"It has rained a long time, but not heavily, mademoiselle." And Antonio bent his wideawake into another convenient little spout to let off the superfluous water.
Corsica is very rarely so wet as this year when we visited it. It is not generally considered a rainy country; but the rain, when it does come down, is often quite tropical, and falls with a pelt that is really appalling, upon the house roofs. To-day the rain was English-like—soft summer showers, refreshing to plants, and reminding of April.
When we entered Hotel Pierracci, after driving down the steep hill into the red-roofed street, we were streaming with water from every garment, and made large pools in the salle à manger.
But the air of Corte nearly choked us. It was indescribably hot, muggy, and breathless, and felt like the innermost chamber of a Turkish bath. The oppression was fearful, and although the weather had cleared up, we could not walk, and soon returned from an attempted stroll back to our hotel, to lie panting in our chairs before the open windows and closed shutters.
Meanwhile Antonio had brought in the last of our possessions, and came to receive the money for his master. His brown face was full of colour and friendliness, as he bade us good-bye; and, with extreme shyness, shook our proffered hands, wishing us a safe and happy return to our own country. We felt once more the chill of our position, as strangers in a foreign land, as our good, honest little driver disappeared, remembering that we should now have to look after ourselves.
It was a misfortune that we could not leave the next day, for Corte, though lovely, was unpleasant; but it was impossible to face the idea of a ten hours' journey in the breathless interior of a small diligence, and there was no diligence with banquette until the Monday morning.
So we had to console ourselves with such French novels as the small library opposite could furnish, and with staring out of our windows at the incessant stream of strollers up and down.
The men have the French practice here, which we never noticed elsewhere, of kissing each other, when on terms of intimacy, on both cheeks in the public street.
Towards evening, awnings were run out from the hotel, from beneath which rose the sound of lively voices discussing native politics, and the clinking of glasses and teaspoons. Here, the upper class of Corte regaled themselves with tobacco, chat, and refreshment, to a late hour; whilst their well-dressed but poorer compatriots were content to wander up and down in front, in groups of threes and fours, pipe in mouth, with grave step and conversation.
Until past midnight this incessant pacing up and down the centre of the road, and the quiet hum of voices, continued through the hot, streaming, night-air. Two things struck me, both on the Saturday and Sunday night: the first was the absence of drunken shouts, and the second the absence of female voices.