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Updated: May 16, 2025
But de Vasselot only fully realized the magic of his own name when he at length found the man, Casabianda a scoundrel whose personal appearance must assuredly have condemned him without further evidence in any court of justice except a Corsican court who bowed before him as before a king, and laid violent hands upon his wife and daughter a few minutes later because the domestic linen chest failed to rise to the height of a clean table cloth.
"It is to be done," answered Jean, "but not easily. You must ride to Porto Vecchio and there find a man called Casabianda. You will find him on the quay or in the Cafe Amis. Tell him your name, and that you must be at Bastia by daybreak. He has a good boat." Lory rose to his feet.
For here is speed without friction, passage through the air without opposition, for it is the air that urges. Afloat, Casabianda was a silent man. His seafaring was of a surreptitious nature, perhaps. For companion, he had one with no roof to his mouth, whose speech was incomprehensible an excellent thing in law-breakers. De Vasselot was soon asleep, and slept all through that quiet night.
De Vasselot had never been to Bastia, which Casabianda described as a great and bewildering city, where the unwary might soon lose himself. The man of incomprehensible speech was, therefore, sent ashore to conduct Lory to the Hotel Clement. Casabianda, himself, would not land. The place reeked, he said, of the gendarmerie, and was offensive to his nostrils.
The hospitality of Casabianda outlasted the sun. He had the virtues of his primitive race, and that appreciation of a guest which urges the entertainer to give not only the best that he has, but the best that he can borrow or steal. "There is no breeze," said this Porto Vecchian, jovially; "it will come with the night. In waiting, this is wine of Balagna." And he drank perdition to the Peruccas.
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