CHAPTER XVI.

THE LAST OF ANTONIO.

The breakfast next morning at Vivario was so deliciously and unwontedly clean and refined in appearance, as to tempt us to linger over its luxuries, and almost to forget the rain sweeping against the windows outside.

The loaf on a plate (instead of on a dirty, sticky, American-cloth table-cover), toast in a rack, sugar-tongs, honey, and, greatest of all delights, a tiny pat of goat's butter, just made, and laid upon a little green china leaf, like a large pearl!

After all our vicissitudes of food and lodging, these refinements, served up in the snug, well-furnished little sitting-room, quite intoxicated us, and we began to feel once more that we were civilized beings, and not barbaric nomads on the tramp.

At ten o'clock we bid a fond adieu to the six cats, Jeannette, Madame Dausoigne and her bright-faced daughter, and started for our short two hours' drive to Corte--the last of our expeditions in our snug little carriage behind the two immaculate bays, and our old friend Antonio.

There was an air of softness about our driver to-day, which denoted that he himself remembered this fact and was sorry for it. The three weeks' daily contact between Antonio and his fare had considerably strengthened the liking we all conceived for him at first sight, and had established a mutual respect and regard between us and the young Corsican. He was always careful of our comforts; but to-day he was more than usually solicitous, in his quiet taciturn way, over the arrangement of our cushions and wraps, and about the rain which, in defiance of his twice offered hint, we allowed to stream over us and the little carriage as we went along. Travelling in the open air all day long soon makes one hardy, and neither of us could bear to shut out what view was visible on this lovely road.

Gleams of sunshine, too, occasionally glinted through the trees, and lit them up with dewdrops, like a fairy garden of diamonds; and, for a moment, the heavy clouds would clear away above us, and the rocks hanging overhead would show steep, turret-shaped spires rising into little oases of blue sky, with snow mountains beckoning from the other side.

Not far from Vivario, we noticed coloured stakes driven into the ground to show where the projected railway across the island was to pass. This railway is to run from Bastia to Ajaccio, and will be a most expensive work, as there will be a great deal of tunnelling necessary, through the Foce Pass, and between Vivario and Corte. Some attempts have been made for its commencement at both the capitals, but it is now delayed, partly on account of the difficulty of obtaining funds. It will probably have to be undertaken by the French Government, and for some time, no doubt, will not pay. At Corte, two Corsican gentlemen were warmly discussing the point whether it would be most advisable to employ native or foreign labour.

"The people of Corsica are starving for want of employment," said one; "you would not deprive them of a piece of work that would employ thousands, and take some years?"

"Would they take the work if it were offered them, monsieur?" inquired No. 3.

"Some would, mademoiselle. Some of our men wish for work and cannot obtain it."

"Only a small proportion--a very small minority," said the other Corsican. "If foreign labour were employed, the work would be finished in two years; if native, probably not in six. And it is more than possible, that even this small proportion of our people would not be found willing to work."

"You are a lazy people, monsieur."

"It is true, mademoiselle. And meanwhile capital will be idle. It is better for the capitalists, and better even for the country itself that the work should be done as quickly as possible."

The three villages of Luco, Serraggio, and San Pietro, were now completely embowered in lovely chestnuts, fully out; and brilliant fields of flax were passed, in masses of light-blue flowers.

Ponte Vecchio looked more beautiful than ever, in a passing gleam of sunshine; and as we got out for a farewell to our favourite spot, we discovered the remains of the ancient Pisan bridge lower down the gorge side--a narrow arch, unparapeted, thrown across from bank to bank for foot passengers, but now lying in scattered blocks down the hill-side, or making another boulder or two to vex and rouse the roaring torrent.

Meanwhile, the rain ran in a stream from Antonio's wideawake, and our concern was awakened that he still used his overcoat for a cushion, and not for its normal purpose.

"When do you wear your overcoat, Antonio?" at length one of us asked. "Is it intended for rain?"

Antonio turned round with his grave smile. "Yes, mademoiselle, it is for rain. But to-day is not much rain for Corsica."

"Not much rain?" we repeated. "Why, it has been pouring for three hours."

"It has rained a long time, but not heavily, mademoiselle." And Antonio bent his wideawake into another convenient little spout to let off the superfluous water.

Corsica is very rarely so wet as this year when we visited it. It is not generally considered a rainy country; but the rain, when it does come down, is often quite tropical, and falls with a pelt that is really appalling, upon the house roofs. To-day the rain was English-like--soft summer showers, refreshing to plants, and reminding of April.

When we entered Hotel Pierracci, after driving down the steep hill into the red-roofed street, we were streaming with water from every garment, and made large pools in the salle à manger.

But the air of Corte nearly choked us. It was indescribably hot, muggy, and breathless, and felt like the innermost chamber of a Turkish bath. The oppression was fearful, and although the weather had cleared up, we could not walk, and soon returned from an attempted stroll back to our hotel, to lie panting in our chairs before the open windows and closed shutters.

Meanwhile Antonio had brought in the last of our possessions, and came to receive the money for his master. His brown face was full of colour and friendliness, as he bade us good-bye; and, with extreme shyness, shook our proffered hands, wishing us a safe and happy return to our own country. We felt once more the chill of our position, as strangers in a foreign land, as our good, honest little driver disappeared, remembering that we should now have to look after ourselves.

It was a misfortune that we could not leave the next day, for Corte, though lovely, was unpleasant; but it was impossible to face the idea of a ten hours' journey in the breathless interior of a small diligence, and there was no diligence with banquette until the Monday morning.

So we had to console ourselves with such French novels as the small library opposite could furnish, and with staring out of our windows at the incessant stream of strollers up and down.

The men have the French practice here, which we never noticed elsewhere, of kissing each other, when on terms of intimacy, on both cheeks in the public street.

Towards evening, awnings were run out from the hotel, from beneath which rose the sound of lively voices discussing native politics, and the clinking of glasses and teaspoons. Here, the upper class of Corte regaled themselves with tobacco, chat, and refreshment, to a late hour; whilst their well-dressed but poorer compatriots were content to wander up and down in front, in groups of threes and fours, pipe in mouth, with grave step and conversation.

Until past midnight this incessant pacing up and down the centre of the road, and the quiet hum of voices, continued through the hot, streaming, night-air. Two things struck me, both on the Saturday and Sunday night: the first was the absence of drunken shouts, and the second the absence of female voices.

Drunkards are undoubtedly to be found in Corsica, but apparently, a sense of the national dignity of demeanour remains even to them, and they do not shout and rave and misbehave like a Briton in drink.

As for the women of Corsica, they never join in the public promenades; and, unless it is in Bastia or Ajaccio, the rude laugh and loud voice of a bold girl seem unknown quantities.

It is a puzzling problem to guess how the Corsican young women ever get married, for courtship seems a rare thing, and you never meet a young couple walking out together in the cool of evening, through the flower-scented lanes.

Either matrimony is conducted in a very business-like fashion in the island, or the love-making is entirely confined to the house, and kept rigidly private.