MATEO FALCONE

BY PROSPER MERIMEE

On leaving Porto-Vecchio from the northwest and directing his steps towards the interior of the island, the traveller will notice that the land rises rapidly, and after three hours’ walking over tortuous paths obstructed by great masses of rock and sometimes cut by ravines, he will find himself on the border of a great maquis.  The maquis is the domain of the Corsican shepherds and of those who are at variance with justice.  It must be known that, in order to save himself the trouble of manuring his field, the Corsican husbandman sets fire to a piece of woodland.  If the flame spread farther than is necessary, so much the worse!  In any case he is certain of a good crop from the land fertilized by the ashes of the trees which grow upon it.  He gathers only the heads of his grain, leaving the straw, which it would be unnecessary labor to cut.  In the following spring the roots that have remained in the earth without being destroyed send up their tufts of sprouts, which in a few years reach a height of seven or eight feet.  It is this kind of tangled thicket that is called a maquis.  They are made up of different kinds of trees and shrubs, so crowded and mingled together at the caprice of nature that only with an axe in hand can a man open a passage through them, and maquis are frequently seen so thick and bushy that the wild sheep themselves cannot penetrate them.

If you have killed a man, go into the maquis of Porto-Vecchio.  With a good gun and plenty of powder and balls, you can live there in safety.  Do not forget a brown cloak furnished with a hood, which will serve you for both cover and mattress.  The shepherds will give you chestnuts, milk and cheese, and you will have nothing to fear from justice nor the relatives of the dead except when it is necessary for you to descend to the city to replenish your ammunition.

When I was in Corsica in 18—­, Mateo Falcone had his house half a league from this maquis.  He was rich enough for that country, living in noble style—­that is to say, doing nothing—­on the income from his flocks, which the shepherds, who are a kind of nomads, lead to pasture here and there on the mountains.  When I saw him, two years after the event that I am about to relate, he appeared to me to be about fifty years old or more.  Picture to yourself a man, small but robust, with curly hair, black as jet, an aquiline nose, thin lips, large, restless eyes, and a complexion the color of tanned leather.  His skill as a marksman was considered extraordinary even in his country, where good shots are so common.  For example, Mateo would never fire at a sheep with buckshot; but at a hundred and twenty paces, he would drop it with a ball in the head or shoulder, as he chose.  He used his arms as easily at night as during the day.  I was told this feat of his skill, which will, perhaps, seem impossible to those who have not travelled in Corsica.  A lighted candle was placed at eighty paces, behind a paper transparency about the size of a plate.  He would take aim, then the candle would be extinguished, and, at the end of a moment, in the most complete darkness, he would fire and hit the paper three times out of four.