Notwithstanding the youthful appearance of my host, whose upper lip was as yet scarcely shaded by a moustache, he wore an air of independence and resolution, which struck me very forcibly.
Here was a man fitted for strife, and accustomed to live in the midst of danger, but without despising it, grave because he was solitary, calm because he was strong.
With a single glance he took me all in, my luggage, my arms, the dress I had just taken off, and that which I had just donned.
His glance was as rapid and as sure as that of a man whose very life may depend upon a hasty survey of his surroundings.
“I trust you will excuse me if I disturb you,” he said; “but I come with good intentions. I wish to see if you require anything. I am always somewhat uneasy when any of you gentlemen from the continent pay us a visit, for we are still so uncivilized, we Corsicans, that it is really with fear and trembling that we exercise, particularly to Frenchmen, our own hospitality, which will, I fear, soon be the only thing that will remain to us.”
“You have no reason to fear,” I replied; “it would be difficult to say what more a traveller can require beyond what Madame de Franchi has supplied. Besides,” I continued, glancing round the apartment, “I must confess I do not perceive any of the want of civilization you speak of so frankly, and were it not for the charming prospect from those windows, I should fancy myself in an apartment in the Chaussee d’Antin.”
“Yes,” returned the young man, “it is rather a mania with my poor brother Louis; he is so fond of living à la Française; but I very much doubt whether, when he leaves Paris, the poor attempt at civilization here will appear to him sufficient on his return home as it formerly did.”
“Has your brother been long away from Corsica?” I inquired.
“For the last ten months.”