No sooner does the traveller get within easy reach of the Place Letitia, where the house stands, than he is surrounded by children screaming, “La maison Napoléon! la maison Napoléon!” I chose a little girl as a guide. A score or two of children, friends and acquaintances of the guide, followed us, forming a very noisy escort. They demanded with great patience and energy, “Un sou, monsieur--un sou.” Our chosen leader proved herself a true daughter of a fighting race by turning round from time to time and dealing vigorous blows at anybody within convenient reach. The blows, however, were without the least effect, nor did the crowd diminish or the cries cease because I steadily refused to reply to the demand for sous. We were conducted over the house by an elderly, benevolent-looking woman. “Are you French?” I asked. She was highly offended, for the Corsicans are an extremely patriotic nation, and think most other people, the French included, far beneath themselves in courage and other manly virtues. The old lady drew herself up to her full height, and, looking as vicious as such a nice old lady possibly could, she snapped out, “No; Corsican.” “So much the better,” I replied, and she forgave me at once. She showed us only the rooms on the first floor of the house. There was the little parlour with a few articles of furniture which she said had originally belonged to the family. I learned afterwards that they had never done anything of the kind. There was the little room where the hero was born, a dining-room with a floor of glazed tiles, and a drawing-room with a floor of inlaid wood.