As you leave Porto Vecchio and journey north-west, towards the interior of the island, you find that the ground rises rather rapidly; and after a three hours’ jaunt along winding paths, obstructed by huge boulders, and sometimes interrupted by ravines, you find yourself on the edge of a very extensive maquis. The maquis is the home of the Corsican shepherd and of all those who are at odds with the law. You must know that the Corsican farmer, to save himself the trouble of fertilising his land, sets fire to a certain amount of woodland. If the fire spreads farther than is necessary, so much the worse; come what come may, he is quite sure of obtaining a good harvest by planting the ground fertilised by the ashes of the trees it formerly bore. When the ripe grain is gathered,—for they leave the straw, which it would require some labour to collect,—the roots which are left unburned in the ground put forth in the following spring very vigorous shoots, which reach a height of seven or eight feet in a few years. It is this species of dense underbrush which is called maquis. It consists of trees and bushes of different kinds, mingled together as God pleases. Only with hatchet in hand can man open a path through it; and there are some maquis so dense and thick that even the wild sheep cannot break through.
If you have killed a man, betake yourself to the maquis of Porto Vecchio, and you can live there in safety with a good rifle, powder, and shot. Do not forget a brown cloak provided with a hood, to serve as a covering and as a mattress. The shepherds will give you milk, cheese, and chestnuts, and you will have no reason to fear the law, or the dead man’s kindred, except when you are forced to go down into the town to replenish your stock of ammunition.
Mateo Falcone, when I was in Corsica, in 18—, had his home about half a league from this maquis. He was a rather wealthy man for that country; living nobly—that is to say, without working—on the produce of his flocks, which were driven to pasture here and there upon the mountains by shepherds, a sort of nomadic people. When I saw him, two years subsequent to the episode I am about to relate, he seemed to me to be not more than fifty years old at most. Imagine a small, but sturdily built man, with curly hair as black as jet, aquiline nose, thin lips, large bright eyes, and a complexion of the hue of a boot-flap. His skill in marksmanship was considered extraordinary, even in his country, where there are so many good shots. For example, Mateo would never fire at a wild sheep with buckshot; but he would bring one down at a hundred and twenty yards with a bullet in the head or the shoulder, as he pleased. He used his weapons as readily at night as by day, and I was told of this instance of his skill, which will seem incredible perhaps to those who have not travelled in Corsica. A candle was placed at a distance of twenty-four yards, behind a piece of transparent paper as large as a plate. He took aim, then the candle was extinguished, and, a minute later, in absolute darkness, he fired and hit the paper three times out of four.
With such transcendent talent, Mateo Falcone had won a great reputation. He was said to be as true a friend as he was a dangerous enemy; always ready to oblige, and generous to the poor, he lived at peace with all the world in the district of Porto Vecchio. But the story was told of him, that at Corte, where he married his wife, he had disposed very summarily of a rival who was reputed to be as redoubtable in war as in love; at all events, Mateo was given credit for a certain rifle shot which surprised the aforesaid rival as he was shaving in front of a little mirror that hung at his window. When the affair was forgotten, Mateo married. His wife, Giuseppa, gave him at first three daughters (which caused him to fret and fume), and finally a son, whom he named Fortunato; he was the hope of the family, the heir to the name. The daughters were well married; their father could at need rely upon the daggers and carbines of his sons-in-law. The son was only ten years old, but he already gave rich promise for the future.
On a certain day in autumn, Mateo left the house early, with his wife, to inspect one of his flocks at a clearing in the maquis. Fortunato would have liked to go with them, but the clearing was too far; moreover, some one must stay behind to watch the house; so the father refused; we shall see whether he had reason to repent.
He had been absent several hours, and little Fortunato was lying placidly in the sun, watching the blue mountains, and thinking that, on the following Sunday, he was going to the town to dine with his uncle the caporal,[40] when he was suddenly interrupted in his meditations by the report of a firearm. He rose and turned towards the plain from which the sound came. Other reports followed, at unequal intervals, coming constantly nearer. At last, on a path leading from the plain to Mateo’s house, appeared a man wearing a pointed cap such as the mountaineers wear, with a long beard, clad in rags, and hardly able to drag himself along, using his rifle as a cane. He had received a bullet in the thigh.
That man was a bandit,[41] who, having started under cover of the darkness to go to the town for powder, had fallen into an ambush of Corsican voltigeurs.[42] After a stout defence he had succeeding in beating a retreat, hotly pursued, and firing from one rock after another. But he was only a little in advance of the soldiers, and his wound made it impossible to reach the maquis before he was overtaken.
He went up to Fortunato and said:
“You are Mateo Falcone’s son?”
“Yes.”
“I am Gianetto Sanpiero. I am pursued by the yellow collars.[43] Hide me, for I can’t go any farther.”
“What will my father say if I hide you without his leave?”
“He will say that you did well.”
“Who knows?”
“Hide me quick; they’re coming.”
“Wait till my father comes home.”
“Wait? damnation! They will be here in five minutes. Come, hide me, or I’ll kill you.”
Fortunato replied with the utmost coolness:
“Your gun’s empty, and there ain’t any cartridges left in your carchera.”[44]
“I have my stiletto.”
“But can you run as fast I can?”
He gave a leap and placed himself out of danger.
“You are not Mateo Falcone’s son! Will you let me be arrested in front of your house?”
The child seemed to be moved.
“What will you give me if I hide you?” he said, drawing nearer.
The bandit felt in a leather pocket that hung from his belt and took out a five-franc piece, which he had kept in reserve, no doubt, to buy powder. Fortunato smiled at sight of the silver; he seized it and said to Gianetto:
“Don’t be afraid.”
He instantly dug a great hole in a haystack that stood near the house. Gianetto crept into it, and the child covered him so as to let him have a little air to breathe, but so that it was impossible to suspect that the hay concealed a man. He conceived also an ingeniously crafty idea, worthy of a savage. He took a cat and her kittens and placed them on the haystack, to make it appear that it had not been disturbed recently. Then, noticing marks of blood on the path near the house, he carefully covered them with dirt, and, when that was done, lay down again in the sun with the most perfect tranquillity.
A few minutes later, six men in brown uniform with yellow facings commanded by an adjutant halted in front of Mateo’s door. This adjutant was distantly related to the Falcones. (It is well known that in Corsica degrees of kinship are followed out much farther than elsewhere.) His name was Tiodoro Gamba; he was an active officer, greatly feared by the bandits, several of whom he had already run to earth.
“Good-day, my young cousin,” he said to Fortunato, walking to where he lay; “how you’ve grown! Did you see a man pass by just now?”
“Oh! I ain’t as tall as you yet, cousin,” replied the child, with a stupid expression.
“That will come. But tell me, didn’t you see a man pass?”
“Didn’t I see a man pass?”
“Yes, a man with a black velvet pointed cap and a red and yellow embroidered jacket?”
“A man in a pointed cap and a red and yellow embroidered jacket?”
“Yes; answer at once, and don’t repeat my questions.”
“Monsieur le curé passed our door this morning, on his horse Piero. He asked me how papa was and I told him——”
“Ah! you little scamp, you are playing sly! Tell me quick which way Gianetto went; for he’s the man we’re looking for, and I am certain he took this path.”
“Who knows?”
“Who knows? I know that you saw him.”
“Does a fellow see people pass when he’s asleep?”
“You weren’t asleep, good-for-nothing; the shots woke you.”
“Do you think, cousin, that your guns make such a great noise? My father’s carbine makes a lot more.”
“May the devil take you, you infernal rascal! I am perfectly sure you saw Gianetto. Perhaps you have hidden him even. Come, boys; go into the house, and see if our man isn’t there. He was only going on one foot, and he knows too much, the villain, to try to get to the maquis at that gait. Besides, the marks of blood stopped here.”
“What will papa say?” queried Fortunato, with a mocking laugh. “What will he say when he knows that you went into his house when he was away?”
“You good-for-nothing!” said Adjutant Gamba, taking him by the ear, “do you know that it rests with me to make you change your tune? Perhaps, if I give you twenty blows or so with the flat of my sabre, you will conclude to speak.”
But Fortunato continued to laugh sneeringly.
“My father is Mateo Falcone!” he said with emphasis.
“Do you know, you little scamp, that I can take you to Corte or to Bastia? I’ll make you sleep in a dungeon, on straw, with irons on your feet, and I’ll have you guillotined, if you don’t tell me where Gianetto Sanpiero is.”
The child laughed heartily at this absurd threat.
“My father’s Mateo Falcone,” he repeated.
“Adjutant,” said one of the voltigeurs in an undertone, “let us not get into a row with Mateo.”
Gamba was evidently perplexed. He talked in a low tone with his soldiers, who had already searched the whole house. It was not a very long operation, for a Corsican’s cabin consists of a single square room. The furniture consists of a table, benches, chests, and household and hunting implements. Meanwhile little Fortunato patted his cat, and seemed to derive a wicked enjoyment from the embarrassment of the voltigeurs and his cousin.
A soldier approached the haystack. He saw the cat and thrust his bayonet carelessly into the hay, shrugging his shoulders, as if he realised that it was an absurd precaution. Nothing stirred; and the child’s face did not betray the slightest excitement.
The adjutant and his squad were at their wit’s end; they were already glancing meaningly toward the plain, as if proposing to return whence they came, when their leader, convinced that threats would have no effect on Falcone’s son, determined to make one last effort, and to try the power of caresses and gifts.
“You seem to be a very wide-awake youngster, cousin,” said he. “You will go far. But you are playing a low game with me; and if I wasn’t afraid of distressing my cousin Mateo, deuce take me if I wouldn’t carry you off with me!”
“Bah!”
“But, when my cousin returns, I’ll tell him the story, and he’ll give you the lash till the blood comes, to punish you for lying.”
“And then?”
“You will see. But, I say, be a good boy, and I’ll give you something.”
“And I’ll give you a piece of advice, cousin: if you stay here any longer, Gianetto will be in the maquis, and then it will take more than one fox like you to catch him.”
The adjutant took a silver watch from his pocket, worth perhaps thirty francs; and observing that little Fortunato’s eyes sparkled as he looked at it, he said, holding it up at the end of its steel chain:
“Rascal! you’d like to have a watch like this hanging round your neck, and you’d stroll through the streets of Porto Vecchio, as proud as a peacock; and people would ask you: ‘What time is it?’ and you’d say: ‘Look at my watch!’”
“When I’m big, my uncle the caporal will give me a watch.”
“Yes; but your uncle’s son has got one now—not such a fine one as this, to be sure. Still, he’s younger than you.”
The child sighed.
“Well! would you like this watch, my little cousin?”
Fortunato, with his eye fixed on the watch, resembled a cat to which a whole chicken is presented. As the beast feels sure that he is being made a fool of, he dares not touch it with his claws, and he turns his eyes away from time to time to avoid the risk of yielding to temptation; but he licks his chops every instant, and seems to say to his master: “What a cruel joke this is!”
But Adjutant Gamba seemed to be in earnest in his offer of the watch. Fortunato did not put out his hand; but he said with a bitter smile:
“Why do you make sport of me?”
“By God! I am not joking. Just tell me where Gianetto is, and this watch is yours.”
Fortunato smiled an incredulous smile; and, fastening his black eyes on the adjutant’s, he strove to read therein how far he should put faith in his words.
“May I lose my epaulets,” cried the adjutant, “if I don’t give you the watch on that condition! My comrades are witnesses; and I can’t go back on my word.”
As he spoke, he held the watch nearer and nearer, so that it almost touched the child’s pale cheek. His face betrayed the battle that was taking place in his mind between covetousness and respect for the duties of hospitality. His bare breast rose and fell violently, and he seemed on the point of suffocation. Meanwhile the watch swung to and fro, turned, and sometimes touched the end of his nose. At last, by slow degrees, his right hand rose toward the watch; the ends of his fingers touched it; and he felt the full weight of it on his hand, but still the adjutant did not let go the end of the chain. The face was sky-blue, the case newly polished—in the sun it shone like fire. The temptation was too great.
Fortunato raised his left hand, too, and pointed with his thumb, over his left shoulder, to the haystack against which he was leaning. The adjutant understood him instantly. He let go the end of the chain; Fortunato realised that he was the sole possessor of the watch. He sprang up with the agility of a stag, and ran some yards away from the haystack, which the voltigeurs began at once to demolish.
They soon saw the hay begin to move; and a man covered with blood came forth, dagger in hand; but when he tried to raise himself, his stiffened wound prevented him from standing erect. He fell. The adjutant threw himself upon him and tore his stiletto from his hand. In a trice he was securely bound, despite his resistance.
Gianetto, lying on the ground and corded like a bundle of sticks, turned his head toward Fortunato, who had drawn near.
“Son of——!” he said, with more scorn than anger.
The child tossed him the piece of silver which he had received from him, feeling that he no longer deserved it; but the outlaw seemed to pay no heed to that movement. He said to the adjutant, as coolly as possible:
“I can’t walk, my dear Gamba; you will have to carry me to the town.”
“You ran faster than a kid just now,” retorted the cruel victor; “but never fear; I am so pleased to have caught you, that I would carry you on my back a whole league without getting tired. However, my boy, we’ll make a litter for you with some branches and your cloak; and we shall find horses at Crespoli’s farm.”
“Good,” said the prisoner; “just put a little straw on your litter, too, so that I can be more comfortable.”
While the voltigeurs busied themselves, some in making a sort of litter with chestnut branches, others in dressing Gianetto’s wound, Mateo Falcone and his wife suddenly appeared at a bend in the path leading to the maquis. The woman was stooping painfully beneath the weight of an enormous bag of chestnuts, while her husband sauntered along, carrying nothing save one rifle in his hand and another slung over his shoulder; for it is unworthy of a man to carry any other burden than his weapons.
At sight of the soldiers, Mateo’s first thought was that they had come to arrest him. But why that thought? Had Mateo any difficulties to adjust with the authorities? No. He enjoyed an excellent reputation. He was, as they say, a person of good fame; but he was a Corsican and a mountaineer; and there are few Corsican mountaineers who, by carefully searching their memory, cannot find some trifling peccadillo—such as a rifle shot, a dagger thrust, or other bagatelle. Mateo’s conscience was clearer than most, for he had not aimed his rifle at a man for more than ten years; but he was prudent none the less, and he placed himself in a position to make a stout defence, if need be.
“Wife,” he said to Giuseppa, “put down your bag and be ready.”
She instantly obeyed. He gave her the gun that he carried slung over his shoulder, which might be in his way. He cocked the one he had in his hand, and walked slowly toward his house, skirting the trees that lined the path, and ready, at the slightest hostile demonstration, to jump behind the largest trunk, where he could fire without exposing himself. His wife followed at his heels, holding his spare gun and his cartridge-box. A good housewife’s work, in case of a fight, is to load her husband’s weapons.
The adjutant, on the other hand, was greatly disturbed to see Mateo advance thus with measured steps, with rifle raised and finger on trigger.
“If by any chance,” he thought, “Mateo proves to be related to Gianetto, or if he is his friend and should take it into his head to defend him, the charges of his two rifles would reach two of us, as sure as a letter reaches its address; and suppose he should draw a bead on me, notwithstanding our relationship!”
In his perplexity he adopted an extremely courageous course—he went forward alone toward Mateo, to tell him what had happened, accosting him as an old acquaintance; but the short distance that separated them seemed to him terribly long.
“Hallo! my old comrade,” he cried; “how goes it, old fellow? It’s me, Gamba, your cousin.”
Mateo, without a word in reply, halted, and as the other spoke he raised the barrel of his gun slowly, so that it was pointed at the sky when the adjutant met him.
“Good-day, brother,” said the adjutant, “it’s a long while since I saw you.”
“Good-day, brother.”
“I looked in to say good-day to you and Cousin Pepa as I passed. We have had a long jaunt to-day; but we ought not to complain of fatigue, as we have made a famous capture. We have caught Gianetto Sanpiero.”
“God be praised!” cried Giuseppa. “He stole a milch goat from us last week.”
Those words made Gamba’s heart glad.
“Poor devil!” said Mateo, “he was hungry.”
“The rascal defended himself like a lion,” continued the adjutant, slightly mortified; “he killed one of my men, and, not content with that, he broke Corporal Chardon’s arm; but there’s no great harm done; he was only a Frenchman. After that, he hid himself so completely that the devil himself couldn’t have found him. If it hadn’t been for my little cousin, Fortunato, I could never have unearthed him.”
“Fortunato!” cried Mateo.
“Fortunato!” echoed Giuseppa.
“Yes, Gianetto was hidden under the haystack yonder; but my little cousin showed me the trick. And I’ll tell his uncle the caporal, so that he’ll send him a handsome present for his trouble. And his name and yours will be in the report I shall send the advocate-general.”
“Malediction!” muttered Mateo.
They had joined the squad. Gianetto was already lying on the litter, ready to start. When he saw Mateo with Gamba, he smiled a strange smile; then, turning towards the door of the house, he spat on the threshold, saying:
“House of a traitor!”
Only a man who had made up his mind to die would have dared to utter the word traitor as applying to Falcone. A quick thrust of the stiletto, which would not have needed to be repeated, would have paid for the insult instantly. But Mateo made no other movement than to put his hand to his forehead, like a man utterly crushed.
Fortunato had gone into the house when he saw his father coming. He soon reappeared with a mug of milk, which he handed to Gianetto with downcast eyes.
“Away from me!” shouted the outlaw in a voice of thunder. Then, turning to one of the voltigeurs, “Comrade,” he said, “give me a drink.”
The soldier placed his gourd in his hands, and the outlaw drank the water given him by a man with whom he had recently exchanged rifle shots. Then he asked that his hands might be bound so that they would be folded on his breast, instead of behind his back.
“I like to lie comfortably,” he said.
They readily gratified him; then the adjutant gave the signal for departure, bade adieu to Mateo, who made no reply, and marched down at a rapid pace towards the plain.
Nearly ten minutes passed before Mateo opened his mouth. The child glanced uneasily, now at his mother and now at his father, who, leaning upon his gun, gazed at him with an expression of intense wrath.
“You begin well!” said Mateo at last, in a voice which, although calm, was terrifying to one who knew the man.
“Father!” cried the child stepping forward, with tears in his eyes, as if to throw himself at his feet.
But Mateo cried:
“Away from me!”
And the child stopped and stood still, sobbing, a few steps from his father.
Giuseppa approached. She had spied the watch chain, one end of which protruded from Fortunato’s shirt.
“Who gave you that watch?” she asked in a harsh tone.
“My cousin the adjutant.”
Falcone seized the watch, and hurled it against a stone, breaking it into a thousand pieces.
“Woman,” he said, “is this child mine?”
Giuseppa’s brown cheeks turned a brick red.
“What do you say, Mateo? Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Well, this child is the first of his race that ever did an act of treachery.”
Fortunato’s sobs and hiccoughs redoubled in force, and Falcone still kept his lynx-eyes fastened on him. At last he struck the butt of his gun on the ground, then threw it over his shoulder again and started back toward the maquis, calling to Fortunato to follow him. The child obeyed.
Giuseppa ran after Mateo and grasped his arm.
“He is your son,” she said in a trembling voice, fixing her black eyes on her husband’s, as if to read what was taking place in his mind.
“Let me alone,” replied Mateo, “I am his father.”
Giuseppa embraced her son and entered her cabin, weeping. She fell on her knees before an image of the Virgin and prayed fervently. Meanwhile Falcone walked some two hundred yards along the path, and did not stop until they reached a narrow ravine into which he descended. He sounded the earth with the butt of his rifle, and found it soft and easy to dig. It seemed to him a suitable spot for his design.
“Fortunato, go and stand by that big stone.”
The child did what he ordered, then knelt.
“Say your prayers.”
“Father, father, don’t kill me!”
“Say your prayers!” Mateo repeated, in a terrible voice.
The child, stammering and sobbing, repeated the Pater and the Credo. The father, in a loud voice, said Amen! at the end of each prayer.
“Are those all the prayers you know?”
“I know the Ave Maria, too, father, and the litany my aunt taught me.”
“That’s very long, but no matter.”
The child finished the litany in a feeble voice.
“Have you finished?”
“Oh, father! mercy! forgive me! I won’t do it again! I will pray so hard to my uncle the caporal that he’ll forgive Gianetto!”
He continued to speak; Mateo had cocked his gun, and he took aim at him, saying:
“May God forgive you!”
The child made a desperate effort to rise and grasp his father’s knees; but he had not time. Mateo fired, and Fortunato fell stark dead.
Without glancing at the body, Mateo returned to his house to fetch a spade, in order to bury his son. He had taken only a few steps, when he met Giuseppa, who was running after them, terrified by the report.
“What have you done?” she cried.
“Justice.”
“Where is he?”
“In the ravine. I am going to bury him. He died the death of a Christian; I will have a mass sung for him. Send word to my son-in-law Tiodoro Bianchi to come and live with us.”
1829.