On the way we passed two pénitenciers, or prisons, for French male culprits. Our driver informed us, with what accuracy I am not certain, that only French prisoners are confined in Corsica, and that Corsican delinquents are sent to the Continent to work out their time. It was found that, with the facilities of the universal maquis, and the deeply rooted sympathies of their own countrymen and women, escape for these latter became too easy and too frequent in their own country.
I fear, in that case, the poor Corsican has made a bad exchange. These Ajaccio pénitenciers have a very modified prison air, and are apparently much less stern in discipline than the Continental jails.
One of them was placed high up, some distance from the road, upon the summit of a steep hill, where the prisoners must enjoy the purest of airs and the most beautiful of views.
The other was close by the roadside. It was a large white building, with barred windows; but, in other respects, with little of a prison look about it. Only a low wall and open gates divided it from the high-road, and handsome trees shaded the surrounding courtyard.
It being Sunday when we passed, few of the men were at work; and several were standing idly in the courtyard, with a strangely independent and comfortable air. A warder was certainly with them, but he had an unobtrusive manner, and appeared to be unarmed. The men were dressed in quiet brown suits, which, to a stranger's eye, had little of the convict cut; and, but for the evil expression on some of the dark faces that scowled at us over the wall, it would have been difficult to realize the fact that these were robbers and murderers.
Fresh from a visit to Portland, with its high stony walls, its enclosed and guarded outlets, and its separate small gangs, each with an athletic warder with ever-watchful eye and loaded gun, the contrast of this French-Corsican prison, with its open portals and happy-go-lucky air of nonchalance, struck me forcibly.
Soon after passing the pénitencier, the carriage, with a final jolt, stopped at the foot of the green slope, and we got out to pursue the narrow winding track, passing among macchie-covered sand-hills, and mounting steeply towards the rocks beyond. It was hot work, for there was no shade, and the sand burnt beneath our feet, and the rocks glowed before us; but the cystus gave out a refreshing scent, and at every turn the grey walls grew taller and more rugged and imposing, as the green mounds in front cleared away.
About half-way to the chapel, we fell in with some bergère women, bringing supplies to their lords upon the mountain side, from the town of Ajaccio. There were three of them, and they were certainly as rough and wild, and unfeminine-looking as the wives of the bergers are usually reported to be.
They had flung down their bundles, and were lying on the banks of cystus, playing with a dirty pack of cards, with more merriment than refinement. They favoured us with a good deal of notice as we passed; and, when No. 1 addressed a good-natured greeting to them, notwithstanding their scanty knowledge of the French language, were not slow to respond, and to pursue us with much chaff.
A few more turns brought us to the foot of the splendid rocks, and to the wide open plain, on which stands the little chapel of St. Anthony. The chapel itself is a queer little building, dirty and unpretending, the size of a small cottage, and possessing the odour of a pig-sty, with only one window and a wooden door.