The Corsican Bandit

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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The road ascended gently through the forest of Aitone. The large pinesformed a solemn dome above our heads, and that mysterious sound made bythe wind in the trees sounded like the notes of an organ.After walking for three hours, there was a clearing, and then atintervals an enormous pine umbrella, and then we suddenly came to theedge of the forest, some hundred meters below, the pass leading to thewild valley of Niolo.On the two projecting heights which commanded a view of this pass, someold trees, grotesquely twisted, seemed to have mounted with painfulefforts, like scouts sent in advance of the multitude in the rear. Whenwe turned round, we saw the entire forest stretched beneath our feet,like a gigantic basin of verdure, inclosed by bare rocks whose summitsseemed to reach the sky.We resumed our walk, and, ten minutes later, found ourselves in the pass.Then I beheld a remarkable landscape. Beyond another forest stretched avalley, but a valley such as I had never seen before; a solitude ofstone, ten leagues long, hollowed out between two high mountains, withouta field or a tree to be seen. This was the Niolo valley, the fatherlandof Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel, from which the invadershad never been able to drive out the mountaineers.My companion said to me: "This is where all our bandits have takenrefuge?"Ere long we were at the further end of this gorge, so wild, soinconceivably beautiful.Not a blade of grass, not a plant-nothing but granite. As far as oureyes could reach, we saw in front of us a desert of glittering stone,heated like an oven by a burning sun, which seemed to hang for that verypurpose right above the gorge. When we raised our eyes towards thecrests, we stood dazzled and stupefied by what we saw. They looked likea festoon of coral; all the summits are of porphyry; and the sky overheadwas violet, purple, tinged with the coloring of these strange mountains.Lower down, the granite was of scintillating gray, and seemed ground topowder beneath our feet. At our right, along a long and irregularcourse, roared a tumultuous torrent. And we staggered along under thisheat, in this light, in this burning, arid, desolate valley cut by thistorrent of turbulent water which seemed to be ever hurrying onward,without fertilizing the rocks, lost in this furnace which greedily drankit up without being saturated or refreshed by it.But, suddenly, there was visible at our right a little wooden cross sunkin a little heap of stones. A man had been killed there; and I said tomy companion."Tell me about your bandits."He replied:"I knew the most celebrated of them, the terrible St. Lucia. I will tellyou his history."His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the district, it issaid; and St. Lucia was left alone with his sister. He was a weak, timidyouth, small, often ill, without any energy. He did not proclaimvengeance against the assassin of his father. All his relatives came tosee him, and implored of him to avenge his death; he remained deaf totheir menaces and their supplications."Then, following the old Corsican custom, his sister, in her indignationcarried away his black clothes, in order that he might not wear mourningfor a dead man who had not been avenged. He was insensible to even thisaffront, and rather than take down from the rack his father's gun, whichwas still loaded, he shut himself up, not daring to brave the looks ofthe young men of the district."He seemed to have even forgotten the crime, and lived with his sister inthe seclusion of their dwelling.But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed the murder,was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be moved by thisnews, but, out of sheer bravado, doubtless, the bridegroom, on his way tothe church, passed before the house of the two orphans."The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating frijoles, whenthe young man saw the bridal procession going by. Suddenly he began totremble, rose to his feet without uttering a word, made the sign of thecross, took the gun which was hanging over the fireplace, and went out."When he spoke of this later on, he said: 'I don't know what was thematter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I must do it,that, in spite of everything, I could not resist, and I concealed the gunin a cave on the road to Corte."An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with hishabitual air of sad weariness. His sister believed that there wasnothing further in his thoughts.But when night fell he disappeared."His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot, accompaniedby his two groomsmen."He was walking along, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stood beforehim, and looking straight in the murderer's face, exclaimed: 'Now is thetime!' and shot him point-blank in the chest."One of the men fled; the other stared at, the young man, saying:"'What have you done, St. Lucia?' and he was about to hasten to Corte forhelp, when St. Lucia said in a stern tone:"'If you move another step, I'll shoot you in the leg.'"The other, aware of his timidity hitherto, replied: 'You would not dareto do it!' and was hurrying off when he fell instantaneously, his thighshattered by a bullet."And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said:"'I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I'll leave youthere; if it is mortal I'll finish you off.""He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly reloading hisgun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him through the head."Next day he was in the mountains."And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this?"All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the cure, whowas suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, washimself put in prison, and accused by the dead man's relatives. But heescaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in thebrush."Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle's accusers, andtore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what they had seenwith their eyes."He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy's family.He slew during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned down the houses of hisadversaries, and was, up to the day of his death, the most terrible ofall the bandits whose memory we have preserved."The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of the granitemountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. We quickened ourpace in order to reach before night the little village of Albertaccio,nothing but a pile of stones welded into the stone flanks of a wildgorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit:"What a terrible custom your vendetta is!"My companion answered with an air of resignation:"What would you have? A man must do his duty!"

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