THE CORSICAN BROTHERS (Historical Novel). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
a visit?”
“No, I never leave Corsica.”
There was in his tone, as he made this reply, that love of country which astonishes the rest of the universe.
I smiled.
“It appears strange to you,” he said, smiling in his turn, “when I tell you that I do not wish to leave a miserable country like ours; but you must know that I am as much a growth of the island as the oak or the laurel; the air I breathe must be impregnated with the odours of the sea and of the mountains. I must have torrents to cross, rocks to scale, forests to explore. I must have space; liberty is necessary to me, and if you were to take me to live in a town I believe I should die.”
“But how is it there is such a great difference between you and your brother in this respect?”
“And you would add with so great a physical resemblance, if you knew him.”
“Are you, then, so very much alike?”
“So much so, that when we were children ourparents were obliged to sew a distinguishing mark upon our clothes.”
“And as you grew up?” I suggested.
“As we grew up our habits caused a very slight change in our appearance, that is all. Always in a study, poring over books and drawings, my brother grew somewhat pale, while I, being always in the open air, became bronzed, as you see.”
“I hope,” I said, “that you will permit me to judge of this resemblance, and if you have any commission for Monsieur Louis, you will charge me with it.”
“Yes, certainly, with great pleasure, if you will be so kind. Now, will you excuse me? I see you are more advanced in your toilet than I, and supper will be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
“You surely need not trouble to change on my account.”
“You must not reproach me with this, for you have yourself set me the example; but, in any case, I am now in a riding dress, and must change it for a mountaineer’s costume, as, after supper, I have to make an excursion in which boots and spurs would only serve to hinder me.”
“You are going out after supper, then?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “to a rendezvous.”
I smiled.
“Ah, not in the sense you understand it—this is a matter of business.”
“Do you think me so presumptuous as to believe I have a right to your conscience?”
“Why not? One should live so as to be able to proclaim what one has done. I never had a mistress,and I never shall have one. If my brother should marry, and have children, it is probable that I shall never take a wife. If, on the contrary, he does not marry, perhaps I shall, so as to prevent our race from becoming extinct. Did I not tell you,” he added, laughing, “that I am a regular savage, and had come into the world a hundred years too late? But I continue to chatter here like a crow, and I shall not be ready by the time supper is on the table.”
“But cannot we continue the conversation?” I said. “Your chamber, I believe, is opposite, and we can talk through the open doors.”
“We can do better than that; you can come into my room while I dress. You are a judge of arms, I fancy. Well, then, you shall look at mine. There are some there which are valuable—from an historical point of view, I mean.”
Chapter IV.
The suggestion quite accorded with my inclination to compare the chambers of the brothers, and I did not hesitate to adopt it. I followed my host, who, opening the door, paused in front of me to show me the way.
This time I found myself in a regular arsenal. All the furniture was of the fifteenth or sixteenth century—the carved and canopied bedstead, supported by great posts, was draped with green damask à fleur d’or; the window curtains were of the same material. The walls were covered with Spanish leather, and in the open spaces were sustained trophies of Gothic and modern arms.
There was no mistaking the tastes of the occupant of this room: they were as warlike as those of his brother were peaceable.
“Look here,” he said, passing into an inner room, “here you are in three centuries at once—see! I will dress while you amuse yourself, for I must make haste or supper will be announced.”
“Which are the historic arms of which you spoke amongst all these swords, arquebuses, and poignards?” I asked.
“There are three. Let us take them in order. If you look by the head of my bed you will find apoignard with a very large hilt—the pommel forms a seal.”
“Yes, I have it.”
“That is the dagger of Sampietro.”
“The famous Sampietro, the assassin of Vanina?”
“The assassin! No, the avenger.”
“It is the same thing, I fancy.”
“To the rest of the world, perhaps—not in Corsica.”
“And is the dagger authentic?”
“Look for yourself. It carries the arms of Sampietro—only the fleur-de-lis of France is missing. You know that Sampietro was not authorized to wear the lily until after the siege of Perpignan.”
“No, I was not aware of that fact. And how did you become possessed of this poignard?”
“Oh! it has been in our family for three hundred years. It was given to a Napoleon de Franchi by Sampietro himself.”
“Do you remember on what occasion?”
“Yes. Sampietro and my ancestor fell into an ambuscade of Genoese, and defended themselves like lions. Sampietro’s helmet was knocked off, and a Genoese on horseback was about to kill Sampietro with his mace when my ancestor plunged his dagger into a joint in his enemy’s armour. The rider feeling himself wounded spurred his horse, carrying away in his flight the dagger so firmly embedded in his armour that he was unable to withdraw it, and as my ancestor very much regretted the loss of his favourite weapon Sampietro gave him his own. Napoleon took great care of it, for it is of Spanish workmanship, as you see, and will penetrate two five-franc pieces one on top of another.”
“May I make the attempt?”
“Certainly.”
Placing the coins upon the floor, I struck a sharp blow with the dagger. Lucien had not deceived me.
When I withdrew the poignard I found both pieces pierced through and through, fixed upon the point of the dagger.
“This is indeed the dagger of Sampietro,” I said. “But what astonishes me is that being possessed of such a weapon he should have employed the cord to kill his wife.”
“He did not possess it at that time,” replied Lucien; “he had given it to my ancestor.”
“Ah! true!”
“Sampietro was more than sixty years old when he hastened from Constantinople to Aix to teach that lesson to the world, viz., that women should not meddle in state affairs.”
I bowed in assent, and replaced the poignard.
“Now,” said I to Lucien, who all this time had been dressing, “let us pass on from Sampietro to some one else.”
“You see those two portraits close together?”
“Yes, Paoli and Napoleon.”
“Well, near the portrait of Paoli is a sword.”
“Precisely so.”
“That