This was the first time I had seen these domestic fortifications; but I may mention that the province of Sartène is the classic ground of the Vendetta.
“Ah, good!” said my guide, as he followed the direction of my hand—“that is the house of Madame Savilia de Franchi. Go on, go on, Signor, you have not made a bad choice, and I can see you do not want for experience in these matters.”
I should note here that in this 86th department of France Italian is universally spoken.
“But,” I said, “may it not be inconvenient if I demand hospitality from a lady, for if I understand you rightly, this house belongs to a lady.”
“No doubt,” he replied, with an air of astonishment; “but what inconvenience does your lordship think you will cause?”
“If the lady be young,” I replied, moved by a feeling of propriety—or, perhaps, let us say, of Parisian self-respect—“a night passed under her roof might compromise her.”
“Compromise her!” repeated the guide, endeavouring to probe the meaning of the word I had rendered in Italian with all the emphasis which one would hazard a word in a strange tongue.
“Yes, of course,” I replied, beginning to feel impatient; “the lady is a widow, I suppose?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Well, then, will she receive a young man into her house?”