red tiles, with a piece of uncertain carpet sliding hither and thither,
with the shutters always shut, and the mustiness of the middle ages
hanging heavy in the air. For Bastia has not changed, and never will. And
it is not only to be fervently hoped, but seems likely, that Clement will
never grow old, and never die, but continue to live and demonstrate the
startling fact that one may be born and live all one's life in a remote,
forgotten town, and still be a man of the world.

The soup had been served precisely at six, and the four artillery
officers were already seated at the square table near the fireplace,
which was and is still exclusively the artillery table. The other
_habitues_ were in their places at one or other of the half-dozen tables
that fill the room--two gentlemen from the Prefecture, a civil engineer
of the projected railway to Corte, a commercial traveller of the old
school, and, at the corner table, farthest from the door, Colonel Gilbert
of the Engineers. A clever man this, who had seen service in the Crimea,
and had invariably distinguished himself whenever the opportunity
occurred; but he was one of those who await, and do not seek
opportunities. Perhaps he had enemies, or, what is worse, no friends; for
at the age of forty he found himself appointed to Bastia, one of the
waste places of the War Office, where an inferior man would have done
better.

Colonel Gilbert was a handsome man, with a fair moustache, a high
forehead, surmounted by thin, receding, smooth hair, and good-natured,
idle eyes. He lunched and dined chez Clement always, and was frankly,
good naturedly bored at Bastia. He hated Corsica, had no sympathy with
the Corsican, and was a Northern Frenchman to the tips of his long white
fingers.