“The devil take you, you cursed little scapegrace! I am certain that you have seen Gianetto. Perhaps, even, you have hidden him. Come, comrades, go into the house and see if our man is there. He could only go on one foot, and the knave has too much good sense to try to reach the mâquis limping like that. Moreover, the bloody tracks stop here.”
“And what will papa say?” asked Fortunato with a sneer; “what will he say if he knows that his house has been entered while he was away?”
“You rascal!” said the Adjutant, taking him by the ear, “do you know that it only remains for me to make you change your tone? Perhaps you will speak differently after I have given you twenty blows with the flat of my sword.”
Fortunato continued to sneer.
“My father is Mateo Falcone,” said he with emphasis.
“You little scamp, you know very well that I can carry you off to Corte or to Bastia. I will make you lie in a dungeon, on straw, with your feet in shackles, and I will have you guillotined if you don’t tell me where Gianetto is.”
The child burst out laughing at this ridiculous menace. He repeated:
“My father is Mateo Falcone.”
“Adjutant,” said one of the soldiers in a low voice, “let us have no quarrels with Mateo.”
Gamba appeared evidently embarrassed. He spoke in an undertone with the soldiers who had already visited the house. This was not a very long operation, for the cabin of a Corsican consists only of a single square room, furnished with a table, some benches, chests, housekeeping utensils and those of the chase. In the meantime, little Fortunato petted his cat and seemed to take a wicked enjoyment in the confusion of the soldiers and of his cousin.