“Have you ever heard of Nelson?” I asked.
“No; who was he?”
“An English sailor.”
“Is he on the Nice boat?”
“No.”
“Is he on the Marseilles boat?”
“No.”
“Then he never comes to Calvi. Donnez-moi un sou.”
As I politely refused his request, he climbed to the top of a high rock, and began to hurl stones at me. I found that in the Basse Ville, where the sailors and the shop-keepers live, there was little chance of getting any information about our greatest naval hero. But far above me, dark and frowning, high and strong, were the walls of the citadel. I made my way up a pebbly incline, and presently found myself at the entrance to the fort itself. Inside, a roughly paved road ascended rapidly by means of steps, winding round and round, and ever getting nearer the summit of the rock on which the fort is built. Narrow streets dodged hither and thither. Houses played hide-and-seek in all sorts of strange and smelly places. Hospitals, churches, barracks, houses, canteens, were piled about and on top of one another as though somebody had accidentally upset the whole lot out of a sack.
I noticed two intelligent-looking little girls, and I entered into conversation with them. After a time I asked, “Do you go to school?”