The chief feature of Ajaccio as one sees it on arriving by steamer from Marseilles is the gaiety of its aspect. The tall houses are painted pale blue, pink, or light green, and in the early morning, when the face of the gulf is without a ripple, the many-coloured town is reflected as in a Swiss lake. It is set in a framework of high mountains, which until late spring remain crowned and adorned with masses of snow. The streets are lined with palms and orange and lemon trees, which give the place quite an Oriental appearance. The trees at Easter are laden with fruit, but the ripe oranges are left severely alone by the children in the streets, for they are bitter and unpleasant to the taste. The men walk about in the squares, sit at the cafés, lounge on the benches, and stare at the sea, and seem to know little of the meaning of work. What they want in the way of food, clothing, and rent is obtained for them by their hard-working women-folk. The women are seen riding and driving mules, carrying water, buying and selling in the markets. The general rule is that the women do all the work, while the men sit and think. If their thinking is equal to their sitting, they must be a very thoughtful race. They do nothing else. Even the only engineer, motor and cycle repairer in Ajaccio is a wrinkled old woman. At all hours of the day women assemble at the public fountain, which also serves as the public washing-place. These women are mostly dressed in black, for a reason that will be best understood after reading the chapter on “The Vendetta.” The houses are of the usual pattern, tall, arranged in flats, and containing an enormous number of tenants. The open drain-pipes that crawl over the outsides of the dwellings are as offensive to the nose as they are to the eye. As every schoolboy knows, Ajaccio, the present capital of the island, was the birthplace of Napoleon. And even if you have forgotten the fact, you have not long set foot in the town before you are reminded of it. Everything speaks to you of Napoleon. His shadow haunts the place. Streets have been named after him, chapels have been built to his memory, the local museum is crowded with souvenirs of himself and his family, his statues adorn the public squares, and the dull-looking house that was the nest of this imperial eagle is a place of frequent pilgrimage. Like a good tourist, I went to see the great usurper’s earliest home. It is very plain, but it is one of the best in Ajaccio. It is built in three stories, each containing six windows. Over the front-door is inscribed on white marble, “Napoléon was born in this house, August 15th, 1769.”