midday
Jean had to lift his master into the saddle , which office the wiry Susini had performed for him at St. Florent fourteen hours earlier . There is a good inn at Cauro where de Vasselot procured a cup of coffee and some bread without dismounting . Jean had given him a list of names , and the route to Porto Vecchio was not a difficult one , though it led through a deserted country . By midday , de Vasselot caught sight of the Eastern sea ; by three o'clock he saw the great gulf of Porto Vecchio , and before sunset he rode , half-asleep , into the ancient town with its crumbling walls and ill-paved streets . He had ridden in safety through one of the waste places of this province of France -- a canton wherein a few years ago a well-known bandit had forbidden the postal service , and that postal service was not -- and he knew enough to be aware that the mysterious messengers of the macquis had cleared the way before him . But de Vasselot only fully realized the magic of his own name when he at length found the man , Casabianda -- a scoundrel whose personal appearance must assuredly have condemned him without further evidence in any court of justice except a Corsican court -- who bowed before him as before a king , and laid violent hands upon his wife and daughter a few minutes later because the domestic linen chest failed to rise to the height of a clean table cloth . The hospitality of Casabianda outlasted the sun .