Colomba - Prosper Mérimée (management books to read txt) 📗

The following day went by without any hostile demonstration. Both sides kept on the defensive. Orso did not leave his house, and the door of the Barricini dwelling remained closely shut. The five gendarmes who had been left to garrison Pietranera were to be seen walking about the square and the outskirts of the village, in company with the village constable, the sole representative of the urban police force. The deputy-mayor never put off his sash. But there was no actual symptom of war, except the loopholes in the two opponents’ houses. Nobody but a Corsican would have noticed that the group round the evergreen oak in the middle of the square consisted solely of women.

At supper-time Colomba gleefully showed her brother a letter she had just received from Miss Nevil.

“My dear Signorina Colomba,” it ran, “I learn with great pleasure, through a letter from your brother, that your enmities are all at an end. I congratulate you heartily. My father can not endure Ajaccio now your brother is not there to talk about war and go out shooting with him. We are starting to-day, and shall sleep at the house of your kinswoman, to whom we have a letter. The day after to-morrow, somewhere about eleven o’clock, I shall come and ask you to let me taste that mountain bruccio of yours, which you say is so vastly superior to what we get in the town.

“Farewell, dear Signorina Colomba.

“Your affectionate

“LYDIA NEVIL.”

“Then she hasn’t received my second letter!” exclaimed Orso.

“You see by the date of this one that Miss Lydia must have already started when your letter reached Ajaccio. But did you tell her not to come?”

“I told her we were in a state of siege. That does not seem to me a condition that permits of our receiving company.”

“Bah! These English people are so odd. The very last night I slept in her room she told me she would be sorry to leave Corsica without having seen a good vendetta. If you choose, Orso, you might let her see an assault on our enemies’ house.”

“Do you know, Colomba,” said Orso, “Nature blundered when she made you a woman. You’d have made a first-rate soldier.”

“Maybe. Anyhow, I’m going to make my bruccio.”

“Don’t waste your time. We must send somebody down to warn them and stop them before they start.”

“Do you mean to say you would send a messenger out in such weather, to have him and your letter both swept away by a torrent? How I pity those poor bandits in this storm! Luckily they have good piloni (thick cloth cloaks with hoods). Do you know what you ought to do, Orso. If the storm clears you should start off very early to-morrow morning, and get to our kinswoman’s house before they leave it. That will be easy enough, for Miss Lydia always gets up so late. You can tell them everything that has happened here, and if they still persist in coming, why! we shall be very glad to welcome them.”

Orso lost no time in assenting to this plan, and after a few moments’ silence, Colomba continued:

“Perhaps, Orso, you think I was joking when I talked of an assault on the Barricini’s house. Do you know we are in force—two to one at the very least? Now that the prefect has suspended the mayor, every man in the place is on our side. We might cut them to pieces. It would be quite easy to bring it about. If you liked, I could go over to the fountain and begin to jeer at their women folk. They would come out. Perhaps—they are such cowards!—they would fire at me through their loopholes. They wouldn’t hit me. Then the thing would be done. They would have begun the attack, and the beaten party must take its chance. How is anybody to know which person’s aim has been true, in a scuffle? Listen to your own sister, Orso! These lawyers who are coming will blacken lots of paper, and talk a great deal of useless stuff. Nothing will come of it all. That old fox will contrive to make them think they see stars in broad midday. Ah! if the prefect hadn’t thrown himself in front of Vincentello, we should have had one less to deal with.”

All this was said with the same calm air as that with which she had spoken, an instant previously, of her preparations for making the bruccio.

Orso, quite dumfounded, gazed at his sister with an admiration not unmixed with alarm.

“My sweet Colomba,” he said, as he rose from the table, “I really am afraid you are the very devil. But make your mind easy. If I don’t succeed in getting the Barricini hanged, I’ll contrive to get the better of them in some other fashion. ‘Hot bullet or cold steel’—you see I haven’t forgotten my Corsican.”

“The sooner the better,” said Colomba, with a sigh. “What horse will you ride to-morrow, Ors’ Anton’?”

“The black. Why do you ask?”

“So as to make sure he has some barley.”

When Orso went up to his room, Colomba sent Saveria and the herdsmen to their beds, and sat on alone in the kitchen, where the bruccio was simmering. Now and then she seemed to listen, and was apparently waiting very anxiously for her brother to go to bed. At last, when she thought he was asleep, she took a knife, made sure it was sharp, slipped her little feet into thick shoes, and passed noiselessly out into the garden.

This garden, which was inclosed by walls, lay next to a good-sized piece of hedged ground, into which the horses were turned—for Corsican horses do not know what a stable means. They are generally turned loose into a field, and left to themselves, to find pasture and shelter from cold winds, as best they may.

Colomba opened the garden gate with the same precaution, entered the inclosure, and whistling gently, soon attracted the horses, to whom she had often brought bread and salt. As soon as the black horse came within reach, she caught him firmly by the mane, and split his ear open with her knife. The horse gave a violent leap, and tore off with that shrill cry which sharp pain occasionally extorts from his kind. Quite satisfied, Colomba was making her way back into the garden, when Orso threw open his window and shouted, “Who goes there?” At the same time she heard him cock his gun. Luckily for her the garden-door lay in the blackest shadow, and was partly screened by a large fig-tree. She very soon gathered, from the light she saw glancing up and down in her brother’s room, that he was trying to light his lamp. She lost no time about closing the garden-door, and slipping along the wall, so that the outline of her black garments was lost against the dark foliage of the fruit-trees, and succeeded in getting back into the kitchen a few moments before Orso entered it.

“What’s the matter?” she inquired.

“I fancied I heard somebody opening the garden-door,” said Orso.

“Impossible! The dog would have barked. But let us go and see!”

Orso went round the garden, and having made sure that the outer door was safely secured, he was going back to his room, rather ashamed of his false alarm.

“I am glad, brother,” remarked Colomba, “that you are learning to be prudent, as a man in your position ought to be.”

“You are training me well,” said Orso. “Good-night!”

By dawn the next morning Orso was up and ready to start. His style of dress betrayed the desire for smartness felt by every man bound for the presence of the lady he would fain please, combined with the caution of a Corsican in vendetta. Over a blue coat, that sat closely to his figure, he wore a small tin case full of cartridges, slung across his shoulder by a green silk cord. His dagger lay in his side pocket, and in his hand he carried his handsome Manton, ready loaded. While he was hastily swallowing the cup of coffee Colomba had poured out for him, one of the herdsmen went out to put the bridle and saddle on the black horse. Orso and his sister followed close on his heels and entered the field. The man had caught the horse, but he had dropped both saddle and bridle, and seemed quite paralyzed with horror, while the horse, remembering the wound it had received during the night, and trembling for its other ear, was rearing, kicking, and neighing like twenty fiends.

“Now then! Make haste!” shouted Orso.

“Ho, Ors’ Anton’! Ho, Ors’ Anton’!” yelled the herdsman. “Holy Madonna!” and he poured out a string of imprecations, numberless, endless, and most of them quite untranslatable.

“What can be the matter?” inquired Colomba. They all drew near to the horse, and at the sight of the creature’s bleeding head and split ear there was a general outcry of surprise and indignation. My readers must know that among the Corsicans to mutilate an enemy’s horse is at once a vengeance, a challenge, and a mortal threat. “Nothing but a bullet-wound can expiate such a crime.”

Though Orso, having lived so long on the mainland, was not so sensitive as other Corsicans to the enormity of the insult, still, if any supporter of the Barricini had appeared in his sight at that moment, he would probably have taken vengeance on him for the outrage he ascribed to his enemies.

“The cowardly wretches!” he cried. “To avenge themselves on a poor brute, when they dare not meet me face to face!”

“What are we waiting for?” exclaimed Colomba vehemently. “They come here and brave us! They mutilate our horses! and we are not to make any response? Are you men?”

“Vengeance!” shouted the herdsmen. “Let us lead the horse through the village, and attack their house!”

“There’s a thatched barn that touches their Tower,” said old Polo Griffo; “I’d set fire to it in a trice.”

Another man wanted to fetch the ladders out of the church steeple. A third proposed they should break in the doors of the house