Murat had hardly gained the deck before a man came and fell at his feet:  it was a Mameluke whom he had taken to Egypt in former years, and had since married at Castellamare; business affairs had taken him to Marseilles, where by a miracle he had escaped the massacre of his comrades, and in spite of his disguise and fatigue he had recognised his former master.

His exclamations of joy prevented the king from keeping up his incognito.  Then Senator Casabianca, Captain Oletta, a nephew of Prince Baciocchi, a staff-paymaster called Boerco, who were themselves fleeing from the massacres of the South, were all on board the vessel, and improvising a little court, they greeted the king with the title of “your Majesty.”  It had been a sudden embarkation, it brought about a swift change:  he was no longer Murat the exile; he was Joachim, the King of Naples.  The exile’s refuge disappeared with the foundered boat; in its place Naples and its magnificent gulf appeared on the horizon like a marvellous mirage, and no doubt the primary idea of the fatal expedition of Calabria was originated in the first days of exultation which followed those hours of anguish.  The king, however, still uncertain of the welcome which awaited him in Corsica, took the name of the Count of Campo Melle, and it was under this name that he landed at Bastia on the 25th August.  But this precaution was useless; three days after his arrival, not a soul but knew of his presence in the town.

Crowds gathered at once, and cries of “Long live Joachim!” were heard, and the king, fearing to disturb the public peace, left Bastia the same evening with his three companions and his Mameluke.  Two hours later he arrived at Viscovato, and knocked at the door of General Franceschetti, who had been in his service during his whole reign, and who, leaving Naples at the same time as the king, had gone to Corsica with his wife, to live with his father-in-law, M. Colonna Cicaldi.

He was in the middle of supper when a servant told him that a stranger was asking to speak to him—­he went out, and found Murat wrapped in a military greatcoat, a sailor’s cap drawn down on his head, his beard grown long, and wearing a soldier’s trousers, boots, and gaiters.

The general stood still in amazement; Murat fixed his great dark eyes on him, and then, folding his arms:—­

“Franceschetti,” said he, “have you room at your table for your general, who is hungry?  Have you a shelter under your roof for your king, who is an exile?”

Franceschetti looked astonished as he recognised Joachim, and could only answer him by falling on his knees and kissing his hand.  From that moment the general’s house was at Murat’s disposal.

The news of the king’s arrival had hardly been handed about the neighbourhood before officers of all ranks hastened to Viscovato, veterans who had fought under him, Corsican hunters who were attracted by his adventurous character; in a few days the general’s house was turned into a palace, the village into a royal capital, the island into a kingdom.