“It is the vendetta that makes the bandits,” said Pascal. “They are not bad men as a rule. But they have made their kill, and from then on are forced to live beyond the clutches of the law. Very often it all arises from a political brawl; for we Corsicans are fiery politicians. That was the case with Angelo Rocco, who lives in a cave five kilometres from here. They say he had quite a future before him in public life. But one night in a café the heady Corsican wine was flowing, words ran high, pistols were drawn, an opponent of Rocco was shot; and Rocco had to take to the mountains. He belongs to a very old and distinguished family, too. Every one sympathizes with him; even the gendarmes let him alone. He often comes here. He can have all I’ve got.... But, of course, they are not all like that.”
Hugh saw the inn-keeper through an increasing veil of drowsiness. As he leaned forward to prime his pipe in the glow of the great fire Pascal was a striking figure, a tall, strong, hearty old man with thick grey hair and a pleasant smile on his ruddy face. Then suddenly a shadow seemed to fall on it; it grew grim, even sinister. The tone of his voice changed.
“No, they are not all like that. Monsieur, I, too, am involved in a blood feud. It is for that I sailed the seas for half a lifetime; for that I now shutter my windows at night. Yet it was long ago, that last vengeance. It was a younger brother of mine who fell. He was only a child, playing on the doorstep before my mother’s eyes. A dark man came out of the mountains and shot him even as he rushed to her arms. ‘Bad weeds are best uprooted young,’ the murderer said cynically, and went away....”
Pascal rose suddenly. His face was convulsed with passion, his hands knotted. He seemed transformed into a savage beast.
“I’ll get him yet,” he cried. “He’s an old, old man now, but I’ll kill him like a dog. Yes, I’ll get him yet....”
Then the inn-keeper gave an uneasy look at his shuttered windows and added: “That is, if he doesn’t get me.... But here I am, I am yarning away about my own affairs, and monsieur is so weary, he drops asleep. Pardon me. Come, I will show you to your room.”
He conducted Hugh up a steep stairway that gave on a narrow corridor.
“Here are three rooms. I will give you the middle one, which is the biggest. It looks out over the valley. To-morrow you will see the red fire of the sunrise on the snowy peaks.”
When he had gone, Hugh opened his window. The night air was icily pure; it smelled of snow and pines. He breathed it quietly for a time. Against the dark blue of the higher heavens rose the black blue of mountain pinnacles. In savage majesty they soared among the stars. He heard the continuous roar of the little waterfall.
Then a melancholy born of the absolute solitude came over him. He longed for the lights of the city, the comfort and security of the streets of Paris. Why Paris? Perhaps because Margot was there. He thought of her with a sudden poignant sense of desire. He was tired of adventures and unrest. He wanted to settle down ... a placid life ... always. Margot would shield him from the worries of every day, be like a buffer, make him a home. She was that sort. He didn’t want a wife he had to fuss over; he wanted one who would fuss over him.... But it was too late to think of Margot. She was marrying another man. He had lost her.... In a profound mood of gloom and regret, he wearily undressed and went to bed.