There was a good deal of traffic on this road: plenty of muscular-looking Corsican dames bestriding their mules, and generally followed by a foal; and heavy charrettes, drawn by six mules, and filled with sacks of charcoal, brought from the forests above.
Then a hideous red tower came in sight, stuck on the summit of a low hill, like a piece of scarlet sealing-wax; and which, our driver informed us, was the summer residence of some country magnate, who migrated thither yearly with his family "pour prendre l'air frais."
As we mounted higher, the scenery grew finer, with a rather dreary grandeur; and as we paused to rest the horses, Nos. 1 and 2 got out to walk, and No. 3 took the opportunity to sketch.
Meanwhile, the driver stood beside the carriage, eyeing her performance with some curiosity. He was a short young man, with a heavy figure, but the head and neck of an Antinous, and a pleasant refined face, with the mixture, often seen in Corsica, of dark eyes and a yellow moustache. He was as proud and reticent as the rest of his race, and hitherto we had scarcely heard his voice, although he did his duties well, and was sternly attentive to our wants.
No. 3's first effort at friendly conversation did not prosper. "I suppose you come from Ajaccio?" she asked, meaning to be kind and sociable.
But your true Corsican does not understand patronage, nor care for sociability.
"Non," replied the little man, shortly.
"Oh, from the mountains, then?" she continued, affably.
"Non plus," was the unresponsive return.
No. 3 made one more effort, although feeling a little snubbed by her companion's taciturnity. "But you know these parts well?"