M. le General was a very fine gentleman indeed. He was thoroughly French, both in appearance and conversation, and his exalted rank evidently accounted both for his tone of good-tempered patronage in addressing his two male companions, and the persiflage with which he favoured us.
"Flowers!" he exclaimed, when the forestier made some remark about the floral richness of his country; "why, you haven't a garden in the whole of this little island of yours!"
"I have some astonishing roses in my garden behind the house, which I will show you after dinner," said the host.
"Roses, mon cher! Why, you Corsicans don't know a rose when you see it! You gather a few miserable little worm-eaten buds, and call them a bouquet of roses. There isn't a man in Corsica who understands how to make a garden."
The two Corsicans took this rebuke very meekly, perhaps owning its truth in their hearts; and presently the conversation diverged to the subject of bandits.
"Do you know, mesdemoiselles," said the General, "that you are now in the heart of the bandit country?"
We testified our knowledge of the formidable fact.
"Probably, mesdemoiselles, you expect these bandits to be very terrible fellows? You would not know them from other people; in all probability you have met one or two in the street this evening," continued our French friend, who evidently wished to create a "sensation," and was not particular about the use of the long bow. "Ma foi! they are 'charmants garçons,' and 'braves hommes,' these bandits—they would behave to you with every civility."
"Possibly," said we. And the two Corsicans assented gravely, seeing nothing in the subject to joke about.
"Yes, mesdemoiselles," went on M. le General, warming with his topic, "you may sleep safely in your beds to-night, here as elsewhere. You need not fear the bandits."