These documents were too important for Murat to consent to part with them; perhaps the king was beginning to suspect:  he refused.  Barbara insisted; Murat ordered him to land without the papers; Barbara flatly refused.

The king, accustomed to being obeyed, raised his riding-whip to strike the Maltese, but, changing his resolution, he ordered the soldiers to prepare their arms, the officers to put on full uniform; he himself set the example.  The disembarkation was decided upon, and Pizzo was to become the Golfe Juan of the new Napoleon.

Consequently the vessels were steered for land.  The king got down into a boat with twenty-eight soldiers and three servants, amongst whom was Luidgi.  As they drew near the shore General Franceschetti made a movement as if to land, but Murat stopped him.

“It is for me to land first,” he said, and he sprang on shore.

He was dressed in a general’s coat, white breeches and riding-boots, a belt carrying two pistols, a gold-embroidered hat with a cockade fastened in with a clasp made of fourteen brilliants, and lastly he carried under his arm the banner round which he hoped to rally his partisans.  The town clock of Pizzo struck ten.  Murat went straight up to the town, from which he was hardly a hundred yards distant.  He followed the wide stone staircase which led up to it.

It was Sunday.  Mass was about to be celebrated, and the whole population had assembled in the Great Square when he arrived.  No one recognised him, and everyone gazed with astonishment at the fine officer.  Presently he saw amongst the peasants a former sergeant of his who had served in his guard at Naples.  He walked straight up to him and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Tavella,” he said, “don’t you recognise me?”

But as the man made no answer: 

“I am Joachim Murat, I am your king,” he said.  “Yours be the honour to shout ‘Long live Joachim!’ first.”

Murat’s suite instantly made the air ring with acclamations, but the Calabrians remained silent, and not one of his comrades took up the cry for which the king himself had given the signal; on the contrary, a low murmur ran through the crowd.  Murat well understood this forerunner of the storm.

“Well,” he said to Tavella, “if you won’t cry ‘Long live Joachim!’ you can at least fetch me a horse, and from sergeant I will promote you to be captain.”

Tavella walked away without answering, but instead of carrying out the king’s behest, went into his house, and did not appear again.

In the meantime the people were massing together without evincing any of the sympathy that the king had hoped for.  He felt that he was lost if he did not act instantly.

“To Monteleone!” he cried, springing forward towards the road which led to that town.

“To Monteleone!” shouted his officers and men, as they followed him.

And the crowd, persistently silent, opened to let them pass.