said Lulie.
“Who has the care of you, little girl?” asked one of the men.
“Uncle Cromillian takes care of mother and me and little brother, since father died. He is not my uncle, but he says I may call him so if I want to, and so I do because he takes care of us.”
“Say, friends,” said the man with one ear, “you have heard of the old feud between the Batistellis and the Della Coscias. There will be blood shed in Alfieri before many days have passed. Let’s find out by this little chick which way the wind blows.”
“No, no, no,” cried the others, “you must not question her. She will tell her uncle.”
“Do you take me for a fool? No, there need be no questions, but, if the matter is talked about before her, do you see, I shall ask her to improvise for our amusement. No doubt she chants like a thrush and may hit the keynote for us. Come here, little girl. Now, I think you can chant a ballata for us, can you not?”
“I have but a poor gift, but if only Chennelly Baptiste were here she would charm you. She is called the very best voceratrice in the village. That is why she is sent for to attend all the funerals; she has the gift, you know.”
“But surely you can give us a few lines about something that has happened or that is going to happen. No doubt your mother has told you about the old corporals who lived hundreds of years ago and——”
Suddenly, the girl cried: “Oh, I have thought of something! Hark, now:
“The big oak has fallen by the frost and the snow, but its roots shot forth a branch and the branch has become an oak. He now rules his father’s house, the noble house of Della Coscia. There shall no evil come to him, for Heaven will protect him. The wicked Batistellis shall die if they bring any harm to Vandemar!”
“You have sung very prettily, my little girl,” said the shepherd who had asked her to improvise. “We are much obliged to you, but you had better go right along, for Uncle Cromillian is waiting for his dinner.”
The speaker looked after Lulie until she had disappeared from sight; then, turning to the others, he said:
“Ah! I thought so, but we shall see. If I mistake not, we are all partisans of the Batistellis, for surely it is to our interest to be on the side of the most powerful family in this part of Corsica. Now that Count Mont d’Oro is dead there is no one to dispute Pascal Batistelli’s authority in Alfieri.”
“You forget Cromillian,” said one of the shepherds.
“I think that Pascal Batistelli is a match for Cromillian,” was the reply. “If Vandemar Della Coscia dares to set foot in Corsica again, Pascal Batistelli will have his life before Uncle Cromillian has time to interfere. Then we shall all have the laugh on Uncle Cromillian.”
It was fully a fortnight after the departure of Countess Mont d’Oro and Bertha from Paris, that Clarence Glynne received a letter announcing their safe arrival in Corsica. It was written by Bertha and he read it with great interest:
“MY DEAR KIND FRIENDS, CLARENCE AND JENNIE:
“It is with a heart overflowing with gratitude that I address you thus, for I seem almost lost in this great world. I have been here only a few days, but have learned in that time that this is a very strange country. Hate, instead of love, seems to be the ruling passion among Corsicans. Countess Mont d’Oro hates her own son, and, so far as I can learn, everybody hates somebody else. But perhaps I ought not to criticise them too severely. Have you had any word from Mr. De Vinne, or from my guardian, your father? I know that you will send me information regarding them as soon as possible, but the suspense in which I live from day to day is dreadful.
“The Mont d’Oro estate is beautiful in so far as nature can make it so, and the one that adjoins it, owned by the Batistelli family, is even more lovely. As the story goes, about seventeen years ago, the father, Conrad Batistelli, was assassinated by a man named Manuel Della Coscia. The same day that he was killed his daughter Vivienne was born. When the mother learned of the death of her husband, she became insane and died in that condition, leaving the little girl fatherless and motherless. Everybody calls Manuel Della Coscia a coward for, immediately after killing Conrad Batistelli, he left the island secretly, taking with him his little son Vandemar, who was about six years of age at the time, and they have not been heard from since. Every true-hearted Corsican execrates the name of Della Coscia, for in Corsica when a man kills his enemy he is supposed to be brave enough to remain and give the friends of his enemy a chance to kill him. There is a rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is soon to return to Corsica, and Countess Mont d’Oro tells me that the Batistelli brothers will kill him at sight if he dares to come. I am not acquainted with the Batistellis, nor do I wish to become so, with the prospect of such a terrible event as the assassination of this young man at their hands.
“The Countess tells me that her husband and Pascal Batistelli were very anxious that her son, Count Napier, should wed Vivienne Batistelli; and, according to the custom of the country, they arranged a betrothal, irrespective of the wishes of the young people. The Countess says that Vivienne came to her one day and told her that under no circumstances could she ever marry her son, and it was solely for that reason the Countess induced Count Napier to accompany her to Paris, where, as you know, he is living a wild life. He still considers himself betrothed to Vivienne, but the Countess hopes that he will forget her and not come back to Corsica again.
“With love to you both, I am yours, with great affection,
“BERTHA RENVILLE.”