The Isle of Unrest | Page 7

knife-shops in the Boulevard du
Palais, where every description of stiletto may be purchased, where,
indeed, the enterprising may buy a knife which will not only go
shrewdly into a foe, but come right out on the other side--in front, that
is to say, for no true Corsican is so foolish as to stab anywhere but in
the back--and, protruding thus, will display some pleasing legend, such
as "Vendetta," or "I serve my master," or "Viva Corsica," roughly
engraved on the long blade. There is a macaroni warehouse. There are
two of those mysterious Mediterranean provision warehouses, with
some ancient dried sausages hanging in the window, and either
doorpost flanked by a tub of sardines, highly, and yet, it would seem,
insufficiently, cured. There is a tiny book-shop displaying a choice of
religious pamphlets and a fly-blown copy of a treatise on viniculture.
And finally, an ironmonger will sell you anything but a bath, while he

thrives on a lively trade in percussion-caps and gunpowder.
Colonel Gilbert did not pause to look at these bewildering
shop-windows, for the simple reason that he knew every article there
displayed.
He was, it will be remembered, a leisurely Frenchman, than whom
there are few human beings of a more easily aroused attention. Any
small street incident sufficed to make him pause. He had the air of one
waiting for a train, who knows that it will not come for hours yet. He
strolled down the boulevard, smoking a cigarette, and presently turned
to the right, emerging with head raised to meet the sea-breeze upon that
deserted promenade, the Place St. Nicholas.
Here he paused, and stood with his head slightly inclined to one
side--an attitude usually considered to be indicative of the artistic
temperament, and admired the prospect. The "Place" was deserted, and
in the middle the great statue of Napoleon stood staring blankly across
the sea towards Elba. There is, whether the artist intended it or not, a
look of stony amazement on this marble face as it gazes at the island of
Elba lying pink and hazy a few miles across that rippled sea; for on this
side of Corsica there is more peace than in the open waters of the Gulf
of Lyons.
"Surely," that look seems to say, "the world could never expect that
puny island to hold me."
Colonel Gilbert stood and looked dreamily across the sea. It was plain
to the most incompetent observer that the statue represented one class
of men--those who make their opportunities; while Gilbert, with his
high and slightly receding forehead, his lazy eyes and good-natured
mouth, was a fair type of that other class which may take advantage of
opportunities that offer themselves. The majority of men have not even
the pluck to do that, which makes it easy for mediocre people to get on
in this world.
Colonel Gilbert turned on his heel and walked slowly back to the
Reunion des Officiers--the military club which stands on the Place St.

Nicholas immediately behind the statue of Napoleon--a not too lively
place of entertainment, with a billiard-room, a reading-room, and half a
dozen iron tables and chairs on the pavement in front of the house.
Here the colonel seated himself, called for a liqueur, and sat watching a
clear moon rise from the sea beyond the Islet of Capraja.
It was the month of February, and the southern spring was already in
the air. The twilight is short in these latitudes, and it was now nearly
night. In Corsica, as in Spain, the coolest hour is between sunset and
nightfall. With complete darkness there comes a warm air from the
ground. This was now beginning to make itself felt; but Gilbert had not
only the pavement, but the whole Place St. Nicholas to himself. There
are two reasons why Corsicans do not walk abroad at night--the risk of
a chill and the risk of meeting one's enemy.
Colonel Gilbert gave no thought to these matters, but sat with crossed
legs and one spurred heel thrown out, contentedly waiting as if for that
train which he must assuredly catch, or for that opportunity, perhaps,
which was so long in coming that he no longer seemed to look for it.
And while he sat there a man came clanking from the town--a tired man,
with heavy feet and the iron heels of the labourer. He passed Colonel
Gilbert, and then, seeming to have recognized him by the light of the
moon, paused, and came back.
"Monsieur le colonel," he said, without raising his hand to his hat, as a
Frenchman would have done.
"Yes," replied the colonel's pleasant voice, with no ring of recognition
in it.
"It is Mattei--the driver of the St. Florent diligence," explained the man,
who, indeed, carried his badge of office, a