People who are thoroughly bent on anything are almost always well served by chance. At the moment when Bartolomeo sat down on one of the curbstones near the entrance to the palace, a carriage drove up, and out of it stepped Lucien Bonaparte, at that time Minister of the Interior.
“Ah! Loucien, good luck for me to have met you!” cried the stranger.
These words, spoken in the Corsican dialect, made Lucien stop at the instant when he was rushing into the vestibule; he looked at his fellow-countryman, and recognized him. At the first word that Bartolomeo said in his ear, he took him with him. Murat, Lannes, and Rapp were in the First Consuls Cabinet. On seeing Lucien come in with so strange a figure as was Piombo, the conversation ceased. Lucien took his brother’s hand and led him into a window recess. After exchanging a few words, the First Consul raised his hand with a gesture, which Murat and Lannes obeyed by retiring. Rapp affected not to have seen it, and remained. Then, Bonaparte having sharply called him to order, the aide-de-camp went out with a sour face. The First Consul, who heard the sound of Rapp’s steps in the neighboring room, hastily followed him, and saw him close to the wall between the cabinet and the anteroom.
“You refuse to understand me?” said the First Consul. “I wish to be alone with my countryman.”
“A Corsican!” retorted the aide-de-camp. “I distrust those creatures too much not to—”
The First Consul could not help smiling, and lightly pushed his faithful officer by the shoulders.
“Well, what are you doing here, my poor Bartolomeo?” said the First Consul to Piombo.
“I have come to ask for shelter and protection, if you are a true Corsican,” replied Bartolomeo in a rough tone.
“What misfortune has driven you from your native land? You were the richest, the most—”
“I have killed all the Porta,” replied the Corsican, in a hollow voice, with a frown.
The First Consul drew back a step or two, like a man astonished.
“Are you going to betray me?” cried Bartolomeo, with a gloomy look at Bonaparte. “Do you forget that there are still four of the Piombo in Corsica?”
Lucien took his fellow-countryman by the arm and shook him.
“Do you come here to threaten the saviour of France?” he said vehemently.
Bonaparte made a sign to Lucien, who was silent. Then he looked at Piombo, and said, “And why did you kill all the Porta?”
“We had made friends,” he replied; “the Barbanti had reconciled us. The day after we had drunk together to drown our quarrel I left, because I had business at Bastia. They stayed at my place, and set fire to my vineyard at Longone. They killed my son Gregorio; my daughter Ginevra and my wife escaped; they had taken the Communion that morning; the Virgin protected them. When I got home I could no longer see my house; I searched for it with my feet in the ashes. Suddenly I came across Gregorio’s body; I recognized it in the moonlight. ‘Oh! the Porta have played this trick!’ said I to myself, I went off at once into the scrub; I got together a few men to whom I had done some service—do you hear, Bonaparte?—and we marched down on the Porta’s vineyard. We arrived at five in the morning, and by seven they were all in the presence of God. Giacomo declares that Elisa Vanni saved a child, little Luigi; but I tied him into bed with my own hands before setting the house on fire. Then I quitted the island with my wife and daughter without being able to make sure whether Luigi Porta were still alive.”
Bonaparte looked at Bartolomeo with curiosity, but no astonishment.
“How many were they?” asked Lucien.
“Seven,” replied Piombo. “They persecuted you in their day,” he added. The words aroused no sign of hatred in the two brothers. “Ah! you are no longer Corsicans!” cried Bartolomeo, with a sort of despair. “Goodbye. Formerly I protected you,” he went on reproachfully. “But for me your mother would never have reached Marseilles,” he said, turning to Bonaparte, who stood thoughtful, his elbow resting on the chimneypiece.
“I cannot in conscience take you under my wing, Piombo,” replied Napoleon. “I am the head of a great nation; I govern the Republic; I must see that the laws are carried out.”
“Ah, ha!” said Bartolomeo.
“But I can shut my eyes,” Bonaparte went on. “The tradition of the Vendetta will hinder the reign of law in Corsica for a long time yet,” he added, talking to himself. “But it must be stamped out at any cost.”
He was silent for a minute, and Lucien signed to Piombo to say nothing. The Corsican shook his head from side to side with a disapproving look.
“Remain here,” the First Consul said, addressing Bartolomeo. “We know nothing. I will see that your estates are purchased so as to give you at once the means of living. Then later, some time hence, we will remember you. But no more Vendetta. There is no Marquis scrub here. If you play tricks with your dagger, there is no hope for you. Here the law protects everybody, and we do not do justice on our own account.”
“He has put himself at the head of a strange people,” replied Bartolomeo, taking Lucien’s hand and pressing it. “But you recognize me in misfortune; it is a bond between us for life and death; and you may
