Just outside Ajaccio is the Villa Milelli, in a garden where pomegranates, myrtles, and roses bloom. This was the summer residence of the Napoleon family, and it is said that here the young soldier spent his furloughs, pursuing his favourite mathematical studies under a big oak-tree. Thither I bent my steps. I found the house in a lonely, lovely spot, guarded by two ferocious-looking, ferocious-barking, mildly-mannered dogs, and by a big, untidy, unwashed Italian, equally ferocious in appearance, and equally mild in manner. He could not speak English; I could not speak Italian. Nevertheless, we understood each other well enough. I had come to see the house; he was there to show it. He led us first into a deserted kitchen, and, waving his hand with an almost circular sweep, he exclaimed in a low gruff voice, “Napoléon.” As there was nothing whatever in the room, it was difficult to understand what he expected us to admire. He led us up a rickety ladder--the staircase had disappeared--to an upper story. We entered a room which, like the kitchen, did not possess a single stick of furniture. The walls were decayed; the rafters were worm-eaten. The guide bowed to the fireplace, the floor, and each of the walls in turn, and at every bow he exclaimed, “Napoléon!” He threw open one of the windows, and pointing to the broad bay beyond, to the long line of white-capped, purple heights, to the pine-groves and the palms, he finally remarked in the most solemn of voices, “Napoléon.” After that he uttered not another word. He closed the window, showed us down the ladder, accepted our little silver offering with becoming politeness, pointed with his hand to the path through the wood, and bowed us a graceful and respectful farewell. CHAPTER VIII CORTÉ