"Mais oui!" he returned, smiling. "Un beaux pays. Et," with a sudden happy thought, turning towards a good-looking young man seated next him, and who did not attempt to disclaim the compliment, "de beaux garçons! Blonds, comme lui. Et noirs—comme moi!"
The fair young man turned upon him quite fiercely. "You a garçon?" he asked. "How old are you? I am twenty-four."
"And I forty-seven—un bel âge!"
His neighbour pulled his long yellow moustaches with a scornful laugh.
"You are an old man—voilà!" said he, curtly.
The wind that night at Bastia was remarkable. This part of the coast is noted for its constant and varying gales. Whether this particular wind were the "Sirocco," or the "Grecale," or the "Libecchio," or any other of the various currents which afflict this town, I know not; but it was a most unpleasant wind, and one that seemed especially weird in the darkness of night.
My bedroom was a thorough Corsican room; not a bolt nor a lock fastened properly, and doors and windows were confidingly open to every sound within doors, and every breeze without.
Chimneys and roofs constituted the chief look-out, but my view likewise comprised, between the two high towers of the church of St. Jaen, a small stretch of blue black sea, lying heaving angrily in the fitful moonlight, with now and then a gleam of sheet lightning illuminating its dark bosom.
Wonderfully still and soundless was the night air, until suddenly, every quarter of an hour or so, came a wild gust that rattled loose slates outside, and shook the doors and windows as if they were wrested by some violent human hand. This sort of thing, repeated all night long at short intervals, and accompanied by a dismal howling like the wails of lost souls in purgatory, is not exactly conducive to repose; and my first night on Corsican soil was spent in pondering over insular phenomena, and speculating how many would be of an equally disturbing nature.
We spent several days in Bastia, during which time, either the sirocco, or one of its family, continued to blow with unabated vigour; and, as I found an equally squally wind in possession on my return many weeks later, I concluded that this sort of thing had been going on all the time. For which reason alone, if for no other, I infer that Bastia is not a desirable place for a prolonged residence.