"Pretty often, mademoiselle. But he drinks, too, and they are always quarrelling. All the family are coachmen; the old man used to drive the diligence, then his daughter took it, and now his son goes on the same stage."
We turned our heads once more, and, at the last turn of the road behind us, could see this female postilion standing on one of the shafts, brandishing her long whip, and displaying a wonderful dexterity in preserving her lofty and difficult position.
"Are there many drunkards in Corsica?" asked No. 3.
"The love of drink is growing, mademoiselle. There are many more now than there used to be a few years ago."
"What are the causes?"
"Idleness, and the fashion of strangers, and the cheapness of drink."
"What do they drink? Nothing but the country wines?"
"Little else but red wine. It takes a good deal to make a man drunk on that: but again, it costs little."
It does indeed. Good claret was often put before us in the village inns, charged fivepence a bottle.
"Is it true, mademoiselle," asked Antonio presently, "that the English are a nation of drunkards? I have heard it said."