A maid-servant was called to conduct me to the room of M. Louis, and as supper would be served in an hour, I went upstairs.

My room was evidently that of the absent son, and the most comfortable in the house.  Its furniture was all modern, and there was a well-filled bookcase.  I hastily looked at the volumes; they denoted a student of liberal mind.

A few minutes later, and my host, M. Lucien de Franchi, entered.  I observed that he was young, of sunburnt complexion, well made, and fearless and resolute in his bearing.

“I am anxious to see that you have all you need,” he said, “for we Corsicans are still savages, and this old hospitality, which is almost the only tradition of our forefathers left, has its shortcomings for the French.”

I assured him that the apartment was far from suggesting savagery.

“My brother Louis likes to live after the French fashion,” Lucien answered.  He went on to speak of his brother, for whom he had a profound affection.  They had already been parted for ten months, and it was three or four years before Louis was expected home.

As for Lucien, nothing, he said, would make him leave Corsica.  He belonged to the island, and could not live without its torrents, its rocks, and its forests.  The physical resemblance between himself and his brother, he told me, was very great; but there was considerable difference of temperament.

Having completed my own change of dress, I went into Lucien’s room, at his suggestion.  It was a regular armoury, and all the furniture was at least 300 years old.

While my host put on the dress of a mountaineer, for he mentioned to me that he had to attend a meeting after supper, he told me the history of some of the carbines and daggers that hung round the room.  Of a truth, he came of an utterly fearless stock, to whom death was of small account by the side of courage and honour.

At supper, Madame de Franchi could not help expressing her anxiety for her absent son.  No letter had been received, but Lucien for days had been feeling wretched and depressed.

“We are twins,” he said simply, “and however greatly we are separated, we have one and the same body, as we had at our birth.  When anything happens to one of us, be it physical or mental, it at once affects the other.  I know that Louis is not dead, for I should have seen him again in that case.”

“You would have told me if he had come?” said Madame de Franchi anxiously.

“At the very moment, mother.”

I was amazed.  Neither of them seemed to express the slightest doubt or surprise at this extraordinary statement.

Lucien went on to regret the passing of the old customs of Corsica.  His very brother had succumbed to the French spirit, and on his return would settle down as an advocate at Ajaccio, and probably prosecute men who killed their enemies in a vendetta.  “And I, too, am engaged in affairs unworthy of a De Franchi,” he concluded.  “You have come to Corsica with curiosity about its inhabitants.  If you care to set out with me after supper, I will show you a real bandit.”