“And now I must be returning. You will allow me to pass up that small pathway that leads past the chateau. Some day I should, above all things, like to see the chateau. I am interested in old houses, I tell you frankly.”
“I will walk part of the way with you,” answered Lory, with a stiffness which was entirely due to a sense of self-reproach. For it was his instinct to be hospitable and open-handed and friendly. And Lory would have liked to ask the colonel then and there to come to the chateau.
“By the way,” said the colonel, as they climbed the hill together, “I did not, of course, mean to suggest that you should sell me the old house which bears your name—only a piece of land, a few hectares on this south-west slope, that I may amuse myself with agriculture, as I told you. Perhaps some day you may reconsider your decision?”
He waited for a reply to this suggestion, or an invitation in response to the hint that he was interested in the old house. But neither came.
“I am much obliged to you for your warning as to the unpopularity of my name in this district,” said Lory, rather laboriously changing the subject. “I had, of course, heard something of the same sort before; but I do not attach much importance to local tradition, do you?”
The colonel paused for a few minutes. He had the leisurely conversational manner of an old man.
“These people have undergone a change,” he said at length, “since their final subjugation by ourselves—exactly a hundred years ago, by the way. They were a turbulent, fighting, obstinate people. Those qualities—good enough in times of war—go bad in times of peace. They are a lawless, idle, dishonest people now. Their grand fighting qualities have run to seed in municipal disagreements and electioneering squabbles. And, worst of all, we have grafted on them our French thrift, which has run to greed. There is not a man in the district who would shoot you, count, from any idea of the vendetta, but there are a hundred who would do it for a thousand-franc note, or in order to prevent you taking back the property which he has stolen from you. That is how it stands. And that is why Pietro Andrei came to grief at Olmeta.”
“And Mattei Perucca?” asked Lory, thereby causing the colonel to trip suddenly over a stone.
“Oh, Perucca,” he answered, “that was different. He died a more or less natural death. He was a very stout man, and on receiving a letter, gave way to such ungovernable rage that he fell in a fit. True, it was a threatening letter; but such are common enough in this country. It may have been a joke or may have had some comparatively harmless object. None could have foreseen such a result.”
They were now near the chateau, and the colonel rather suddenly shook hands and went away.