es are
so old, have sprung from so little, have so many ramifications, that any
poor fellow breaking stones on the road is able to claim relationship
with the greatest personages of the island, and is thereby able to exert
a serious influence. These complications are aggravated still more
by the national temperament, which is proud, secretive, scheming, and
vindictive; so it follows that one has to be careful how one walks amid
the network of threads stretching from one extremity of the people to
the other.

The worst was that all these people were jealous of each other,
detested each other, and quarrelled across the table about the election,
exchanging black looks and grasping the handles of their knives at the
least contradiction. They spoke very loud and all at once, some in the
hard, sonorous Genoese dialect, and others in the most comical French,
all choking with suppressed oaths. They threw in each other's teeth
names of unknown villages, dates of local scandals, which suddenly
revived between two fellow guests two centuries of family hatreds. The
Nabob was afraid of seeing his luncheons end tragically, and strove to
calm all this violence and conciliate them with his large good-natured
smile. But Paganetti reassured him. According to him, the vendetta,
though still existing in Corsica, no longer employs the stiletto or the
rifle except very rarely, and among the lowest classes. The anonymous
letter had taken their place. Indeed, every day unsigned letters were
received at the Place Vendome written in this style:

"M. Jansoulet, you are so generous that I cannot do less than point out
to you that the Sieur Bornalinco (Ange-Marie) is a traitor, bought by
your enemies. I could say very differently about his cousin Bornalinco
(Louis-Thomas), who is devoted to the good cause, etc."

Or again:

"M. Jansoulet, I fear your chances of election will come to nothing, and
are on a poor foundation for success if you continue to employ one named
Castirla (Josue), of the parish of Omessa. His relative, Luciani, is the
man you need."

Although he no longer read any of these missives, the poor candidate
suffered from the disturbing effect of all these doubts and of all these
unchained passions. Caught in the gearing of those small intrigues, full
of fears, mistrustful, curious, feverish, he felt in every aching nerve
the truth of the Corsican proverb, "The greatest ill you can wish your
enemy is an election in his house."