"True, mademoiselle. But it is better to be married, if you can find a good husband. Why don't you come and settle down here, and marry Corsican propriétaires? The Corsicans make good husbands."
"They might shoot us when they were angry, madame."
"Ah bah, mademoiselle! Corsicans don't shoot their wives. A Corsican would think himself lucky to get an English wife. They are all so poor, my countrymen."
"For shame, madame! Would you have them seek a wife only for her money?"
"Ah, no, mademoiselle. They would be charmed with you too, because you are so agreeable," replied this flatterer.
"Which do you like best, madame, France or Corsica?"
"Oh, mademoiselle, I love my own country, but it is 'triste'—France is the country to be happy in."
It was clear our old friend was more than half wedded to the land of her adoption, although still keeping up the dress and appearance of her girlhood's home.
We parted with mutual friendliness, and returned to our inn to eat a tidy little dinner, in company with six pet cats, and a gentle little lump of canine obesity called "Jeannette."
Then retiring to neat little bedrooms, refreshing to the view in their dimity curtains, deliciously soft clean sheets and blankets, two usable towels, and a bonâ fide basin and jug.