One lady, well known in Ajaccio, who took up a short time ago the cause of the poor mules, and made an effort to bring to justice one or two owners of ill-used animals, was rewarded by a small hornet's nest about her ears; and, I was told, had a note sent her anonymously "à l'Irlandais," in which she was informed that it was well for her she was of the weaker sex, or she might have suffered for her temerity!
As we approached the neighbourhood of Ajaccio, the mountains lowered their heads and soon gave place to wooded hills; and, beyond this, to fine rocks. Then, as the sun sank slowly towards the horizon, the fading sunlight fell upon a foaming river following the road, on one side, and lit up the upper part of the rich shrub-covered cliff which overhung it on the other.
We were now almost on level land, and a broad plain lay before us, about six miles long, marshy and malarious, at the end of which was the wide-stretching Mediterranean, blue and still, with a white tongue of land reaching out, and dotted with little houses sparkling in the last rays of evening sunshine.
This bright little town, lying on its white arm far out into the lovely sea, was Ajaccio. Round it curved many a bay; and beyond it gleamed many a distant island, as we sped over the plain at an easy gallop, under young Bella Coschia's gentle rein.
Then came an English-looking lane or two, with grassy banks and overhanging trees; and then, a sudden turn on to what may be called the Esplanade of Ajaccio—a broad flat road, shaded by a grateful avenue of chestnuts and sycamores, winding along the shore of the bay, past the quay and the statue of Napoleon, and up the hilly street of the gay little town.
No place could have looked fairer than did Ajaccio on our first view of it. Sea and sky were glowing crimson with sunset hues, the hills and promontories on the other side of the bay were a rich purple, while the houses shone bright and clean against the vivid background, their windows painted gold, and the streets shaded by fresh-leaved young trees.
The little town was all astir in the freshness and cool of a lovely spring evening; for it was just the time when, in Corsica, men, women, and children are all abroad in the streets.
Gay stalls of oranges and vegetables lined the ascent; bright red and blue uniforms mixed with blue blouses and brown velveteens; mule carts, with their jingling bells and scarlet trappings, ran up and down merrily; and men in their shirt sleeves (and every Corsican seems to wear a white shirt) sat before their open doors, smoking their pipes, with children and dogs playing round them, and their wives, in white or coloured head-gear, standing near in gossip under the trees.
A few young ladies, got up in tight dresses and frizzed hair, likewise walked, in couples, or arm in arm with a dark-complexioned father, solemnly up and down; while whiskered Frenchmen sat in front of the little cafés under their awnings, and sailors of several nations rolled merrily along the streets, whistling or singing.
Then on through the main street of the town, out again upon the blue sea, the Place de Napoleon with its fine statues of the first Napoleon and his four brothers, past the Hôtel de France close by, and up the Cours de Grandval a little way, planted with its avenue of young chestnuts,—on to Hôtel Germania, lying against a wooded hill, the last house in the street, with front door open to welcome the traveller, and green shutters just being turned back from the shaded windows.