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At this moment Griffo appeared at the door, to inform me that my horse was
saddled, and my guide waiting for me.

I had put aside a present which I had reserved for Griffo; it was a kind of
hunter’s knife, with two pistols attached to it alongside of the blade, the
hammers of which were hid in the handle.

I have never seen greater delight exhibited than when I presented it to him.

I went down stairs and found Madame de Franchi waiting to bid me farewell, at
the very place where she had welcomed me. I kissed her hand, with a feeling of
great admiration for this woman so simple and so dignified. Lucien accompanied
me to the door.

“On any other day,” said he, “I should have saddled my horse, and attended
you over the mountain, but today I dare not leave Sullacaro, for fear that one
or the other of our two friends might commit some folly.

“And you do very right,” replied I; “as for me, believe me, I am very happy
in having witnessed at Corsica such a novel ceremony as the one in which I have
taken part.”

“Yes, yes, be proud of it, for you have seen that which must have shaken the
bones of our ancestors in their graves.

“I understand; with them the war was holy enough, and they would not have
needed a notary to draw up an act of reconciliation.”

“Or, rather, they would not have consented to a reconciliation at all.”

He offered me his hand.

“Don’t you wish me to embrace your brother'” said I.

“Certainly I do, if it will be agreeable to you.”

“Well, then, let us embrace each other; I cannot give him what I have not
received.”

We embraced each other.

“Shall I not see you again?” asked I.

“Yes, if you return to Corsica.”

“No, but when you come to Paris?”

“I shall never go there,” said Lucien.

“If you ever should, you will find my card on your brother’s chimney; don’t
forget my name.”

“I promise you, that if any event should take me to the continent, I shall
make you my first visit.”

“Very well, that’s all settled.”

He offered me his hand once more, and we parted. He followed me with his
eyes, as long as he could see me in the street leading to the river.

The village was tolerably quiet. Only here and there I noticed that kind of
agitation which follows great events, and I proceeded, fixing my eyes on each
door as I passed, in the expectation of seeing Orlandini come out, who in truth
owed me his thanks; but he seemed to have forgotten all about this debt.

And I passed the last house of the village without having seen any thing like
him.

I thought he in reality had neglected me, but I must say, that amid the grave
occupations with which Orlandini was necessarily engrossed on such a day, I
sincerely forgave and excused such forgetfulness. But suddenly, while
approaching the forest of Bicchisano, I saw a man come out of the wood, and
place himself in the middle of the road. I recognized him immediately to be the
very man whom, in my French impatience, and in my habit of Parisian consistency,
I had already accused of ingratitude.

I observed that he had found time to put the same dress on again, in which I
had first seen him in the ruins of Vincentello; he wore his cartouchière, from
which was suspended the indispensable pistol; and he also had his gun with him.

When I was about twenty steps from him, he took off his hat, while at the
same time I spurred my horse on, in order not to let him wait.

“Signor,” said he, “I did not wish you to leave Sullacaro; without thanking
you for the honor you have bestowed on a poor peasant like me by serving him as
a witness; and as down there I had not a heart at ease, nor a tongue at liberty,
I preferred to wait for you here.”

“I am much obliged to you,” answered I, “but you should not have disturbed
yourself in your occupations for that; I assure you that all the honor has been
for me.”