“My father is Mateo Falcone!” he said with emphasis.
“Do you know, you little scamp, that I can take you to Corte or to Bastia? I’ll make you sleep in a dungeon, on straw, with irons on your feet, and I’ll have you guillotined, if you don’t tell me where Gianetto Sanpiero is.”
The child laughed heartily at this absurd threat.
“My father’s Mateo Falcone,” he repeated.
“Adjutant,” said one of the voltigeurs in an undertone, “let us not get into a row with Mateo.”
Gamba was evidently perplexed. He talked in a low tone with his soldiers, who had already searched the whole house. It was not a very long operation, for a Corsican’s cabin consists of a single square room. The furniture consists of a table, benches, chests, and household and hunting implements. Meanwhile little Fortunato patted his cat, and seemed to derive a wicked enjoyment from the embarrassment of the voltigeurs and his cousin.
A soldier approached the haystack. He saw the cat and thrust his bayonet carelessly into the hay, shrugging his shoulders, as if he realised that it was an absurd precaution. Nothing stirred; and the child’s face did not betray the slightest excitement.
The adjutant and his squad were at their wit’s end; they were already glancing meaningly toward the plain, as if proposing to return whence they came, when their leader, convinced that threats would have no effect on Falcone’s son, determined to make one last effort, and to try the power of caresses and gifts.
“You seem to be a very wide-awake youngster, cousin,” said he. “You will go far. But you are playing a low game with me; and if I wasn’t afraid of distressing my cousin Mateo, deuce take me if I wouldn’t carry you off with me!”
“Bah!”