THE GRANDISSIMES

BY GEORGE W. CABLE

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BYALBERT HERTER

MDCCCXCIX

1899

CONTENTS

 I. Masked Batteries. II. The Fate of the Immigrant. III. "And who is my Neighbor?" IV. Family Trees. V. A Maiden who will not Marry. VI. Lost Opportunities. VII. Was it Honoré Grandissime? VIII. Signed--Honoré Grandissime. IX. Illustrating the Tractive Power of Basil. X. "Oo dad is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" XI. Sudden Flashes of Light. XII. The Philosophe. XIII. A Call from the Rent-Spectre. XIV. Before Sunset. XV. Rolled in the Dust. XVI. Starlight in the rue Chartres. XVII. That Night. XVIII. New Light upon Dark Places. XIX. Art and Commerce. XX. A very Natural Mistake. XXI. Doctor Keene Recovers his Bullet. XXII. Wars within the Breast. XXIII. Frowenfeld Keeps his Appointment. XXIV. Frowenfeld Makes an Argument. XXV. Aurora as a Historian. XXVI. A Ride and a Rescue. XXVII. The Fête de Grandpère. XXVIII. The Story of Bras-Coupé. XXIX. The Story of Bras-Coupé, Continued. XXX. Paralysis. XXXI. Another Wound in a New Place. XXXII. Interrupted Preliminaries. XXXIII. Unkindest Cut of All. XXXIV. Clotilde as a Surgeon. XXXV. "Fo' wad you Cryne?" XXXVI. Aurora's Last Picayune. XXXVII. Honoré Makes some Confessions. XXXVIII. Tests of Friendship. XXXIX. Louisiana States her Wants. XL. Frowenfeld Finds Sylvestre. XLI. To Come to the Point. XLII. An Inheritance of Wrong. XLIII. The Eagle Visits the Doves in their Nest. XLIV. Bad for Charlie Keene. XLV. More Reparation. XLVI. The Pique-en-terre Loses One of her Crew. XLVII. The News. XLVIII. An Indignant Family and a Smashed Shop. XLIX. Over the New Store. L. A Proposal of Marriage. LI. Business Changes. LII. Love Lies-a-Bleeding. LIII. Frowenfeld at the Grandissime Mansion. LIV. "Cauldron Bubble". LV. Caught. LVI. Blood for a Blow. LVII. Voudou Cured. LVIII. Dying Words. LIX. Where some Creole Money Goes. LX. "All Right". LXI. "No!". 

PHOTOGRAVURES

"They paused a little within the obscurity of the corridor, and just toreassure themselves that everything _was_ 'all right'" _Frontispiece_. 

"She looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, lifted her own mask alittle, and then a little more; and then shut it quickly". 

"The daughter of the Natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in many-coloredrobes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed with girdles ofserpent-skins and of wampum". 

"Aurora, --alas! alas!--went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed uponthe candle's flame". 

"The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon thecounter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting". 

"Silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icychill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay PalmyrePhilosophe". 

"On their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding their facesfrom the fire, and responding to enunciations directly contrary to theirconvictions with an occasional 'yes-seh, ' or 'ceddenly, ' or 'of coze, 'or, --prettier affirmation still, --a solemn drooping of the eyelids". 

"Bras-Coupé was practically declaring his independence on a slight riseof ground hardly sixty feet in circumference and lifted scarce above thewater in the inmost depths of the swamp". 

"'Ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry? Iv you will tell me wad dadmague you cry, I will tell you--on ma _second word of honor_'--sherolled up her fist--'juz wad I thing about dad 'Sieur Frowenfel!'". 

"His head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell down upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his staff, the other hisknee, and both trembled violently". 

"The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, hereyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lostall knowledge of place or of human presence". 

"They turned in a direction opposite to the entrance and took chairs ina cool nook of the paved court, at a small table where the hospitalityof Clemence had placed glasses of lemonade". 

_In addition to the foregoing, the stories are illustrated with eightsmaller photogravures from drawings by Mr. Herter_. 

CHAPTER I

MASKED BATTERIES

It was in the Théatre St. Philippe (they had laid a temporary floor overthe parquette seats) in the city we now call New Orleans, in the monthof September, and in the year 1803. Under the twinkle of numberlesscandles, and in a perfumed air thrilled with the wailing ecstasy ofviolins, the little Creole capital's proudest and best were offering upthe first cool night of the languidly departing summer to the divineTerpsichore. For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, thatonly begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go. It was likehustling her out, it is true, to give a select _bal masqué_ at such avery early--such an amusingly early date; but it was fitting thatsomething should be done for the sick and the destitute; and why notthis? Everybody knows the Lord loveth a cheerful giver. 

And so, to repeat, it was in the Théatre St. Philippe (the oldest, thefirst one), and, as may have been noticed, in the year in which theFirst Consul of France gave away Louisiana. Some might call it "sold. "Old Agricola Fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural voice--for hehad an hour ago forgotten that he was in mask and domino--called it"gave away. " Not that he believed it had been done; for, look you, howcould it be? The pretended treaty contained, for instance, no provisionrelative to the great family of Brahmin Mandarin Fusilier deGrandissime. It was evidently spurious. 

Being bumped against, he moved a step or two aside, and was going on todenounce further the detestable rumor, when a masker--one of four whohad just finished the contra-dance and were moving away in the column ofpromenaders--brought him smartly around with the salutation:

"_Comment to yé, Citoyen Agricola!_"

"H-you young kitten!" said the old man in a growling voice, and with theteased, half laugh of aged vanity as he bent a baffled scrutiny at theback-turned face of an ideal Indian Queen. It was not merely the_tutoiement_ that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity ofusing the slave dialect. His French was unprovincial. 

"H-the cool rascal!" he added laughingly, and, only half to himself;"get into the garb of your true sex, sir, h-and I will guess whoyou are!"

But the Queen, in the same feigned voice as before, retorted:

"_Ah! mo piti fils, to pas connais to zancestres?_ Don't you know yourancestors, my little son!"

"H-the g-hods preserve us!" said Agricola, with a pompous laugh muffledunder his mask, "the queen of the Tchoupitoulas I proudly acknowledge, and my great-grandfather, Epaminondas Fusilier, lieutenant of dragoonsunder Bienville; but, "--he laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed tothe other two figures, whose smaller stature betrayed the gentlersex--"pardon me, ladies, neither Monks nor _Filles à la Cassette_ growon our family tree. "

The four maskers at once turned their glance upon the old man in thedomino; but if any retort was intended it gave way as the violins burstinto an agony of laughter. The floor was immediately filled withwaltzers and the four figures disappeared. 

"I wonder, " murmured Agricola to himself, "if that Dragoon can possiblybe Honoré Grandissime. "

Wherever those four maskers went there were cries of delight: "Ho, ho, ho! see there! here! there! a group of first colonists! One ofIberville's Dragoons! don't you remember great-great grandfatherFusilier's portrait--the gilded casque and heron plumes? And that onebehind in the fawn-skin leggings and shirt of birds' skins is an IndianQueen. As sure as sure can be, they are intended for Epaminondas and hiswife, Lufki-Humma!" All, of course, in Louisiana French. 

"But why, then, does he not walk with her?"

"Why, because, Simplicity, both of them are men, while the little Monkon his arm is a lady, as you can see, and so is the masque that has thearm of the Indian Queen; look at their little hands. "

In another part of the room the four were greeted with, "Ha, ha, ha!well, that is magnificent! But see that Huguenotte Girl on the IndianQueen's arm! Isn't that fine! Ha, ha! she carries a little trunk. She isa _Fille à la Cassette!_"

Two partners in a cotillion were speaking in an undertone, behind a fan. 

"And you think you know who it is?" asked one. 

"Know?" replied the other. "Do I know I have a head on my shoulders? Ifthat Dragoon is not our cousin Honoré Grandissime--well--"

"Honoré in mask? he is too sober-sided to do such a thing. "

"I tell you it is he! Listen. Yesterday I heard Doctor Charlie Keenebegging him to go, and telling him there were two ladies, strangers, newly arrived in the city, who would be there, and whom he wished him tomeet. Depend upon it the Dragoon is Honoré, Lufki-Humma is CharlieKeene, and the Monk and the Huguenotte are those two ladies. "

But all this is an outside view; let us draw nearer and see what chancemay discover to us behind those four masks. 

An hour has passed by. The dance goes on; hearts are beating, wit isflashing, eyes encounter eyes with the leveled lances of their beams, merriment and joy and sudden bright surprises thrill the breast, voicesare throwing off disguise, and beauty's coy ear is bending with aventuresome docility; here love is baffled, there deceived, yonder takesprisoners and here surrenders. The very air seems to breathe, to sigh, to laugh, while the musicians, with disheveled locks, streaming browsand furious bows, strike, draw, drive, scatter from the anguishedviolins a never-ending rout of screaming harmonies. But the Monk and theHuguenotte are not on the floor. They are sitting where they have beenleft by their two companions, in one of the boxes of the theater, looking out upon the unwearied whirl and flash of gauze and lightand color. 

"Oh, _chérie, chérie!_" murmured the little lady in the Monk's disguiseto her quieter companion, and speaking in the soft dialect of oldLouisiana, "now you get a good idea of heaven!"

The _Fille à la Cassette_ replied with a sudden turn of her masked faceand a murmur of surprise and protest against this impiety. A low, merrylaugh came out of the Monk's cowl, and the Huguenotte let her form sinka little in her chair with a gentle sigh. 

"Ah, for shame, tired!" softly laughed the other; then suddenly, withher eyes fixed across the room, she seized her companion's hand andpressed it tightly. "Do you not see it?" she whispered eagerly, "just bythe door--the casque with the heron feathers. Ah, Clotilde, I _cannot_believe he is one of those Grandissimes!"

"Well, " replied the Huguenotte, "Doctor Keene says he is not. "

Doctor Charlie Keene, speaking from under the disguise of the IndianQueen, had indeed so said; but the Recording Angel, whom we understandto be particular about those things, had immediately made a memorandumof it to the debit of Doctor Keene's account. 

"If I had believed that it was he, " continued the whisperer, "I wouldhave turned about and left him in the midst of the contra-dance!"

Behind them sat unmasked a well-aged pair, "_bredouillé_, " as they usedto say of the wall-flowers, with that look of blissful repose whichmarks the married and established Creole. The lady in monk's attireturned about in her chair and leaned back to laugh with these. Thepassing maskers looked that way, with a certain instinct that there wasbeauty under those two costumes. As they did so, they saw the _Fille àla Cassette_ join in this over-shoulder conversation. A moment later, they saw the old gentleman protector and the _Fille à la Cassette_rising to the dance. And when presently the distant passers took a finalbackward glance, that same Lieutenant of Dragoons had returned and heand the little Monk were once more upon the floor, waiting forthe music. 

"But your late companion?" said the voice in the cowl. 

"My Indian Queen?" asked the Creole Epaminondas. 

"Say, rather, your Medicine-Man, " archly replied the Monk. 

"In these times, " responded the Cavalier, "a medicine-man cannot dancelong without professional interruption, even when he dances for acharitable object. He has been called to two relapsed patients. " Themusic struck up; the speaker addressed himself to the dance; but thelady did not respond. 

"Do dragoons ever moralize?" she asked. 

"They do more, " replied her partner; "sometimes, when beauty's enjoymentof the ball is drawing toward its twilight, they catch its pleasantmelancholy, and confess; will the good father sit in the confessional?"

The pair turned slowly about and moved toward the box from which theyhad come, the lady remaining silent; but just as they were entering shehalf withdrew her arm from his, and, confronting him with a rich sparkleof the eyes within the immobile mask of the monk, said:

"Why should the conscience of one poor little monk carry all thefrivolity of this ball? I have a right to dance, if I wish. I give youmy word, Monsieur Dragoon, I dance only for the benefit of the sick andthe destitute. It is you men--you dragoons and others--who will not helpthem without a compensation in this sort of nonsense. Why should weshrive you when you ought to burn?"

"Then lead us to the altar, " said the Dragoon. 

"Pardon, sir, " she retorted, her words entangled with a musical, open-hearted laugh, "I am not going in that direction. " She cast herglance around the ball-room. "As you say, it is the twilight of theball; I am looking for the evening star, --that is, my littleHuguenotte. "

"Then you are well mated. "

"How?"

"For you are Aurora. "

The lady gave a displeased start. 

"Sir!"

"Pardon, " said the Cavalier, "if by accident I have hit upon your realname--"

She laughed again--a laugh which was as exultantly joyous as it washigh-bred. 

"Ah, my name? Oh no, indeed!" (More work for the Recording Angel. )

She turned to her protectress. 

"Madame, I know you think we should be going home. "

The senior lady replied in amiable speech, but with sleepy eyes, and theMonk began to lift and unfold a wrapping. As the Cavalier' drew it intohis own possession, and, agreeably to his gesture, the Monk and he satdown side by side, he said, in a low tone:

"One more laugh before we part. "

"A monk cannot laugh for nothing. "

"I will pay for it. "

"But with nothing to laugh at?" The thought of laughing at nothing madeher laugh a little on the spot. 

"We will make something to laugh at, " said the Cavalier; "we will unmaskto each other, and when we find each other first cousins, the laugh willcome of itself. "

"Ah! we will unmask?--no! I have no cousins. I am certain we arestrangers. "

"Then we will laugh to think that I paid for the disappointment. "

Much more of this childlike badinage followed, and by and by they camearound again to the same last statement. Another little laugh escapedfrom the cowl. 

"You will pay? Let us see; how much will you give to the sick anddestitute?"

"To see who it is I am laughing with, I will give whatever you ask. "

"Two hundred and fifty dollars, cash, into the hands of the managers!"

"A bargain!"

The Monk laughed, and her chaperon opened her eyes and smiledapologetically. The Cavalier laughed, too, and said:

"Good! That was the laugh; now the unmasking. "

"And you positively will give the money to the managers not later thanto-morrow evening?"

"Not later. It shall be done without fail. "

"Well, wait till I put on my wrappings; I must be ready to run. "

This delightful nonsense was interrupted by the return of the _Fille àla Cassette_ and her aged, but sprightly, escort, from a circuit of thefloor. Madame again opened her eyes, and the four prepared to depart. The Dragoon helped the Monk to fortify herself against the outer air. She was ready before the others. There was a pause, a low laugh, awhispered "Now!" She looked upon an unmasked, noble countenance, liftedher own mask a little, and then a little more; and then shut it quicklydown again upon a face whose beauty was more than even those fascinatinggraces had promised which Honoré Grandissime had fitly named theMorning; but it was a face he had never seen before. 

"Hush!" she said, "the enemies of religion are watching us; theHuguenotte saw me. Adieu"--and they were gone. 

M. Honoré Grandissime turned on his heel and very soon left the ball. 

"Now, sir, " thought he to himself, "we'll return to our senses. "

"Now I'll put my feathers on again, " says the plucked bird. 

CHAPTER II

THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT

It was just a fortnight after the ball, that one Joseph Frowenfeldopened his eyes upon Louisiana. He was an American by birth, rearing andsentiment, yet German enough through his parents, and the only son in afamily consisting of father, mother, self, and two sisters, new-blownflowers of womanhood. It was an October dawn, when, long wearied of theocean, and with bright anticipations of verdure, and fragrance, andtropical gorgeousness, this simple-hearted family awoke to find the barkthat had borne them from their far northern home already entering uponthe ascent of the Mississippi. 

We may easily imagine the grave group, as they came up one by one frombelow, that morning of first disappointment, and stood (with a whirligigof jubilant mosquitoes spinning about each head) looking out across thewaste, seeing the sky and the marsh meet in the east, the north, and thewest, and receiving with patient silence the father's suggestion thatthe hills would, no doubt, rise into view after a while. 

"My children, we may turn this disappointment into a lesson; if the goodpeople of this country could speak to us now, they might well ask us notto judge them or their land upon one or two hasty glances, or by theexperiences of a few short days or weeks. "

But no hills rose. However, by and by they found solace in theappearance of distant forest, and in the afternoon they entered aland--but such a land! A land hung in mourning, darkened by giganticcypresses, submerged; a land of reptiles, silence, shadow, decay. 

"The captain told father, when we went to engage passage, that NewOrleans was on high land, " said the younger daughter, with a tremor inthe voice, and ignoring the remonstrative touch of her sister. 

"On high land?" said the captain, turning from the pilot; "well, so itis--higher than the swamp, but not higher than the river, " and hechecked a broadening smile. 

But the Frowenfelds were not a family to complain. It was characteristicof them to recognize the bright as well as the solemn virtues, and tokeep each other reminded of the duty of cheerfulness. A smile, startingfrom the quiet elder sister, went around the group, directed against theabstracted and somewhat rueful countenance of Joseph, whereat he turnedwith a better face and said that what the Creator had pronounced verygood they could hardly feel free to condemn. The old father was stillmore stout of heart. 

"These mosquitoes, children, are thought by some to keep the air pure, "he said. 

"Better keep out of it after sunset, " put in the captain. 

After that day and night, the prospect grew less repellent. A graduallymatured conviction that New Orleans would not be found standing onstilts in the quagmire enabled the eye to become educated to a betterappreciation of the solemn landscape. Nor was the landscape alwayssolemn. There were long openings, now and then, to right and left, ofemerald-green savannah, with the dazzling blue of the Gulf far beyond, waving a thousand white-handed good-byes as the funereal swamps slowlyshut out again the horizon. How sweet the soft breezes off the moistprairies! How weird, how very near, the crimson and green and black andyellow sunsets! How dream-like the land and the great, whispering river!The profound stillness and breath reminded the old German, so he said, of that early time when the evenings and mornings were the first days ofthe half-built world. The barking of a dog in Fort Plaquemines seemed tocome before its turn in the panorama of creation--before the earth wasready for the dog's master. 

But he was assured that to live in those swamps was not entirelyimpossible to man--"if one may call a negro a man. " Runaway slaves werenot so rare in them as one--a lost hunter, for example--might wish. Hisinformant was a new passenger, taken aboard at the fort. Hespoke English. 

"Yes, sir! Didn' I had to run from Bras-Coupé in de haidge of de swampbe'ine de 'abitation of my cousin Honoré, one time? You can hask 'oo youlike!" (A Creole always provides against incredulity. ) At this point hedigressed a moment: "You know my cousin, Honoré Grandissime, w'at givetwo hund' fifty dolla' to de 'ospill laz mont'? An' juz because mycousin Honoré give it, somebody helse give de semm. Fo' w'y don't hegive his nemm?"

The reason (which this person did not know) was that the second donorwas the first one over again, resolved that the little unknown Monkshould not know whom she had baffled. 

"Who was Bras-Coupé?" the good German asked in French. 

The stranger sat upon the capstan, and, in the shadow of the cypressforest, where the vessel lay moored for a change of wind, told in a_patois_ difficult, but not impossible, to understand, the story of aman who chose rather to be hunted like a wild beast among those awfullabyrinths, than to be yoked and beaten like a tame one. Joseph, drawingnear as the story was coming to a close, overheard the followingEnglish:

"Friend, if you dislike heated discussion, do not tell that to my son. "

The nights were strangely beautiful. The immigrants almost consumed themon deck, the mother and daughters attending in silent delight while thefather and son, facing south, rejoiced in learned recognition of starsand constellations hitherto known to them only on globes and charts. 

"Yes, my dear son, " said the father, in a moment of ecstatic admiration, "wherever man may go, around this globe--however uninviting his lateralsurroundings may be, the heavens are ever over his head, and I am gladto find the stars your favorite objects of study. "

So passed the time as the vessel, hour by hour, now slowly pushed by thewind against the turbid current, now warping along the fragrantprecincts of orange or magnolia groves or fields of sugar-cane, ormoored by night in the deep shade of mighty willow-jungles, patientlycrept toward the end of their pilgrimage; and in the length of timewhich would at present be consumed in making the whole journey fromtheir Northern home to their Southern goal, accomplished the distance ofninety-eight miles, and found themselves before the little, hybrid cityof "Nouvelle Orléans. " There was the cathedral, and standing beside it, like Sancho beside Don Quixote, the squat hall of the Cabildo with thecalabozo in the rear. There were the forts, the military bakery, thehospitals, the plaza, the Almonaster stores, and the busy rue Toulouse;and, for the rest of the town, a pleasant confusion of green tree-tops, red and gray roofs, and glimpses of white or yellow wall, spreading backa few hundred yards behind the cathedral, and tapering into a singlerank of gardened and belvedered villas, that studded either horn of theriver's crescent with a style of home than which there is probablynothing in the world more maternally homelike. 

"And now, " said the "captain, " bidding the immigrants good-by, "keep outof the sun and stay in after dark; you're not 'acclimated, ' as theycall it, you know, and the city is full of the fever. "

Such were the Frowenfelds. Out of such a mold and into such a place camethe young Américain, whom even Agricola Fusilier, as we shall see, byand by thought worthy to be made an exception of, and honored with hisrecognition. 

The family rented a two-story brick house in the rue Bienville, No. 17, it seems. The third day after, at daybreak, Joseph called his father tohis bedside to say that he had had a chill, and was suffering such painsin his head and back that he would like to lie quiet until they passedoff. The gentle father replied that it was undoubtedly best to do so, and preserved an outward calm. He looked at his son's eyes; their pupilswere contracted to tiny beads. He felt his pulse and his brow; there wasno room for doubt; it was the dreaded scourge--the fever. We say, sometimes, of hearts that they sink like lead; it does not expressthe agony. 

On the second day, while the unsated fever was running through everyvein and artery, like soldiery through the streets of a burning city, and far down in the caverns of the body the poison was ransacking everypalpitating corner, the poor immigrant fell into a moment's sleep. Butwhat of that? The enemy that moment had mounted to the brain. And thenthere happened to Joseph an experience rare to the sufferer by thisdisease, but not entirely unknown, --a delirium of mingled pleasures anddistresses. He seemed to awake somewhere between heaven and earth, reclining in a gorgeous barge, which was draped in curtains ofinterwoven silver and silk, cushioned with rich stuffs of everybeautiful dye, and perfumed _ad nauseam_ with orange-leaf tea. The crewwas a single old negress, whose head was wound about with a blue Madrashandkerchief, and who stood at the prow, and by a singular rotarymotion, rowed the barge with a teaspoon. He could not get his head outof the hot sun; and the barge went continually round and round with aheavy, throbbing motion, in the regular beat of which certain spirits ofthe air--one of whom appeared to be a beautiful girl and another asmall, red-haired man, --confronted each other with the continual calland response:

"Keep the bedclothes on him and the room shut tight, keep the bedclotheson him and the room shut tight, "--"An' don' give 'im some watta, an'don' give 'im some watta. "

During what lapse of time--whether moments or days--this lasted, Josephcould not then know; but at last these things faded away, and there cameto him a positive knowledge that he was on a sick-bed, where unlesssomething could be done for him he should be dead in an hour. Then aspoon touched his lips, and a taste of brandy and water went all throughhim; and when he fell into sweet slumber and awoke, and found theteaspoon ready at his lips again, he had to lift a little the two handslying before him on the coverlet to know that they were his--they wereso wasted and yellow. He turned his eyes, and through the white gauze ofthe mosquito-bar saw, for an instant, a strange and beautiful youngface; but the lids fell over his eyes, and when he raised them again theblue-turbaned black nurse was tucking the covering about his feet. 

"Sister!"

No answer. 

"Where is my mother?"

The negress shook her head. 

He was too weak to speak again, but asked with his eyes so persistently, and so pleadingly, that by and by she gave him an audible answer. Hetried hard to understand it, but could not, it being in these words:

"_Li pa' oulé vini 'ci--li pas capabe_. "

Thrice a day, for three days more, came a little man with a large headsurrounded by short, red curls and with small freckles in a fine skin, and sat down by the bed with a word of good cheer and the air of acommander. At length they had something like an extended conversation. 

"So you concluded not to die, eh? Yes, I'm the doctor--Doctor Keene. Ayoung lady? What young lady? No, sir, there has been no young lady here. You're mistaken. Vagary of your fever. There has been no one here butthis black girl and me. No, my dear fellow, your father and mother can'tsee you yet; you don't want them to catch the fever, do you? Good-bye. Do as your nurse tells you, and next week you may raise your head andshoulders a little; but if you don't mind her you'll have a backset, andthe devil himself wouldn't engage to cure you. "

The patient had been sitting up a little at a time for several days, when at length the doctor came to pay a final call, "as a matter ofform;" but, after a few pleasantries, he drew his chair up gravely, and, in a tender tone--need we say it? He had come to tell Joseph that hisfather, mother, sisters, all, were gone on a second--a longer--voyage, to shores where there could be no disappointments and nofevers, forever. 

"And, Frowenfeld, " he said, at the end of their long and painful talk, "if there is any blame attached to not letting you go with them, I thinkI can take part of it; but if you ever want a friend, --one who iscourteous to strangers and ill-mannered only to those he likes, --you cancall for Charlie Keene. I'll drop in to see you, anyhow, from time totime, till you get stronger. I have taken a heap of trouble to keep youalive, and if you should relapse now and give us the slip, it would be adeal of good physic wasted; so keep in the house. "

The polite neighbors who lifted their cocked hats to Joseph, as he spenta slow convalescence just within his open door, were not bound to knowhow or when he might have suffered. There were no "Howards" or"Y. M. C. A. 's" in those days; no "Peabody Reliefs. " Even had the neighborschosen to take cognizance of those bereavements, they were not sounusual as to fix upon him any extraordinary interests an object ofsight; and he was beginning most distressfully to realize that "greatsolitude" which the philosopher attributes to towns, when matters took adecided turn. 

CHAPTER III

"AND WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?"

We say matters took a turn; or, better, that Frowenfeld's interest inaffairs received a new life. This had its beginning in Doctor Keene'smaking himself specially entertaining in an old-family-history way, witha view to keeping his patient within doors for a safe period. He hadconceived a great liking for Frowenfeld, and often, of an afternoon, would drift in to challenge him to a game of chess--a game, by the way, for which neither of them cared a farthing. The immigrant had learnedits moves to gratify his father, and the doctor--the truth is, thedoctor had never quite learned them; but he was one of those men whocannot easily consent to acknowledge a mere affection for one, least ofall one of their own sex. It may safely be supposed, then, that theboard often displayed an arrangement of pieces that would havebewildered Morphy himself. 

"By the by, Frowenfeld, " he said one evening, after the one preliminarymove with which he invariably opened his game, "you haven't made theacquaintance of your pretty neighbors next door. "

Frowenfeld knew of no specially pretty neighbors next door on eitherside--had noticed no ladies. 

"Well, I will take you in to see them some time. " The doctor laughed alittle, rubbing his face and his thin, red curls with one hand, ashe laughed. 

The convalescent wondered what there could be to laugh at. 

"Who are they?" he inquired. 

"Their name is De Grapion--oh, De Grapion, says I! their name isNancanou. They are, without exception, the finest women--the brightest, the best, and the bravest--that I know in New Orleans. " The doctorresumed a cigar which lay against the edge of the chess-board, found itextinguished, and proceeded to relight it. "Best blood of the province;good as the Grandissimes. Blood is a great thing here, in certain oddways, " he went on. "Very curious sometimes. " He stooped to the floorwhere his coat had fallen, and took his handkerchief from abreast-pocket. "At a grand mask ball about two months ago, where I had abewilderingly fine time with those ladies, the proudest old turkey inthe theater was an old fellow whose Indian blood shows in his verybehavior, and yet--ha, ha! I saw that same old man, at a quadroon ball afew years ago, walk up to the handsomest, best dressed man in thehouse, a man with a skin whiter than his own, --a perfect gentleman as tolooks and manners, --and without a word slap him in the face. "

"You laugh?" asked Frowenfeld. 

"Laugh? Why shouldn't I? The fellow had no business there. Those ballsare not given to quadroon _males_, my friend. He was lucky to get outalive, and that was about all he did. 

"They are right!" the doctor persisted, in response to Frowenfeld'spuzzled look. "The people here have got to be particular. However, thatis not what we were talking about. Quadroon balls are not to bementioned in connection. Those ladies--" He addressed himself to theresuscitation of his cigar. "Singular people in this country, " heresumed; but his cigar would not revive. He was a poor story-teller. ToFrowenfeld--as it would have been to any one, except a Creole or themost thoroughly Creoleized Américain--his narrative, when it was done, was little more than a thick mist of strange names, places and events;yet there shone a light of romance upon it that filled it with color andpopulated it with phantoms. Frowenfeld's interest rose--was allured intothis mist--and there was left befogged. As a physician, Doctor Keenethus accomplished his end, --the mental diversion of his latepatient, --for in the midst of the mist Frowenfeld encountered andgrappled a problem of human life in Creole type, the possiblecorrelations of whose quantities we shall presently find him revolvingin a studious and sympathetic mind, as the poet of to-day ponders the

 "Flower in the crannied wall. "

The quantities in that problem were the ancestral--the maternal--rootsof those two rival and hostile families whose descendants--some brave, others fair--we find unwittingly thrown together at the ball, and withwhom we are shortly to have the honor of an unmasked acquaintance. 

CHAPTER IV

FAMILY TREES

In the year 1673, and in the royal hovel of a Tchoupitoulas village notfar removed from that "Buffalo's Grazing-ground, " now better known asNew Orleans, was born Lufki-Humma, otherwise Red Clay. The mother of RedClay was a princess by birth as well as by marriage. For the father, with that devotion to his people's interests presumably common torulers, had ten moons before ventured northward into the territory ofthe proud and exclusive Natchez nation, and had so prevailed with--sooutsmoked--their "Great Sun, " as to find himself, as he finally knockedthe ashes from his successful calumet, possessor of a wife whosepedigree included a long line of royal mothers--fathers being of littleaccount in Natchez heraldry--extending back beyond the Mexican originof her nation, and disappearing only in the effulgence of her greatoriginal, the orb of day himself. As to Red Clay's paternal ancestry, wemust content ourselves with the fact that the father was not only thediplomate we have already found him, but a chief of considerableeminence; that is to say, of seven feet stature. 

It scarce need be said that when Lufki-Humma was born, the mother aroseat once from her couch of skins, herself bore the infant to theneighboring bayou and bathed it--not for singularity, nor forindependence, nor for vainglory, but only as one of the heart-curdlingconventionalities which made up the experience of that most pitiful ofholy things, an Indian mother. 

Outside the lodge door sat and continued to sit, as she passed out, hermaster or husband. His interest in the trivialities of the moment may besummed up in this, that he was as fully prepared as some men are in morecivilized times and places to hold his queen to strict account for thesex of her offspring. Girls for the Natchez, if they preferred them, butthe chief of the Tchoupitoulas wanted a son. She returned from thewater, came near, sank upon her knees, laid the infant at his feet, andlo! a daughter. 

Then she fell forward heavily upon her face. It may have been muscularexhaustion, it may have been the mere wind of her hasty-temperedmatrimonial master's stone hatchet as it whiffed by her skull; aninquest now would be too great an irony; but something blew out her"vile candle. "

Among the squaws who came to offer the accustomed funeral howlings, andseize mementoes from the deceased lady's scant leavings, was one who hadin her own palmetto hut an empty cradle scarcely cold, and therefore anecessity at her breast, if not a place in her heart, for theunfortunate Lufki-Humma; and thus it was that this little waif came tobe tossed, a droll hypothesis of flesh, blood, nerve and brain, into thehands of wild nature with _carte blanche_ as to the disposal of it. Andnow, since this was Agricola's most boasted ancestor--since it appearsthe darkness of her cheek had no effect to make him less white, orqualify his right to smite the fairest and most distant descendant of anAfrican on the face, and since this proud station and right could nothave sprung from the squalid surroundings of her birth, let us for amoment contemplate these crude materials. 

As for the flesh, it was indeed only some of that "one flesh" of whichwe all are made; but the blood--to go into finer distinctions--theblood, as distinguished from the milk of her Alibamon foster-mother, wasthe blood of the royal caste of the great Toltec mother-race, which, before it yielded its Mexican splendors to the conquering Aztec, thronedthe jeweled and gold-laden Inca in the South, and sent the sacred fireof its temples into the North by the hand of the Natchez. For it is ashort way of expressing the truth concerning Red Clay's tissues to sayshe had the blood of her mother and the nerve of her father, the nerveof the true North American Indian, and had it in its finest strength. 

As to her infantine bones, they were such as needed not to fail ofstraightness in the limbs, compactness in the body, smallness in handsand feet, and exceeding symmetry and comeliness throughout. Possiblybetween the two sides of the occipital profile there may have been anIncaean tendency to inequality; but if by any good fortune herimpressible little cranium should escape the cradle-straps, theshapeliness that nature loves would soon appear. And this very fortunebefell her. Her father's detestation of an infant that had not consultedhis wishes as to sex prompted a verbal decree which, among otherprohibitions, forbade her skull the distortions that ambitious andfashionable Indian mothers delighted to produce upon their offspring. 

And as to her brain: what can we say? The casket in which Nature sealedthat brain, and in which Nature's great step-sister, Death, finally laidit away, has never fallen into the delighted fingers--and the remarkablefineness of its texture will never kindle admiration in the triumphanteyes--of those whose scientific hunger drives them to dig for _craniaAmericana_; nor yet will all their learned excavatings ever draw forthone of those pale souvenirs of mortality with walls of shapelier contouror more delicate fineness, or an interior of more admirablespaciousness, than the fair council-chamber under whose dome the mindof Lufki-Humma used, about two centuries ago, to sit in frequentconclave with high thoughts. 

"I have these facts, " it was Agricola Fusilier's habit to say, "byfamily tradition; but you know, sir, h-tradition is much more authenticthan history!"

Listening Crane, the tribal medicine-man, one day stepped softly intothe lodge of the giant chief, sat down opposite him on a mat of plaitedrushes, accepted a lighted calumet, and, after the silence of a decenthour, broken at length by the warrior's intimation that "the ear ofRaging Buffalo listened for the voice of his brother, " said, in effect, that if that ear would turn toward the village play-ground, it wouldcatch a murmur like the pleasing sound of bees among the blossoms of thecatalpa, albeit the catalpa was now dropping her leaves, for it was themoon of turkeys. No, it was the repressed laughter of squaws, wallowingwith their young ones about the village pole, wondering at theNatchez-Tchoupitoulas child, whose eye was the eye of the panther, andwhose words were the words of an aged chief in council. 

There was more added; we record only enough to indicate the direction ofListening Crane's aim. The eye of Raging Buffalo was opened to see avision: the daughter of the Natchez sitting in majesty, clothed inmany-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and recrossed withgirdles of serpent-skins and of wampum, her feet in quilled and paintedmoccasins, her head under a glory of plumes, the carpet ofbuffalo-robes about her throne covered with the trophies of conquest, and the atmosphere of her lodge blue with the smoke of embassadors'calumets; and this extravagant dream the capricious chief at onceresolved should eventually become reality. "Let her be taken to thevillage temple, " he said to his prime-minister, "and be fed by warriorson the flesh of wolves. "

The Listening Crane was a patient man; he was the "man that waits" ofthe old French proverb; all things came to him. He had waited for anopportunity to change his brother's mind, and it had come. Again, hewaited for him to die; and, like Methuselah and others, he died. He hadheard of a race more powerful than the Natchez--a white race; he waitedfor them; and when the year 1682 saw a humble "black gown" dragging andsplashing his way, with La Salle and Tonti, through the swamps ofLouisiana, holding forth the crucifix and backed by French carbines andMohican tomahawks, among the marvels of that wilderness was found this:a child of nine sitting, and--with some unostentatious aid from hermedicine-man--ruling; queen of her tribe and high-priestess of theirtemple. Fortified by the acumen and self-collected ambition of ListeningCrane, confirmed in her regal title by the white man's Manitou throughthe medium of the "black gown, " and inheriting her father'sfear-compelling frown, she ruled with majesty and wisdom, sometimes adecreer of bloody justice, sometimes an Amazonian counselor ofwarriors, and at all times--year after year, until she had reached theperfect womanhood of twenty-six--a virgin queen. 

On the 11th of March, 1699, two overbold young Frenchmen of M. D'Iberville's little exploring party tossed guns on shoulder, andventured away from their canoes on the bank of the Mississippi into thewilderness. Two men they were whom an explorer would have been justifiedin hoarding up, rather than in letting out at such risks; a pair to leanon, noble and strong. They hunted, killed nothing, were overtaken byrain, then by night, hunger, alarm, despair. 

And when they had lain down to die, and had only succeeded in fallingasleep, the Diana of the Tchoupitoulas, ranging the magnolia groves withbow and quiver, came upon them in all the poetry of their hope-forsakenstrength and beauty, and fell sick of love. We say not whether withZephyr Grandissime or Epaminondas Fusilier; that, for the time being, was her secret. 

The two captives were made guests. Listening Crane rejoiced in them asrepresentatives of the great gift-making race, and indulged himself in adream of pipe-smoking, orations, treaties, presents and alliances, finding its climax in the marriage of his virgin queen to the king ofFrance, and unvaryingly tending to the swiftly increasing aggrandizementof Listening Crane. They sat down to bear's meat, sagamite and beans. The queen sat down with them, clothed in her entire wardrobe: vest ofswan's skin, with facings of purple and green from the neck of themallard; petticoat of plaited hair, with embroideries of quills;leggings of fawn-skin; garters of wampum; black and green serpent-skinmoccasins, that rested on pelts of tiger-cat and buffalo; armlets ofgars' scales, necklaces of bears' claws and alligators' teeth, plaitedtresses, plumes of raven and flamingo, wing of the pink curlew, andodors of bay and sassafras. Young men danced before them, blowing uponreeds, hooting, yelling, rattling beans in gourds and touching hands andfeet. One day was like another, and the nights were made brilliant withflambeau dances and processions. 

Some days later M. D'Iberville's canoe fleet, returning down the river, found and took from the shore the two men, whom they had given up fordead, and with them, by her own request, the abdicating queen, who leftbehind her a crowd of weeping and howling squaws and warriors. Threecanoes that put off in their wake, at a word from her, turned back; butone old man leaped into the water, swam after them a little way, andthen unexpectedly sank. It was that cautious wader but inexperiencedswimmer, the Listening Crane. 

When the expedition reached Biloxi, there were two suitors for the handof Agricola's great ancestress. Neither of them was Zephyr Grandissime. (Ah! the strong heads of those Grandissimes. )

They threw dice for her. Demosthenes De Grapion--he who, traditionsays, first hoisted the flag of France over the little fort--seemed tothink he ought to have a chance, and being accorded it, cast anastonishingly high number; but Epaminondas cast a number higher by one(which Demosthenes never could quite understand), and got a wife who hadloved him from first sight. 

Thus, while the pilgrim fathers of the Mississippi Delta with Gallicrecklessness were taking wives and moot-wives from the ill specimens ofthree races, arose, with the church's benediction, the royal house ofthe Fusiliers in Louisiana. But the true, main Grandissime stock, onwhich the Fusiliers did early, ever, and yet do, love to marry, has keptitself lily-white ever since France has loved lilies--as to marriage, that is; as to less responsible entanglements, why, of course--

After a little, the disappointed Demosthenes, with due ecclesiasticalsanction, also took a most excellent wife, from the first cargo of Houseof Correction girls. Her biography, too, is as short as Methuselah's, orshorter; she died. Zephyr Grandissime married, still later, a lady ofrank, a widow without children, sent from France to Biloxi under a_lettre de cachet_. Demosthenes De Grapion, himself an only son, leftbut one son, who also left but one. Yet they were prone to earlymarriages. 

So also were the Grandissimes, or, as the name is signed in all the oldnotarial papers, the Brahmin Mandarin de Grandissimes. That was onething that kept their many-stranded family line so free from knots andkinks. Once the leisurely Zephyr gave them a start, generation followedgeneration with a rapidity that kept the competing De Grapionsincessantly exasperated, and new-made Grandissime fathers continuallythrowing themselves into the fond arms and upon the proud necks ofcongratulatory grandsires. Verily it seemed as though their family treewas a fig-tree; you could not look for blossoms on it, but there, instead, was the fruit full of seed. And with all their speed they werefor the most part fine of stature, strong of limb and fair of face. Theold nobility of their stock, including particularly the unnamed blood ofher of the _lettre de cachet_, showed forth in a gracefulness ofcarriage, that almost identified a De Grandissime wherever you saw him, and in a transparency of flesh and classic beauty of feature, that madetheir daughters extra-marriageable in a land and day which was bearing awide reproach for a male celibacy not of the pious sort. 

In a flock of Grandissimes might always be seen a Fusilier or two;fierce-eyed, strong-beaked, dark, heavy-taloned birds, who, if theycould not sing, were of rich plumage, and could talk, and bite, andstrike, and keep up a ruffled crest and a self-exalting bad humor. Theyearly learned one favorite cry, with which they greeted all strangers, crying the louder the more the endeavor was made to appease them:"Invaders! Invaders!"

There was a real pathos in the contrast offered to this family line bythat other which sprang up, as slenderly as a stalk of wild oats, fromthe loins of Demosthenes De Grapion. A lone son following a lone son, and he another--it was sad to contemplate, in that colonial beginning ofdays, three generations of good, Gallic blood tripping jocundly along inattenuated Indian file. It made it no less pathetic to see that theywere brilliant, gallant, much-loved, early epauletted fellows, who didnot let twenty-one catch them without wives sealed with the authenticwedding kiss, nor allow twenty-two to find them without an heir. Butthey had a sad aptness for dying young. It was altogether supposablethat they would have spread out broadly in the land; but they were suchinveterate duelists, such brave Indian-fighters, such adventurousswamp-rangers, and such lively free-livers, that, however numerouslytheir half-kin may have been scattered about in an unacknowledged way, the avowed name of De Grapion had become less and less frequent in listswhere leading citizens subscribed their signatures, and was not to beseen in the list of managers of the late ball. 

It is not at all certain that so hot a blood would not have boiled awayentirely before the night of the _bal masqué_, but for an event whichled to the union of that blood with a stream equally clear and ruddy, but of a milder vintage. This event fell out some fifty-two years afterthat cast of the dice which made the princess Lufki-Humma the mother ofall the Fusiliers and of none of the De Grapions. Clotilde, theCasket-Girl, the little maid who would not marry, was one of an heroicsort, worth--the De Grapions maintained--whole swampfuls of Indianqueens. And yet the portrait of this great ancestress, which served as apattern to one who, at the ball, personated the long-deceased heroine_en masque_, is hopelessly lost in some garret. Those Creoles have sucha shocking way of filing their family relics and records in rat-holes. 

One fact alone remains to be stated: that the De Grapions, try to spurnit as they would, never could quite suppress a hard feeling in the faceof the record, that from the two young men, who, when lost in thehorrors of Louisiana's swamps, had been esteemed as good as dead, andparticularly from him who married at his leisure, --from Zephyr deGrandissime, --sprang there so many as the sands of the Mississippiinnumerable. 

CHAPTER V

A MAIDEN WHO WILL NOT MARRY

Midway between the times of Lufki-Humma and those of her prouddescendant, Agricola Fusilier, fifty-two years lying on either side, were the days of Pierre Rigaut, the magnificent, the "Grand Marquis, "the Governor, De Vaudreuil. He was the Solomon of Louisiana. Forsplendor, however, not for wisdom. Those were the gala days of license, extravagance and pomp. He made paper money to be as the leaves of theforest for multitude; it was nothing accounted of in the days of theGrand Marquis. For Louis Quinze was king. 

Clotilde, orphan of a murdered Huguenot, was one of sixty, the lastroyal allotment to Louisiana, of imported wives. The king's agents hadinveigled her away from France with fair stories: "They will give you aquiet home with some lady of the colony. Have to marry?--not unless itpleases you. The king himself pays your passage and gives you a casketof clothes. Think of that these times, fillette; and passage free, withal, to--the garden of Eden, as you may call it--what more, say you, can a poor girl want? Without doubt, too, like a model colonist, youwill accept a good husband and have a great many beautiful children, whowill say with pride, 'Me, I am no House-of-Correction-girl stock; mymother'--or 'grandmother, ' as the case may be--'was a _fille à lacassette!_'"

The sixty were landed in New Orleans and given into the care of theUrsuline nuns; and, before many days had elapsed, fifty-nine soldiers ofthe king were well wived and ready to settle upon their riparianland-grants. The residuum in the nuns' hands was one stiff-necked littleheretic, named, in part, Clotilde. They bore with her for sixty days, and then complained to the Grand Marquis. But the Grand Marquis, withall his pomp, was gracious and kind-hearted, and loved his ease almostas much as his marchioness loved money. He bade them try her anothermonth. They did so, and then returned with her; she would neither marrynor pray to Mary. 

Here is the way they talked in New Orleans in those days. If you care tounderstand why Louisiana has grown up so out of joint, note the tone ofthose who governed her in the middle of the last century:

"What, my child, " the Grand Marquis said, "you a _fille à la cassette?_France, for shame! Come here by my side. Will you take a little advicefrom an old soldier? It is in one word--submit. Whatever is inevitable, submit to it. If you want to live easy and sleep easy, do as otherpeople do--submit. Consider submission in the present case; how easy, how comfortable, and how little it amounts to! A little hearing of mass, a little telling of beads, a little crossing of one's self--what isthat? One need not believe in them. Don't shake your head. Take myexample; look at me; all these things go in at this ear and out at this. Do king or clergy trouble me? Not at all. For how does the king in thesematters of religion? I shall not even tell you, he is such a bad boy. Doyou not know that all the _noblesse_, and all the _savants_, andespecially all the archbishops and cardinals, --all, in a word, but suchsilly little chicks as yourself, --have found out that this religiousbusiness is a joke? Actually a joke, every whit; except, to be sure, this heresy phase; that is a joke they cannot take. Now, I wish youwell, pretty child; so if you--eh?--truly, my pet, I fear we shall haveto call you unreasonable. Stop; they can spare me here a moment; I willtake you to the Marquise: she is in the next room. . . . Behold, " said he, as he entered the presence of his marchioness, "the little maid who willnot marry!"

The Marquise was as cold and hard-hearted as the Marquis was loose andkind; but we need not recount the slow tortures of the _fille à lacassette's_ second verbal temptation. The colony had to have soldiers, she was given to understand, and the soldiers must have wives. "Why, Iam a soldier's wife, myself!" said the gorgeously attired lady, layingher hand upon the governor-general's epaulet. She explained, further, that he was rather softhearted, while she was a business woman; alsothat the royal commissary's rolls did not comprehend such a thing as aspinster, and--incidentally--that living by principle was rather out offashion in the province just then. 

After she had offered much torment of this sort, a definite notionseemed to take her; she turned her lord by a touch of the elbow, andexchanged two or three business-like whispers with him at a windowoverlooking the Levee. 

"Fillette, " she said, returning, "you are going to live on thesea-coast. I am sending an aged lady there to gather the wax of the wildmyrtle. This good soldier of mine buys it for our king at twelve livresthe pound. Do you not know that women can make money? The place is notsafe; but there are no safe places in Louisiana. There are no nuns totrouble you there; only a few Indians and soldiers. You and Madame willlive together, quite to yourselves, and can pray as you like. "

"And not marry a soldier, " said the Grand Marquis. 

"No, " said the lady, "not if you can gather enough myrtle-berries toafford me a profit and you a living. "

It was some thirty leagues or more eastward to the country of theBiloxis, a beautiful land of low, evergreen hills looking out across thepine-covered sand-keys of Mississippi Sound to the Gulf of Mexico. Thenorthern shore of Biloxi Bay was rich in candleberry-myrtle. InClotilde's day, though Biloxi was no longer the capital of theMississippi Valley, the fort which D'Iberville had built in 1699, andthe first timber of which is said to have been lifted by ZephyrGrandissime at one end and Epaminondas Fusilier at the other, was stillthere, making brave against the possible advent of corsairs, with a fewold culverines and one wooden mortar. 

And did the orphan, in despite of Indians and soldiers and wilderness, settle down here and make a moderate fortune? Alas, she never gathered aberry! When she--with the aged lady, her appointed companion in exile, the young commandant of the fort, in whose pinnace they had come, andtwo or three French sailors and Canadians--stepped out upon the whitesand of Biloxi beach, she was bound with invisible fetters hand andfoot, by that Olympian rogue of a boy, who likes no better prey than alittle maiden who thinks she will never marry. 

The officer's name was De Grapion--Georges De Grapion. The Marquis gavehim a choice grant of land on that part of the Mississippi river "coast"known as the Cannes Brulées. 

"Of course you know where Cannes Brulées is, don't you?" asked DoctorKeene of Joseph Frowenfeld. 

"Yes, " said Joseph, with a twinge of reminiscence that recalled thestudy of Louisiana on paper with his father and sisters. 

There Georges De Grapion settled, with the laudable determination tomake a fresh start against the mortifyingly numerous Grandissimes. 

"My father's policy was every way bad, " he said to his spouse; "it isuseless, and probably wrong, this trying to thin them out by duels; wewill try another plan. Thank you, " he added, as she handed his coat backto him, with the shoulder-straps cut off. In pursuance of the new plan, Madame De Grapion, --the precious little heroine!--before the myrtlesoffered another crop of berries, bore him a boy not much smaller (saithtradition) than herself. 

Only one thing qualified the father's elation. On that very day NumaGrandissime (Brahmin-Mandarin de Grandissime), a mere child, receivedfrom Governor de Vaudreuil a cadetship. 

"Never mind, Messieurs Grandissime, go on with your tricks; we shallsee! Ha! we shall see!"

"We shall see what?" asked a remote relative of that family. "WillMonsieur be so good as to explain himself?"

 * * * * *

Bang! bang!

Alas, Madame De Grapion!

It may be recorded that no affair of honor in Louisiana ever left abraver little widow. When Joseph and his doctor pretended to play chesstogether, but little more than a half-century had elapsed since the_fille à la cassette_ stood before the Grand Marquis and refused to wed. Yet she had been long gone into the skies, leaving a worthy examplebehind her in twenty years of beautiful widowhood. Her son, the heir andresident of the plantation at Cannes Brulées, at the age of--they dosay--eighteen, had married a blithe and pretty lady of Franco-Spanishextraction, and, after a fair length of life divided between campaigningunder the brilliant young Galvez and raising unremunerativeindigo crops, had lately lain down to sleep, leaving only twodescendants--females--how shall we describe them?--a Monk and a _Fille àla Cassette_. It was very hard to have to go leaving his family namesnuffed out and certain Grandissime-ward grievances burning. 

 * * * * *

"There are so many Grandissimes, " said the weary-eyed Frowenfeld, "Icannot distinguish between--I can scarcely count them. "

"Well, now, " said the doctor, "let me tell you, don't try. They can'tdo it themselves. Take them in the mass--as you would shrimps. "

CHAPTER VI

LOST OPPORTUNITIES

The little doctor tipped his chair back against the wall, drew up hisknees, and laughed whimperingly in his freckled hands. 

"I had to do some prodigious lying at that ball. I didn't dare let theDe Grapion ladies know they were in company with a Grandissime. "

"I thought you said their name was Nancanou. "

"Well, certainly--De Grapion-Nancanou. You see, that is one of theircharms: one is a widow, the other is her daughter, and both as young andbeautiful as Hebe. Ask Honoré Grandissime; he has seen the little widow;but then he don't know who she is. He will not ask me, and I will nottell him. Oh, yes; it is about eighteen years now since old DeGrapion--elegant, high-stepping old fellow--married her, then onlysixteen years of age, to young Nancanou, an indigo-planter on the FausseRivière--the old bend, you know, behind Pointe Coupée. The young couplewent there to live. I have been told they had one of the prettiestplaces in Louisiana. He was a man of cultivated tastes, educated inParis, spoke English, was handsome (convivial, of course), and ofperfectly pure blood. But there was one thing old De Grapion overlooked:he and his son-in-law were the last of their names. In Louisiana a manneeds kinsfolk. He ought to have married his daughter into a stronghouse. They say that Numa Grandissime (Honoré's father) and he hadpatched up a peace between the two families that included even oldAgricola, and that he could have married her to a Grandissime. However, he is supposed to have known what he was about. 

"A matter of business called young Nancanou to New Orleans. He had nofriends here; he was a Creole, but what part of his life had not beenspent on his plantation he had passed in Europe. He could not leave hisyoung girl of a wife alone in that exiled sort of plantation life, so hebrought her and the child (a girl) down with him as far as to herfather's place, left them there, and came on to the city alone. 

"Now, what does the old man do but give him a letter of introduction toold Agricole Fusilier! (His name is Agricola, but we shorten it toAgricole. ) It seems that old De Grapion and Agricole had had theindiscretion to scrape up a mutually complimentary correspondence. Andto Agricole the young man went. 

"They became intimate at once, drank together, danced with the quadroonstogether, and got into as much mischief in three days as I ever did in afortnight. So affairs went on until by and by they were gamblingtogether. One night they were at the Piety Club, playing hard, and theplanter lost his last quarti. He became desperate, and did a thing Ihave known more than one planter to do: wrote his pledge for everyarpent of his land and every slave on it, and staked that. Agricolerefused to play. 'You shall play, ' said Nancanou, and when the game wasended he said: 'Monsieur Agricola Fusilier, you cheated. ' You see? Justas I have frequently been tempted to remark to my friend, Mr. Frowenfeld. 

"But, Frowenfeld, you must know, withal the Creoles are such gamblers, they never cheat; they play absolutely fair. So Agricole had tochallenge the planter. He could not be blamed for that; there was nochoice--oh, now, Frowenfeld, keep quiet! I tell you there was no choice. And the fellow was no coward. He sent Agricole a clear title to the realestate and slaves, --lacking only the wife's signature, --accepted thechallenge and fell dead at the first fire. 

"Stop, now, and let me finish. Agricole sat down and wrote to the widowthat he did not wish to deprive her of her home, and that if she wouldstate in writing her belief that the stakes had been won fairly, hewould give back the whole estate, slaves and all; but that if she wouldnot, he should feel compelled to retain it in vindication of his honor. Now wasn't that drawing a fine point?" The doctor laughed according tohis habit, with his face down in his hands. "You see, he wanted tostand before all creation--the Creator did not make so muchdifference--in the most exquisitely proper light; so he puts the laws ofhumanity under his feet, and anoints himself from head to foot withCreole punctilio. "

"Did she sign the paper?" asked Joseph. 

"She? Wait till you know her! No, indeed; she had the true scorn. Sheand her father sent down another and a better title. Creole-like, theymanaged to bestir themselves to that extent and there they stopped. 

"And the airs with which they did it! They kept all their rage tothemselves, and sent the polite word, that they were not acquainted withthe merits of the case, that they were not disposed to make the long andarduous trip to the city and back, and that if M. Fusilier deGrandissime thought he could find any pleasure or profit in owning theplace, he was welcome; that the widow of _his late friend_ was notdisposed to live on it, but would remain with her father at the paternalhome at Cannes Brulées. 

"Did you ever hear of a more perfect specimen of Creole pride? That isthe way with all of them. Show me any Creole, or any number of Creoles, in any sort of contest, and right down at the foundation of it all, Iwill find you this same preposterous, apathetic, fantastic, suicidalpride. It is as lethargic and ferocious as an alligator. That is why theCreole almost always is (or thinks he is) on the defensive. See these DeGrapions' haughty good manners to old Agricole; yet there wasn't aGrandissime in Louisiana who could have set foot on the De Grapion landsbut at the risk of his life. 

"But I will finish the story: and here is the really sad part. Not manymonths ago old De Grapion--'old, ' said I; they don't grow old; I callhim old--a few months ago he died. He must have left everythingsmothered in debt; for, like his race, he had stuck to indigo becausehis father planted it, and it is a crop that has lost money steadily foryears and years. His daughter and granddaughter were left like babes inthe wood; and, to crown their disasters, have now made the grave mistakeof coming to the city, where they find they haven't a friend--not one, sir! They called me in to prescribe for a trivial indisposition, shortlyafter their arrival; and I tell you, Frowenfeld, it made me shiver tosee two such beautiful women in such a town as this without a maleprotector, and even"--the doctor lowered his voice--"without adequatesupport. The mother says they are perfectly comfortable; tells the oldcouple so who took them to the ball, and whose little girl is theirembroidery scholar; but you cannot believe a Creole on that subject, andI don't believe her. Would you like to make their acquaintance?"

Frowenfeld hesitated, disliking to say no to his friend, and then shookhis head. 

"After a while--at least not now, sir, if you please. "

The doctor made a gesture of disappointment. 

"Um-hum, " he said grumly--"the only man in New Orleans I would honorwith an invitation!--but all right; I'll go alone. "

He laughed a little at himself, and left Frowenfeld, if ever he shoulddesire it, to make the acquaintance of his pretty neighbors as besthe could. 

CHAPTER VII

WAS IT HONORÉ GRANDISSIME?

A Creole gentleman, on horseback one morning with some practical objectin view, --drainage, possibly, --had got what he sought, --the evidence ofhis own eyes on certain points, --and now moved quietly across some oldfields toward the town, where more absorbing interests awaited him inthe Rue Toulouse; for this Creole gentleman was a merchant, and becausehe would presently find himself among the appointments and restraints ofthe counting-room, he heartily gave himself up, for the moment, to thesurrounding influences of nature. 

It was late in November; but the air was mild and the grass and foliagegreen and dewy. Wild flowers bloomed plentifully and in all directions;the bushes were hung, and often covered, with vines of sprightly green, sprinkled thickly with smart-looking little worthless berries, whosesparkling complacency the combined contempt of man, beast and birdcould not dim. The call of the field-lark came continually out of thegrass, where now and then could be seen his yellow breast; the orchardoriole was executing his fantasias in every tree; a covey of partridgesran across the path close under the horse's feet, and stopped to lookback almost within reach of the riding-whip; clouds of starlings, intheir odd, irresolute way, rose from the high bulrushes and settledagain, without discernible cause; little wandering companies of sparrowsundulated from hedge to hedge; a great rabbit-hawk sat alone in the topof a lofty pecan-tree; that petted rowdy, the mocking-bird, dropped downinto the path to offer fight to the horse, and, failing in that, flew upagain and drove a crow into ignominious retirement beyond the plain;from a place of flags and reeds a white crane shot upward, turned, andthen, with the slow and stately beat peculiar to her wing, sped awayuntil, against the tallest cypress of the distant forest, she became atiny white speck on its black, and suddenly disappeared, like oneflake of snow. 

The scene was altogether such as to fill any hearty soul with impulsesof genial friendliness and gentle candor; such a scene as will sometimesprepare a man of the world, upon the least direct incentive, to throwopen the windows of his private thought with a freedom which theatmosphere of no counting-room or drawing-room tends to induce. 

The young merchant--he was young--felt this. Moreover, the matter ofbusiness which had brought him out had responded to his inquiring eyewith a somewhat golden radiance; and your true man of business--he whohas reached that elevated pitch of serene, good-natured reserve which isof the high art of his calling--is never so generous with hispennyworths of thought as when newly in possession of some little secretworth many pounds. 

By and by the behavior of the horse indicated the near presence of astranger; and the next moment the rider drew rein under an immenselive-oak where there was a bit of paling about some graves, andraised his hat. 

"Good-morning, sir. " But for the silent r's, his pronunciation wasexact, yet evidently an acquired one. While he spoke his salutation inEnglish, he was thinking in French: "Without doubt, this ratheroversized, bareheaded, interrupted-looking convalescent who standsbefore me, wondering how I should know in what language to address him, is Joseph Frowenfeld, of whom Doctor Keene has had so much to say to me. A good face--unsophisticated, but intelligent, mettlesome and honest. Hewill make his mark; it will probably be a white one; I will subscribe tothe adventure. 

"You will excuse me, sir?" he asked after a pause, dismounting, andnoticing, as he did so, that Frowenfeld's knees showed recent contactwith the turf; "I have, myself, some interest in two of these graves, sir, as I suppose--you will pardon my freedom--you have in theother four. "

He approached the old but newly whitened paling, which encircled thetree's trunk as well as the six graves about it. There was in his faceand manner a sort of impersonal human kindness, well calculated toengage a diffident and sensitive stranger, standing in dread ofgratuitous benevolence or pity. 

"Yes, sir, " said the convalescent, and ceased; but the other leanedagainst the palings in an attitude of attention, and he felt induced toadd: "I have buried here my father, mother, and two sisters, "--he hadexpected to continue in an unemotional tone; but a deep respirationusurped the place of speech. He stooped quickly to pick up his hat, and, as he rose again and looked into his listener's face, the respectful, unobtrusive sympathy there expressed went directly to his heart. 

"Victims of the fever, " said the Creole with great gravity. "How didthat happen?"

As Frowenfeld, after a moment's hesitation, began to speak, the strangerlet go the bridle of his horse and sat down upon the turf. Josephappreciated the courtesy and sat down, too; and thus the ice was broken. 

The immigrant told his story; he was young--often younger than hisyears--and his listener several years his senior; but the Creole, trueto his blood, was able at any time to make himself as young as need be, and possessed the rare magic of drawing one's confidence without seemingto do more than merely pay attention. It followed that the story wastold in full detail, including grateful acknowledgment of the goodnessof an unknown friend, who had granted this burial-place on conditionthat he should not be sought out for the purpose of thanking him. 

So a considerable time passed by, in which acquaintance grew withdelightful rapidity. 

"What will you do now?" asked the stranger, when a short silence hadfollowed the conclusion of the story. 

"I hardly know. I am taken somewhat by surprise. I have not chosen adefinite course in life--as yet. I have been a general student, but havenot prepared myself for any profession; I am not sure what I shall be. "

A certain energy in the immigrant's face half redeemed this childlikespeech. Yet the Creole's lips, as he opened them to reply, betrayedamusement; so he hastened to say:

"I appreciate your position, Mr. Frowenfeld, --excuse me, I believe yousaid that was your father's name. And yet, "--the shadow of an amusedsmile lurked another instant about a corner of his mouth, --"if you wouldunderstand me kindly I would say, take care--"

What little blood the convalescent had rushed violently to his face, andthe Creole added:

"I do not insinuate you would willingly be idle. I think I know what youwant. You want to make up your mind _now_ what you will _do_, and atyour leisure what you will _be_; eh? To be, it seems to me, " he said insumming up, --"that to be is not so necessary as to do, eh? or amI wrong?"

"No, sir, " replied Joseph, still red, "I was feeling that just now. Iwill do the first thing that offers; I can dig. "

The Creole shrugged and pouted. 

"And be called a _dos brile_--a 'burnt-back. '"

"But"--began the immigrant, with overmuch warmth. 

The other interrupted him, shaking his head slowly and smiling as hespoke. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, it is of no use to talk; you may hold in contempt theCreole scorn of toil--just as I do, myself, but in theory, my-de'-seh, not too much in practice. You cannot afford to be _entirely_ differentfrom the community in which you live; is that not so?"

"A friend of mine, " said Frowenfeld, "has told me I must 'compromise. '"

"You must get acclimated, " responded the Creole; "not in body only, thatyou have done; but in mind--in taste--in conversation--and inconvictions too, yes, ha, ha! They all do it--all who come. They holdout a little while--a very little; then they open their stores onSunday, they import cargoes of Africans, they bribe the officials, theysmuggle goods, they have colored housekeepers. My-de'-seh, the watermust expect to take the shape of the bucket; eh?"

"One need not be water!" said the immigrant. 

"Ah!" said the Creole, with another amiable shrug, and a wave of hishand; "certainly you do not suppose that is my advice--that those thingshave my approval. "

Must we repeat already that Frowenfeld was abnormally young? "Why havethey not your condemnation?" cried he with an earnestness that made theCreole's horse drop the grass from his teeth and wheel half around. 

The answer came slowly and gently. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, my habit is to buy cheap and sell at a profit. Mycondemnation? My-de'-seh, there is no sa-a-ale for it! it spoils thesale of other goods my-de'-seh. It is not to condemn that you want; youwant to suc-_ceed_. Ha, ha, ha! you see I am a merchant, eh? My-de'-seh, can _you_ afford not to succeed?"

The speaker had grown very much in earnest in the course of these fewwords, and as he asked the closing question, arose, arranged his horse'sbridle and, with his elbow in the saddle, leaned his handsome head onhis equally beautiful hand. His whole appearance was a dazzlingcontradiction of the notion that a Creole is a person of mixed blood. 

"I think I can!" replied the convalescent, with much spirit, rising withmore haste than was good, and staggering a moment. 

The horseman laughed outright. 

"Your principle is the best, I cannot dispute that; but whether you canact it out--reformers do not make money, you know. " He examined hissaddle-girth and began to tighten it. "One can condemn--toocautiously--by a kind of--elevated cowardice (I have that fault); butone can also condemn too rashly; I remember when I did so. One of theoccupants of those two graves you see yonder side by side--I think mighthave lived longer if I had not spoken so rashly for his rights. Did youever hear of Bras-Coupé, Mr. Frowenfeld?"

"I have heard only the name. "

"Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld, _there_ was a bold man's chance to denounce wrongand oppression! Why, that negro's death changed the whole channel of myconvictions. "

The speaker had turned and thrown up his arm with frowning earnestness;he dropped it and smiled at himself. 

"Do not mistake me for one of your new-fashioned Philadelphia'_negrophiles_'; I am a merchant, my-de'-seh, a good subject of HisCatholic Majesty, a Creole of the Creoles, and so forth, and soforth. Come!"

He slapped the saddle. 

To have seen and heard them a little later as they moved toward thecity, the Creole walking before the horse, and Frowenfeld sitting in thesaddle, you might have supposed them old acquaintances. Yet theimmigrant was wondering who his companion might be. He had notintroduced himself--seemed to think that even an immigrant might knowhis name without asking. Was it Honoré Grandissime? Joseph was temptedto guess so; but the initials inscribed on the silver-mounted pommel ofthe fine old Spanish saddle did not bear out that conjecture. 

The stranger talked freely. The sun's rays seemed to set all thesweetness in him a-working, and his pleasant worldly wisdom foamed upand out like fermenting honey. 

By and by the way led through a broad, grassy lane where the path turnedalternately to right and left among some wild acacias. The Creole wavedhis hand toward one of them and said:

"Now, Mr. Frowenfeld, you see? one man walks where he sees another'strack; that is what makes a path; but you want a man, instead of passingaround this prickly bush, to lay hold of it with his naked hands andpull it up by the roots. "

"But a man armed with the truth is far from being barehanded, " repliedthe convalescent, and they went on, more and more interested at everystep, --one in this very raw imported material for an excellent man, theother in so striking an exponent of a unique land and people. 

They came at length to the crossing of two streets, and the Creole, pausing in his speech, laid his hand upon the bridle. 

Frowenfeld dismounted. 

"Do we part here?" asked the Creole. "Well, Mr. Frowenfeld, I hope tomeet you soon again. "

"Indeed, I thank you, sir, " said Joseph, "and I hope we shall, although--"

The Creole paused with a foot in the stirrup and interrupted him with aplayful gesture; then as the horse stirred, he mounted and drew inthe rein. 

"I know; you want to say you cannot accept my philosophy and I cannotappreciate yours; but I appreciate it more than you think, my-de'-seh. "

The convalescent's smile showed much fatigue. 

The Creole extended his hand; the immigrant seized it, wished to ask hisname, but did not; and the next moment he was gone. 

The convalescent walked meditatively toward his quarters, with a faintfeeling of having been found asleep on duty and awakened by a passingstranger. It was an unpleasant feeling, and he caught himself more thanonce shaking his head. He stopped, at length, and looked back; but theCreole was long since out of sight. The mortified self-accuser littleknew how very similar a feeling that vanished person was carrying awaywith him. He turned and resumed his walk, wondering who Monsieur mightbe, and a little impatient with himself that he had not asked. 

"It is Honoré Grandissime; it must be he!" he said. 

Yet see how soon he felt obliged to change his mind. 

CHAPTER VIII

SIGNED--HONORÉ GRANDISSIME

On the afternoon of the same day, having decided what he would "do, " hestarted out in search of new quarters. He found nothing then, but nextmorning came upon a small, single-story building in the rueRoyale, --corner of Conti, --which he thought would suit his plans. Therewere a door and show-window in the rue Royale, two doors in theintersecting street, and a small apartment in the rear which wouldanswer for sleeping, eating, and studying purposes, and which connectedwith the front apartment by a door in the left-hand corner. Thisconnection he would partially conceal by a prescription-desk. A counterwould run lengthwise toward the rue Royale, along the wall opposite theside-doors. Such was the spot that soon became known as"Frowenfeld's Corner. "

The notice "À Louer" directed him to inquire at numero--rue Condé. Herehe was ushered through the wicket of a _porte cochère_ into a broad, paved corridor, and up a stair into a large, cool room, and into thepresence of a man who seemed, in some respects, the most remarkablefigure he had yet seen in this little city of strange people. A strong, clear, olive complexion; features that were faultless (unless awoman-like delicacy, that was yet not effeminate, was a fault); hair _enqueue_, the handsomer for its premature streakings of gray; a tall, wellknit form, attired in cloth, linen and leather of the utmost fineness;manners Castilian, with a gravity almost oriental, --made him one ofthose rare masculine figures which, on the public promenade, men lookback at and ladies inquire about. 

Now, who might _this_ be? The rent poster had given no name. Even theincurious Frowenfeld would fain guess a little. For a man to be just ofthis sort, it seemed plain that he must live in an isolated ease uponthe unceasing droppings of coupons, rents, and like receivables. Suchwas the immigrant's first conjecture; and, as with slow, scant questionsand answers they made their bargain, every new glance strengthened it;he was evidently a _rentier_. What, then, was his astonishment whenMonsieur bent down and made himself Frowenfeld's landlord, by writingwhat the universal mind esteemed the synonym of enterprise andactivity--the name of Honoré Grandissime. The landlord did not see, orignored, his tenant's glance of surprise, and the tenant asked noquestions. 

 * * * * *

We may add here an incident which seemed, when it took place, asunimportant as a single fact well could be. 

The little sum that Frowenfeld had inherited from his father had beensadly depleted by the expenses of four funerals; yet he was still ableto pay a month's rent in advance, to supply his shop with a scant stockof drugs, to purchase a celestial globe and some scientific apparatus, and to buy a dinner or two of sausages and crackers; but after thisthere was no necessity of hiding his purse. 

His landlord early contracted a fondness for dropping in upon him, andconversing with him, as best the few and labored English phrases at hiscommand would allow. Frowenfeld soon noticed that he never entered theshop unless its proprietor was alone, never sat down, and always, withthe same perfection of dignity that characterized all his movements, departed immediately upon the arrival of any third person. One day, whenthe landlord was making one of these standing calls, --he always stood'beside a high glass case, on the side of the shop opposite thecounter, --he noticed in Joseph's hand a sprig of basil, and spoke of it. 

"You ligue?"

The tenant did not understand. "You--find--dad--nize?"

Frowenfeld replied that it had been left by the oversight of a customer, and expressed a liking for its odor. 

"I sand you, " said the landlord, --a speech whose meaning Frowenfeld wasnot sure of until the next morning, when a small, nearly naked blackboy, who could not speak a word of English, brought to the apothecary aluxuriant bunch of this basil, growing in a rough box. 

CHAPTER IX

ILLUSTRATING THE TRACTIVE POWER OF BASIL

On the twenty-fourth day of December, 1803, at two o'clock, P. M. , thethermometer standing at 79, hygrometer 17, barometer 29. 880, sky partlyclouded, wind west, light, the apothecary of the rue Royale, nowsomething more than a month established in his calling, might have beenseen standing behind his counter and beginning to show embarrassment inthe presence of a lady, who, since she had got her prescription filledand had paid for it, ought in the conventional course of things to havehurried out, followed by the pathetically ugly black woman who tarriedat the door as her attendant; for to be in an apothecary's shop at allwas unconventional. She was heavily veiled; but the sparkle of her eyes, which no multiplication of veils could quite extinguish, her symmetricaland well-fitted figure, just escaping smallness, her grace of movement, and a soft, joyous voice, had several days before led Frowenfeld to theconfident conclusion that she was young and beautiful. 

For this was now the third time she had come to buy; and, though thepurchases were unaccountably trivial, the purchaser seemed not so. Onthe two previous occasions she had been accompanied by a slender girl, somewhat taller than she, veiled also, of graver movement, a bearingthat seemed to Joseph almost too regal, and a discernible unwillingnessto enter or tarry. There seemed a certain family resemblance between hervoice and that of the other, which proclaimed them--he incautiouslyassumed--sisters. This time, as we see, the smaller, and probably elder, came alone. 

She still held in her hand the small silver which Frowenfeld had givenher in change, and sighed after the laugh they had just enjoyed togetherover a slip in her English. A very grateful sip of sweet the laugh wasto the all but friendless apothecary, and the embarrassment that rushedin after it may have arisen in part from a conscious casting about inhis mind for something--anything--that might prolong her stay aninstant. He opened his lips to speak; but she was quicker than he, andsaid, in a stealthy way that seemed oddly unnecessary:

"You 'ave some basilic?"

She accompanied her words with a little peeping movement, directing hisattention, through the open door, to his box of basil, on the floor inthe rear room. 

Frowenfeld stepped back to it, cut half the bunch and returned, with thebold intention of making her a present of it; but as he hastened back tothe spot he had left, he was astonished to see the lady disappearingfrom his farthest front door, followed by her negress. 

"Did she change her mind, or did she misunderstand me?" he askedhimself; and, in the hope that she might return for the basil, he put itin water in his back room. 

The day being, as the figures have already shown, an unusually mild one, even for a Louisiana December, and the finger of the clock drawing byand by toward the last hour of sunlight, some half dozen of Frowenfeld'stownsmen had gathered, inside and out, some standing, some sitting, about his front door, and all discussing the popular topics of the day. For it might have been anticipated that, in a city where so very littleEnglish was spoken and no newspaper published except that beneficiaryof eighty subscribers, the "Moniteur de la Louisiane, " the apothecary'sshop in the rue Royale would be the rendezvous for a select company ofEnglish-speaking gentlemen, with a smart majority of physicians. 

The Cession had become an accomplished fact. With due drum-beatings andact-reading, flag-raising, cannonading and galloping of aides-de-camp, Nouvelle Orléans had become New Orleans, and Louisiane was Louisiana. This afternoon, the first week of American jurisdiction was onlysomething over half gone, and the main topic of public debate was stillthe Cession. Was it genuine? and, if so, would it stand?

"Mark my words, " said one, "the British flag will be floating over thistown within ninety days!" and he went on whittling the back ofhis chair. 

From this main question, the conversation branched out to the subject ofland titles. Would that great majority of Spanish titles, derived fromthe concessions of post-commandants and others of minor authority, hold good?

"I suppose you know what ---- thinks about it?"

"No. "

"Well, he has quietly purchased the grant made by Carondelet to theMarquis of ----, thirty thousand acres, and now says the grant is twohundred _and_ thirty thousand. That is one style of men GovernorClaiborne is going to have on his hands. The town will presently be asfull of them as my pocket is of tobacco crumbs, --every one of them witha Spanish grant as long as Clark's ropewalk and made up since the rumorof the Cession. "

"I hear that some of Honoré Grandissime's titles are likely to turn outbad, --some of the old Brahmin properties and some of theMandarin lands. "

"Fudge!" said Dr. Keene. 

There was also the subject of rotation in office. Would this provisionalgovernor-general himself be able to stand fast? Had not a man bettertemporize a while, and see what Ex-Governor-general Casa Calvo andTrudeau were going to do? Would not men who sacrificed old prejudices, braved the popular contumely, and came forward and gave in theirallegiance to the President's appointee, have to take the chances oflosing their official positions at last? Men like Camille Brahmin, forinstance, or Charlie Mandarin: suppose Spain or France should get theprovince back, then where would they be?

"One of the things I pity most in this vain world, " drawled DoctorKeene, "is a hive of patriots who don't know where to swarm. "

The apothecary was drawn into the discussion--at least he thought hewas. Inexperience is apt to think that Truth will be knocked down andmurdered unless she comes to the rescue. Somehow, Frowenfeld's reallyexcellent arguments seemed to give out more heat than light. They weremerciless; their principles were not only lofty to dizziness, butprecipitous, and their heights unoccupied, and--to the commonsight--unattainable. In consequence, they provoked hostility and evenresentment. With the kindest, the most honest, and even the most modest, intentions, he found himself--to his bewilderment and surprise--sniffedat by the ungenerous, frowned upon by the impatient, and smiled down bythe good-natured in a manner that brought sudden blushes of exasperationto his face, and often made him ashamed to find himself going over thesesham battles again in much savageness of spirit, when alone with hisbooks; or, in moments of weakness, casting about for such unworthyweapons as irony and satire. In the present debate, he had just provokeda sneer that made his blood leap and his friends laugh, when DoctorKeene, suddenly rising and beckoning across the street, exclaimed:

"Oh! Agricole! Agricole! _venez ici_; we want you. "

A murmur of vexed protest arose from two or three. 

"He's coming, " said the whittler, who had also beckoned. 

"Good evening, Citizen Fusilier, " said Doctor Keene. "Citizen Fusilier, allow me to present my friend, Professor Frowenfeld--yes, you are aprofessor--yes, you are. He is one of your sort, Citizen Fusilier, a manof thorough scientific education. I believe on my soul, sir, he knowsnearly as much as you do!"

The person who confronted the apothecary was a large, heavily built, butwell-molded and vigorous man, of whom one might say that he was adornedwith old age. His brow was dark, and furrowed partly by time and partlyby a persistent, ostentatious frown. His eyes were large, black andbold, and the gray locks above them curled short and harsh like thefront of a bull. His nose was fine and strong, and if there was anydeficiency in mouth or chin, it was hidden by a beard that swept downover his broad breast like the beard of a prophet. In his dress, whichwas noticeably soiled, the fashions of three decades were hinted at; heseemed to have donned whatever he thought his friends would most haveliked him to leave off. 

"Professor, " said the old man, extending something like the paw of alion, and giving Frowenfeld plenty of time to become thoroughly awed, "this is a pleasure as magnificent as unexpected! A scientific man?--inLouisiana?" He looked around upon the doctors as upon agraduating class. 

"Professor, I am rejoiced!" He paused again, shaking the apothecary'shand with great ceremony. "I do assure you, sir, I dislike to relinquishyour grasp. Do me the honor to allow me to become your friend! Icongratulate my downtrodden country on the acquisition of such acitizen! I hope, sir, --at least I might have hoped, had not Louisianajust passed into the hands of the most clap-trap government in theuniverse, notwithstanding it pretends to be a republic, --I might havehoped that you had come among us to fasten the lie direct upon a lateauthor, who writes of us that 'the air of this region is deadly tothe Muses. '"

"He didn't say that?" asked one of the debaters, with pretendedindignation. 

"He did, sir, after eating our bread!"

"And sucking our sugar-cane, too, no doubt!" said the wag; but the oldman took no notice. 

Frowenfeld, naturally, was not anxious to reply, and was greatlyrelieved to be touched on the elbow by a child with a picayune in onehand and a tumbler in the other. He escaped behind the counter andgladly remained there. 

"Citizen Fusilier, " asked one of the gossips, "what has the newgovernment to do with the health of the Muses?"

"It introduces the English tongue, " said the old man, scowling. 

"Oh, well, " replied the questioner, "the Creoles will soon learn thelanguage. "

"English is not a language, sir; it is a jargon! And when this youngsimpleton, Claiborne, attempts to cram it down the public windpipe inthe courts, as I understand he intends, he will fail! Hah! sir, I knowmen in this city who would rather eat a dog than speak English! I speakit, but I also speak Choctaw. "

"The new land titles will be in English. "

"They will spurn his rotten titles. And if he attempts to invalidatetheir old ones, why, let him do it! Napoleon Buonaparte" (Italianpronounciation) "will make good every arpent within the next two years. _Think so?_ I know it! _How?_ H-I perceive it! H-I hope the yellow fevermay spare you to witness it. "

A sullen grunt from the circle showed the "citizen" that he had presumedtoo much upon the license commonly accorded his advanced age, and by wayof a diversion he looked around for Frowenfeld to pour new flatteriesupon. But Joseph, behind his counter, unaware of either the offense orthe resentment, was blushing with pleasure before a visitor who hadentered by the side door farthest from the company. 

"Gentlemen, " said Agricola, "h-my dear friends, you must not expect anold Creole to like anything in comparison with _la belle langue_. "

"Which language do you call _la belle?_" asked Doctor Keene, withpretended simplicity. 

The old man bent upon him a look of unspeakable contempt, which nobodynoticed. The gossips were one by one stealing a glance toward that whichever was, is and must be an irresistible lodestone to the eyes of allthe sons of Adam, to wit, a chaste and graceful complement of--skirts. Then in a lower tone they resumed their desultory conversation. 

It was the seeker after basil who stood before the counter, holding inher hand, with her purse, the heavy veil whose folds had beforeconcealed her features. 

CHAPTER X

"OO DAD IS, 'SIEUR FROWENFEL'?"

Whether the removal of the veil was because of the milder light of theevening, or the result of accident, or of haste, or both, or whether, byreason of some exciting or absorbing course of thought, the wearer hadwithdrawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the apothecary aslittle as did Agricola's continued harangue. As he looked upon the fairface through the light gauze which still overhung but not obscured it, he readily perceived, despite the sprightly smile, something likedistress, and as she spoke this became still more evident in her hurriedundertone. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', I want you to sell me doze _basilic_. "

As she slipped the rings of her purse apart her fingers trembled. 

"It is waiting for you, " said Frowenfeld; but the lady did not hear him;she was giving her attention to the loud voice of Agricola saying in thecourse of discussion:

"The Louisiana Creole is the noblest variety of enlightened man!"

"Oo dad is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" she asked, softly, but with an excitedeye. 

"That is Mr. Agricola Fusilier, " answered Joseph in the same tone, hisheart leaping inexplicably as he met her glance. With an angry flushshe looked quickly around, scrutinized the old man in an instantaneous, thorough way, and then glanced back at the apothecary again, as ifasking him to fulfil her request the quicker. 

He hesitated, in doubt as to her meaning. 

"Wrap it yonder, " she almost whispered. 

He went, and in a moment returned, with the basil only partially hid ina paper covering. 

But the lady, muffled again in her manifold veil, had once more lost hereagerness for it; at least, instead of taking it, she moved aside, offering room for a masculine figure just entering. She did not look tosee who it might be--plenty of time to do that by accident, by and by. There she made a mistake; for the new-comer, with a silent bow ofthanks, declined the place made for him, moved across the shop, andoccupied his eyes with the contents of the glass case, his back beingturned to the lady and Frowenfeld. The apothecary recognized the Creolewhom he had met under the live-oak. 

The lady put forth her hand suddenly to receive the package. As she tookit and turned to depart, another small hand was laid upon it and it wasreturned to the counter. Something was said in a low-pitched undertone, and the two sisters--if Frowenfeld's guess was right--confronted eachother. For a single instant only they stood so; an earnest and hurriedmurmur of French words passed between them, and they turned together, bowed with great suavity, and were gone. 

"The Cession is a mere temporary political manoeuvre!" growled M. Fusilier. 

Frowenfeld's merchant friend came from his place of waiting, and spoketwice before he attracted the attention of the bewildered apothecary. 

"Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I have been told that--"

Joseph gazed after the two ladies crossing the street, and feltuncomfortable that the group of gossips did the same. So did the blackattendant who glanced furtively back. 

"Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I--"

"Oh! how do you do, sir?" exclaimed the apothecary, with greatpleasantness, of face. It seemed the most natural thing that they shouldresume their late conversation just where they had left off, and thatwould certainly be pleasant. But the man of more experience showed anunresponsive expression, that was as if he remembered no conversationof any note. 

"I have been told that you might be able to replace the glass in thisthing out of your private stock. "

He presented a small, leather-covered case, evidently containing someoptical instrument. "It will give me a pretext for going, " he had saidto himself, as he put it into his pocket in his counting-room. He wasnot going to let the apothecary know he had taken such a fancy to him. 

"I do not know, " replied Frowenfeld, as he touched the spring of thecase; "I will see what I have. "

He passed into the back room, more than willing to get out of sighttill he might better collect himself. 

"I do not keep these things for sale, " said he as he went. 

"Sir?" asked the Creole, as if he had not understood, and followedthrough the open door. 

"Is this what that lady was getting?" he asked, touching the remnant ofthe basil in the box. 

"Yes, sir, " said the apothecary, with his face in the drawer of a table. 

"They had no carriage with them. " The Creole spoke with his back turned, at the same time running his eyes along a shelf of books. Frowenfeldmade only the sound of rejecting bits of crystal and taking up others. "I do not know who they are, " ventured the merchant. 

Joseph still gave no answer, but a moment after approached, with theinstrument in his extended hand. 

"You had it? I am glad, " said the owner, receiving it, but keeping onehand still on the books. 

Frowenfeld put up his materials. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, are these your books? I mean do you use these books?"

"Yes, sir. "

The Creole stepped back to the door. 

"Agricola!"

"_Quoi_!"

"_Vien ici_. "

Citizen Fusilier entered, followed by a small volley of retorts fromthose with whom he had been disputing, and who rose as he did. Thestranger said something very sprightly in French, running the back ofone finger down the rank of books, and a lively dialogue followed. 

"You must be a great scholar, " said the unknown by and by, addressingthe apothecary. 

"He is a professor of chimistry, " said the old man. 

"I am nothing, as yet, but a student, " said Joseph, as the threereturned into the shop; "certainly not a scholar, and still less aprofessor. " He spoke with a new quietness of manner that made theyounger Creole turn upon him a pleasant look. 

"H-my young friend, " said the patriarch, turning toward Joseph with atremendous frown, "when I, Agricola Fusilier, pronounce you a professor, you are a professor. Louisiana will not look to _you_ for yourcredentials; she will look to me!"

He stumbled upon some slight impediment under foot. There were timeswhen it took but little to make Agricola stumble. 

Looking to see what it was, Joseph picked up a silken purse. There was aname embroidered on it. 

CHAPTER XI

SUDDEN FLASHES OF LIGHT

The day was nearly gone. The company that had been chatting at the frontdoor, and which in warmer weather would have tarried until bedtime, hadwandered off; however, by stepping toward the light the young merchantcould decipher the letters on the purse. Citizen Fusilier drew out apair of spectacles, looked over his junior's shoulder, read aloud, "_Aurore De G. Nanca_--, " and uttered an imprecation. 

"Do not speak to me!" he thundered; "do not approach me! she did itmaliciously!"

"Sir!" began Frowenfeld. 

But the old man uttered another tremendous malediction and hurried intothe street and away. 

"Let him pass, " said the other Creole calmly. 

"What is the matter with him?" asked Frowenfeld. 

"He is getting old. " The Creole extended the purse carelessly to theapothecary. "Has it anything inside?"

"But a single pistareen. "

"That is why she wanted the _basilic_, eh?"

"I do not understand you, sir. "

"Do you not know what she was going to do with it?"

"With the basil? No sir. "

"May be she was going to make a little tisane, eh?" said the Creole, forcing down a smile. 

But a portion of the smile would come when Frowenfeld answered, withunnecessary resentment:

"She was going to make some proper use of it, which need not concernme. "

"Without doubt. "

The Creole quietly walked a step or two forward and back and looked idlyinto the glass case. "Is this young man in love with her?" he askedhimself. He turned around. 

"Do you know those ladies, Mr. Frowenfeld? Do you visit them at home?"

He drew out his porte-monnaie. 

"No, sir. "

"I will pay you for the repair of this instrument; have you changefor--"

"I will see, " said the apothecary. 

As he spoke he laid the purse on a stool, till he should light his shop, and then went to his till without again taking it. 

The Creole sauntered across to the counter and nipped the herb whichstill lay there. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, you know what some very excellent people do with this?They rub it on the sill of the door to make the money come intothe house. "

Joseph stopped aghast with the drawer half drawn. 

"Not persons of intelligence and--"

"All kinds. It is only some of the foolishness which they take from theslaves. Many of your best people consult the voudou horses. "

"Horses?"

"Priestesses, you might call them, " explained the Creole, "like MomselleMarcelline or 'Zabeth Philosophe. "

"Witches!" whispered Frowenfeld. 

"Oh no, " said the other with a shrug; "that is too hard a name; sayfortune-tellers. But Mr. Frowenfeld, I wish you to lend me your goodoffices. Just supposing the possi_bil_ity that that lady may be in needof money, you know, and will send back or come back for the purse, youknow, knowing that she most likely lost it here, I ask you the favorthat you will not let her know I have filled it with gold. In fact, ifshe mentions my name--"

"To confess the truth, sir, I am not acquainted with your name. "

The Creole smiled a genuine surprise. 

"I thought you knew it. " He laughed a little at himself. "We havenevertheless become very good friends--I believe? Well, in fact then, Mr. Frowenfeld, you might say you do not know who put the money in. " Heextended his open palm with the purse hanging across it. Joseph wasabout to object to this statement, but the Creole, putting on anexpression of anxious desire, said: "I mean, not by name. It is somewhatimportant to me, Mr. Frowenfeld, that that lady should not know mypresent action. If you want to do those two ladies a favor, you mayrest assured the way to do it is to say you do not know who put thisgold. " The Creole in his earnestness slipped in his idiom. "You willexcuse me if I do not tell you my name; you can find it out at any timefrom Agricola. Ah! I am glad she did not see me! You must not tellanybody about this little event, eh?"

"No, sir, " said Joseph, as he finally accepted the purse. "I shall saynothing to any one else, and only what I cannot avoid saying to the ladyand her sister. "

"_'Tis not her sister_" responded the Creole, "_'tis her daughter_. "

The italics signify, not how the words were said, but how they soundedto Joseph. As if a dark lantern were suddenly turned full upon it, hesaw the significance of Citizen Fusilier's transport. The fair strangerswere the widow and daughter of the man whom Agricola had killed induel--the ladies with whom Doctor Keene had desired to make himacquainted. 

"Well, good evening, Mr. Frowenfeld. " The Creole extended his hand (hispeople are great hand-shakers). "Ah--" and then, for the first time, hecame to the true object of his visit. "The conversation we had someweeks ago, Mr. Frowenfeld, has started a train of thought in mymind"--he began to smile as if to convey the idea that Joseph would findthe subject a trivial one--"which has almost brought me to the--"

A light footfall accompanied with the soft sweep of robes cut short hiswords. There had been two or three entrances and exits during the timethe Creole had tarried, but he had not allowed them to disturb him. Now, however, he had no sooner turned and fixed his glance upon this lastcomer, than without so much as the invariable Creole leave-taking of"Well, good evening, sir, " he hurried out. 

CHAPTER XII

THE PHILOSOPHE

The apothecary felt an inward nervous start as there advanced into thelight of his hanging lamp and toward the spot where he had halted, justoutside the counter, a woman of the quadroon caste, of superb statureand poise, severely handsome features, clear, tawny skin and large, passionate black eyes. 

"_Bon soi', Miché_. " [Monsieur. ] A rather hard, yet not repellent smileshowed her faultless teeth. 

Frowenfeld bowed. 

"_Mo vien c'erc'er la bourse de Madame_. "

She spoke the best French at her command, but it was not understood. 

The apothecary could only shake his head. 

"_La bourse_" she repeated, softly smiling, but with a scintillation ofthe eyes in resentment of his scrutiny. "_La bourse_" she reiterated. 

"Purse?"

"_Oui, Miché_. "

"You are sent for it?"

"_Oui, Miché_. "

He drew it from his breast pocket and marked the sudden glisten of hereyes, reflecting the glisten of the gold in the silken mesh. 

"_Oui, c'est ça_, " said she, putting her hand out eagerly. 

"I am afraid to give you this to-night, " said Joseph. 

"_Oui_, " ventured she, dubiously, the lightning playing deep back in hereyes. 

"You might be robbed, " said Frowenfeld. "It is very dangerous for you tobe out alone. It will not be long, now, until gun-fire. " (Eight o'clockP. M. --the gun to warn slaves to be in-doors, under pain of arrest andimprisonment. )

The object of this solicitude shook her head with a smile at itsgratuitousness. The smile showed determination also. 

"_Mo pas compren_', " she said. 

"Tell the lady to send for it to-morrow. "

She smiled helplessly and somewhat vexedly, shrugged and again shook herhead. As she did so she heard footsteps and voices in the door ather back. 

"_C'est ça_" she said again with a hurried attempt at extremeamiability; "Dat it; _oui_;" and lifting her hand with some rapiditymade a sudden eager reach for the purse, but failed. 

"No!" said Frowenfeld, indignantly. 

"Hello!" said Charlie Keene amusedly, as he approached from the door. 

The woman turned, and in one or two rapid sentences in the Creoledialect offered her explanation. 

"Give her the purse, Joe; I will answer for its being all right. "

Frowenfeld handed it to her. She started to pass through the door in therue Royale by which Doctor Keene had entered; but on seeing on itsthreshold Agricola frowning upon her, she turned quickly with evidenttrepidation, and hurried out into the darkness of the other street. 

Agricola entered. Doctor Keene looked about the shop. 

"I tell you, Agricole, you didn't have it with you; Frowenfeld, youhaven't seen a big knotted walking-stick?"

Frowenfeld was sure no walking-stick had been left there. 

"Oh, yes, Frowenfeld, " said Doctor Keene, with a little laugh, as thethree sat down, "I'd a'most as soon trust that woman as if shewas white. "

The apothecary said nothing. 

"How free, " said Agricola, beginning with a meditative gaze at the skywithout, and ending with a philosopher's smile upon his twocompanions, --"how free we people are from prejudice against the negro!"

"The white people, " said Frowenfeld, half abstractedly, halfinquiringly. 

"H-my young friend, when we say, 'we people, ' we _always_ mean we whitepeople. The non-mention of color always implies pure white; and whateveris not pure white is to all intents and purposes pure black. When I saythe 'whole community, ' I mean the whole white portion; when I speak ofthe 'undivided public sentiment, ' I mean the sentiment of the whitepopulation. What else could I mean? Could you suppose, sir, theexpression which you may have heard me use--'my downtroddencountry'--includes blacks and mulattoes? What is that up yonder in thesky? The moon. The new moon, or the old moon, or the moon in her thirdquarter, but always the moon! Which part of it? Why, the shiningpart--the white part, always and only! Not that there is a prejudiceagainst the negro. By no means. Wherever he can be of any service in astrictly menial capacity we kindly and generously tolerate hispresence. "

Was the immigrant growing wise, or weak, that he remained silent?

Agricola rose as he concluded and said he would go home. Doctor Keenegave him his hand lazily, without rising. 

"Frowenfeld, " he said, with a smile and in an undertone, as Agricola'sfootsteps died away, "don't you know who that woman is?"

"No. "

"Well, I'll tell you. "

He told him. 

 * * * * *

On that lonely plantation at the Cannes Brulées, where Aurore Nancanou'schildhood had been passed without brothers or sisters, there had beengiven her, according to the well-known custom of plantation life, alittle quadroon slave-maid as her constant and only playmate. This maidbegan early to show herself in many ways remarkable. While yet a childshe grew tall, lithe, agile; her eyes were large and black, and rolledand sparkled if she but turned to answer to her name. Her pale yellowforehead, low and shapely, with the jet hair above it, the heavilypencilled eyebrows and long lashes below, the faint red tinge thatblushed with a kind of cold passion through the clear yellow skin of thecheek, the fulness of the red, voluptuous lips and the roundness of herperfect neck, gave her, even at fourteen, a barbaric and magneticbeauty, that startled the beholder like an unexpected drawing out of ajewelled sword. Such a type could have sprung only from high Latinancestry on the one side and--we might venture--Jaloff African on theother. To these charms of person she added mental acuteness, conversational adroitness, concealed cunning, and noiseless but visiblestrength of will; and to these, that rarest of gifts in one of hertincture, the purity of true womanhood. 

At fourteen a necessity which had been parleyed with for two years ormore became imperative, and Aurore's maid was taken from her. Explanation is almost superfluous. Aurore was to become a lady and herplaymate a lady's maid; but not _her_ maid, because the maid had become, of the two, the ruling spirit. It was a question of grave debate in themind of M. De Grapion what disposition to make of her. 

About this time the Grandissimes and De Grapions, through certainefforts of Honoré's father (since dead) were making some feeblepretences of mutual good feeling, and one of those Kentuckian dealers incorn and tobacco whose flatboat fleets were always drifting down theMississippi, becoming one day M. De Grapion's transient guest, accidentally mentioned a wish of Agricola Fusilier. Agricola, itappeared, had commissioned him to buy the most beautiful lady's maidthat in his extended journeyings he might be able to find; he wanted tomake her a gift to his niece, Honoré's sister. The Kentuckian saw thedemand met in Aurore's playmate. M. De Grapion would not sell her. (Trade with a Grandissime? Let them suspect he needed money?) No; but hewould ask Agricola to accept the services of the waiting-maid for, say, ten years. The Kentuckian accepted the proposition on the spot and itwas by and by carried out. She was never recalled to the Cannes Brulées, but in subsequent years received her freedom from her master, and in NewOrleans became Palmyre la Philosophe, as they say in the corrupt Frenchof the old Creoles, or Palmyre Philosophe, noted for her taste and skillas a hair-dresser, for the efficiency of her spells and the sagacity ofher divinations, but most of all for the chaste austerity with which shepractised the less baleful rites of the voudous. 

"That's the woman, " said Doctor Keene, rising to go, as he concludedthe narrative, --"that's she, Palmyre Philosophe. Now you get a view ofthe vastness of Agricole's generosity; he tolerates her even though shedoes not present herself in the 'strictly menial capacity. ' Reasonwhy--_he's afraid of her_. "

Time passed, if that may be called time which we have to measure with aclock. The apothecary of the rue Royale found better ways ofmeasurement. As quietly as a spider he was spinning information intoknowledge and knowledge into what is supposed to be wisdom; whether itwas or not we shall see. His unidentified merchant friend who hadadjured him to become acclimated as "they all did" had also exhorted himto study the human mass of which he had become a unit; but whether thatstudy, if pursued, was sweetening and ripening, or whether it wascorrupting him, that friend did not come to see; it was the busy time ofyear. Certainly so young a solitary, coming among a people whoseconventionalities were so at variance with his own door-yard ethics, wasin sad danger of being unduly--as we might say--Timonized. Hisacquaintances continued to be few in number. 

During this fermenting period he chronicled much wet and some coldweather. This may in part account for the uneventfulness of its passage;events do not happen rapidly among the Creoles in bad weather. However, trade was good. 

But the weather cleared; and when it was getting well on into theCreole spring and approaching the spring of the almanacs, something didoccur that extended Frowenfeld's acquaintance without Doctor Keene'sassistance. 

CHAPTER XIII

A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE

It is nearly noon of a balmy morning late in February. Aurore Nancanouand her daughter have only this moment ceased sewing, in the small frontroom of No. 19 rue Bienville. Number 19 is the right-hand half of asingle-story, low-roofed tenement, washed with yellow ochre, which itshares generously with whoever leans against it. It sits as fast on theground as a toad. There is a kitchen belonging to it somewhere among theweeds in the back yard, and besides this room where the ladies are, there is, directly behind it, a sleeping apartment. Somewhere back ofthis there is a little nook where in pleasant weather they eat. Theircook and housemaid is the plain person who attends them on the street. Her bedchamber is the kitchen and her bed the floor. The house's onlyother protector is a hound, the aim of whose life is to get thrust outof the ladies' apartments every fifteen minutes. 

Yet if you hastily picture to yourself a forlorn-looking establishment, you will be moving straight away from the fact. Neatness, order, excellence, are prevalent qualities in all the details of the mainhouse's inward garniture. The furniture is old-fashioned, rich, French, imported. The carpets, if not new, are not cheap, either. Bits ofcrystal and silver, visible here and there, are as bright as they areantiquated; and one or two portraits, and the picture of Our Lady ofMany Sorrows, are passably good productions. The brass work, of whichthere is much, is brilliantly burnished, and the front room is brightand cheery. 

At the street door of this room somebody has just knocked. Aurore hasrisen from her seat. The other still sits on a low chair with her handsand sewing dropped into her lap, looking up steadfastly into hermother's face with a mingled expression of fondness and dismayedexpectation. Aurore hesitates beside her chair, desirous of resuming herseat, even lifts her sewing from it; but tarries a moment, her alertsuspense showing in her eyes. Her daughter still looks up into them. Itis not strange that the dwellers round about dispute as to which is thefairer, nor that in the six months during which the two have occupiedNumber 19 the neighbors have reached no conclusion on this subject. Ifsome young enthusiast compares the daughter--in her eighteenth year--toa bursting blush rosebud full of promise, some older one immediatelyretorts that the other--in her thirty-fifth--is the red, red, full-blown, faultless joy of the garden. If one says the maiden has thedew of youth, --"But!" cry two or three mothers in a breath, "that otherone, child, will never grow old. With her it will always be morning. That woman is going to last forever; ha-a-a-a!--even longer!"

There was one direction in which the widow evidently had the advantage;you could see from the street or the opposite windows that she was awise householder. On the day they moved into Number 19 she had been seento enter in advance of all her other movables, carrying into the emptyhouse a new broom, a looking-glass, and a silver coin. Every morningsince, a little watching would have discovered her at the hour ofsunrise sprinkling water from her side casement, and her oppositeneighbors often had occasion to notice that, sitting at her sewing bythe front window, she never pricked her finger but she quickly ran it upbehind her ear, and then went on with her work. Would anybody but JosephFrowenfeld ever have lived in and moved away from the two-story bricknext them on the right and not have known of the existence of sucha marvel?

"Ha!" they said, "she knows how to keep off bad luck, that Madameyonder. And the younger one seems not to like it. Girls think themselvesso smart these days. "

Ah, there was the knock again, right there on the street-door, as loudas if it had been given with a joint of sugar-cane!

The daughter's hand, which had just resumed the needle, stood still inmid-course with the white thread half-drawn. Aurore tiptoed slowly overthe carpeted floor. There came a shuffling sound, and the corner of afolded white paper commenced appearing and disappearing under the door. She mounted a chair and peeped through that odd little _jalousie_ whichformerly was in almost all New Orleans street-doors; but the missive hadmeantime found its way across the sill, and she saw only theunpicturesque back of a departing errand-boy. But that was well. She hada pride, to maintain which--and a poverty, to conceal which--she felt tobe necessary to her self-respect; and this made her of necessity atrifle unsocial in her own castle. Do you suppose she was going to puton the face of having been born or married to this degraded conditionof things?

Who knows?--the knock might have been from 'Sieur Frowenfel'--ha, ha! Hemight be just silly enough to call so early; or it might have been fromthat _polisson_ of a Grandissime, --which one didn't matter, they wereall detestable, --coming to collect the rent. That was her original fear;or, worse still, it might have been, had it been softer, the knock ofsome possible lady visitor. She had no intention of admitting anyfeminine eyes to detect this carefully covered up indigence. Besides, itwas Monday. There is no sense in trifling with bad luck. The receptionof Monday callers is a source of misfortune never known to fail, save inrare cases when good luck has already been secured by smearing thefront walk or the banquette with Venetian red. 

Before the daughter could dart up and disengage herself from her workher mother had pounced upon the paper. She was standing and reading, herrich black lashes curtaining their downcast eyes, her infant waist andround, close-fitted, childish arms harmonizing prettily with her mockfrown of infantile perplexity, and her long, limp robe heightening thegrace of her posture, when the younger started from her seat with theair of determining not to be left at a disadvantage. 

But what is that on the dark eyelash? With a sudden additional energythe daughter dashes the sewing and chair to right and left, bounds up, and in a moment has Aurore weeping in her embrace and has snatched thenote from her hand. 

"_Ah! maman! Ah! ma chère mère_!"

The mother forced a laugh. She was not to be mothered by her daughter;so she made a dash at Clotilde's uplifted hand to recover the note, which was unavailing. Immediately there arose in colonial French theloveliest of contentions, the issue of which was that the pair sat downside by side, like two sisters over one love-letter, and undertook todecipher the paper. It read as follows:

 "NEW ORLEANS, 20 Feb're, 1804. 

 "MADAME NANCANOU: I muss oblige to ass you for rent of that house whare you living, it is at number 19 Bienville street whare I do not received thos rent from you not since tree mons and I demand you this is mabe thirteen time. And I give to you notice of 19 das writen in Anglish as the new law requi. That witch the law make necessare only for 15 das, and when you not pay me those rent in 19 das till the tense of Marh I will rekes you to move out. That witch make me to be verry sorry. I have the honor to remain, Madam, "Your humble servant, "H. Grandissime. "_per_ Z. F. "

There was a short French postscript on the opposite page signed only byM. Zénon François, explaining that he, who had allowed them in the pastto address him as their landlord and by his name, was but the landlord'sagent; that the landlord was a far better-dressed man than he couldafford to be; that the writing opposite was a notice for them to quitthe premises they had rented (not leased), or pay up; that it gave thewriter great pain to send it, although it was but the necessary legalform and he only an irresponsible drawer of an inadequate salary, withthirteen children to support; and that he implored them to tear off andburn up this postscript immediately they had read it. 

"Ah, the miserable!" was all the comment made upon it as the two ladiesaddressed their energies to the previous English. They had neversuspected him of being M. Grandissime. 

Their eyes dragged slowly and ineffectually along the lines to thesignature. 

"H. Grandissime! Loog ad 'im!" cried the widow, with a sudden shortlaugh, that brought the tears after it like a wind-gust in a rose-tree. She held the letter out before them as if she was lifting somethingalive by the back of the neck, and to intensify her scorn spoke in thehated tongue prescribed by the new courts. "Loog ad 'im! dad ridgegen'leman oo give so mudge money to de 'ozpill!"

"Bud, _maman_, " said the daughter, laying her hand appeasingly upon hermother's knee, "_ee_ do nod know 'ow we is poor. "

"Ah!" retorted Aurore, "_par example! Non?_ Ee thingue we is ridge, eh?Ligue his oncle, eh? Ee thing so, too, eh?" She cast upon her daughterthe look of burning scorn intended for Agricola Fusilier. "You wan' totague the pard of dose Grandissime'?"

The daughter returned a look of agony. 

"No, " she said, "bud a man wad godd some 'ouses to rend, muz ee nodboun' to ged 'is rend?"

"Boun' to ged--ah! yez ee muz do 'is possible to ged 'is rend. Oh!certain_lee_. Ee is ridge, bud ee need a lill money, bad, bad. Fo'w'at?" The excited speaker rose to her feet under a sudden inspiration. "_Tenez, Mademoiselle!_" She began to make great show of unfasteningher dress. 

"_Mais, comment?_" demanded the suffering daughter. 

"Yez!" continued Aurore, keeping up the demonstration, "you wand 'im to'ave 'is rend so bad! An' I godd honely my cloze; so you juz tague dizto you' fine gen'lemen, 'Sieur Honoré Grandissime. "

"Ah-h-h-h!" cried the martyr. 

"An' you is righd, " persisted the tormentor, still unfastening; but thedaughter's tears gushed forth, and the repentant tease threw herselfupon her knees, drew her child's head into her bosom and wept afresh. 

Half an hour was passed in council; at the end of which they stoodbeneath their lofty mantelshelf, each with a foot on a brazen fire-dog, and no conclusion reached. 

"Ah, my child!"--they had come to themselves now and were speaking intheir peculiar French--"if we had here in these hands but the tenth partof what your papa often played away in one night without once gettingangry! But we have not. Ah! but your father was a fine fellow; if hecould have lived for you to know him! So accomplished! Ha, ha, ha! I cannever avoid laughing, when I remember him teaching me to speak English;I used to enrage him so!"

The daughter brought the conversation back to the subject of discussion. There were nineteen days yet allowed them. God knows--by the expirationof that time they might be able to pay. With the two music scholars whomshe then had and three more whom she had some hope to get, she made boldto say they could pay the rent. 

"Ah, Clotilde, my child, " exclaimed Aurore, with sudden brightness, "youdon't need a mask and costume to resemble your great-grandmother, thecasket-girl!" Aurore felt sure, on her part, that with the oneembroidery scholar then under her tutelage, and the three others who haddeclined to take lessons, they could easily pay the rent--and how kindit was of Monsieur, the aged father of that one embroidery scholar, toprocure those invitations to the ball! The dear old man! He said he mustsee one more ball before he should die. 

Aurore looked so pretty in the reverie into which she fell that herdaughter was content to admire her silently. 

"Clotilde, " said the mother, presently looking up, "do you remember theevening you treated me so ill?"

The daughter smiled at the preposterous charge. 

"I did not treat you ill. "

"Yes, don't you know--the evening you made me lose my purse?"

"Certainly, I know!" The daughter took her foot from the andiron; hereyes lighted up aggressively. "For losing your purse blame yourself. Forthe way you found it again--which was far worse--thank Palmyre. If youhad not asked her to find it and shared the gold with her we could havereturned with it to 'Sieur Frowenfel'; but now we are ashamed to let himsee us. I do not doubt he filled the purse. "

"He? He never knew it was empty. It was Nobody who filled it. Palmyresays that Papa Lébat--"

"Ha!" exclaimed Clotilde at this superstitious mention. 

The mother tossed her head and turned her back, swallowing theunendurable bitterness of being rebuked by her daughter. But the cloudhung over but a moment. 

"Clotilde, " she said, a minute after, turning with a look of sun-brightresolve, "I am going to see him. "

"To see whom?" asked the other, looking back from the window, whithershe had gone to recover from a reactionary trembling. 

"To whom, my child? Why--"

"You do not expect mercy from Honoré Grandissime? You would not ask it?"

"No. There is no mercy in the Grandissime blood; but cannot I demandjustice? Ha! it is justice that I shall demand!"

"And you will really go and see him?"

"You will see, Mademoiselle, " replied Aurore, dropping a broom withwhich she had begun to sweep up some spilled buttons. 

"And I with you?"

"No! To a counting-room? To the presence of the chief of that detestablerace? No!"

"But you don't know where his office is. "

"Anybody can tell me. "

Preparation began at once. By and by--

"Clotilde. "

Clotilde was stooping behind her mother, with a ribbon between her lips, arranging a flounce. 

"M-m-m. "

"You must not watch me go out of sight; do you hear? . . . But it _is_dangerous. I knew of a gentleman who watched his wife go out of hissight and she never came back!"

"Hold still!" said Clotilde. 

"But when my hand itches, " retorted Aurore in a high key, "haven't I gotto put it instantly into my pocket if I want the money to come there?Well, then!"

The daughter proposed to go to the kitchen and tell Alphonsina to put onher shoes. 

"My child, " cried Aurore, "you are crazy! Do you want Alphonsina to beseized for the rent?"

"But you cannot go alone--and on foot!"

"I must go alone; and--can you lend me your carriage? Ah, you have none?Certainly I must go alone and on foot if I am to say I cannot pay therent. It is no indiscretion of mine. If anything happens to me it is M. Grandissime who is responsible. "

Now she is ready for the adventurous errand. She darts to the mirror. The high-water marks are gone from her eyes. She wheels half around andlooks over her shoulder. The flaring bonnet and loose ribbons gave her amore girlish look than ever. 

"Now which is the older, little old woman?" she chirrups, and smites herdaughter's cheek softly with her palm. 

"And you are not afraid to go alone?"

"No; but remember! look at that dog!"

The brute sinks apologetically to the floor. Clotilde opens the streetdoor, hands Aurore the note, Aurore lays a frantic kiss upon her lips, pressing it on tight so as to get it again when she comes back, and--while Clotilde calls the cook to gather up the buttons and takeaway the broom, and while the cook, to make one trip of it, gathers thehound into her bosom and carries broom and dog out together--Auroresallies forth, leaving Clotilde to resume her sewing and await thecoming of a guitar scholar. 

"It will keep her fully an hour, " thought the girl, far from imaginingthat Aurore had set about a little private business which she proposedto herself to accomplish before she even started in the direction of M. Grandissime's counting-rooms. 

CHAPTER XIV

BEFORE SUNSET

In old times, most of the sidewalks of New Orleans not in the heart oftown were only a rough, rank turf, lined on the side next the ditch withthe gunwales of broken-up flatboats--ugly, narrow, slippery objects. AsAurora--it sounds so much pleasanter to anglicize her name--as Auroragained a corner where two of these gunwales met, she stopped and lookedback to make sure that Clotilde was not watching her. That others hadnoticed her here and there she did not care; that was something beautywould have to endure, and it only made her smile to herself. 

"Everybody sees I am from the country--walking on the street without awaiting-maid. "

A boy passed, hushing his whistle, and gazing at the lone lady until histurning neck could twist no farther. She was so dewy fresh! After he hadgot across the street he turned to look again. Where could she havedisappeared?

The only object to be seen on the corner from which she had vanished wasa small, yellow-washed house much like the one Aurora occupied, as itwas like hundreds that then characterized and still characterize thetown, only that now they are of brick instead of adobe. They showed inthose days, even more than now, the wide contrast between their homelyexteriors and the often elegant apartments within. However, in thishouse the front room was merely neat. The furniture was of rude, heavypattern, Creole-made, and the walls were unadorned; the day of cheappictures had not come. The lofty bedstead which filled one corner wasspread and hung with a blue stuff showing through a web of whiteneedlework. The brazen feet of the chairs were brightly burnished, aswere the brass mountings of the bedstead and the brass globes on thecold andirons. Curtains of blue and white hung at the single window. Thefloor, from habitual scrubbing with the common weed which politenesshas to call _Helenium autumnale_, was stained a bright, clean yellow. On it were, here and there in places, white mats woven of bleachedpalmetto-leaf. Such were the room's appointments; there was but onething more, a singular bit of fantastic carving, --a small table of darkmahogany supported on the upward-writhing images of threescaly serpents. 

Aurora sat down beside this table. A dwarf Congo woman, as black assoot, had ushered her in, and, having barred the door, had disappeared, and now the mistress of the house entered. 

February though it was, she was dressed--and looked comfortable--inwhite. That barbaric beauty which had begun to bud twenty years beforewas now in perfect bloom. The united grace and pride of her movement wasinspiring but--what shall we say?--feline? It was a femininity withouthumanity, --something that made her, with all her superbness, a creaturethat one would want to find chained. It was the woman who had receivedthe gold from Frowenfeld--Palmyre Philosophe. 

The moment her eyes fell upon Aurora her whole appearance changed. Agirlish smile lighted up her face, and as Aurora rose up reflecting itback, they simultaneously clapped hands, laughed and advanced joyouslytoward each other, talking rapidly without regard to each other's words. 

"Sit down, " said Palmyre, in the plantation French of their childhood, as they shook hands. 

They took chairs and drew up face to face as close as they could come, then sighed and smiled a moment, and then looked grave and were silent. For in the nature of things, and notwithstanding the amusing familiaritycommon between Creole ladies and the menial class, the unprotectedlittle widow should have had a very serious errand to bring her to thevoudou's house. 

"Palmyre, " began the lady, in a sad tone. 

"Momselle Aurore. "

"I want you to help me. " The former mistress not only cast her handsinto her lap, lifted her eyes supplicatingly and dropped them again, butactually locked her fingers to keep them from trembling. 

"Momselle Aurore--" began Palmyre, solemnly. 

"Now, I know what you are going to say--but it is of no use to say it;do this much for me this one time and then I will let voudou alone asmuch as you wish--forever!"

"You have not lost your purse _again?_"

"Ah! foolishness, no. "

Both laughed a little, the philosophe feebly, and Aurora with an excitedtremor. 

"Well?" demanded the quadroon, looking grave again. 

Aurora did not answer. 

"Do you wish me to work a spell for you?"

The widow nodded, with her eyes cast down. 

Both sat quite still for some time; then the philosophe gently drew thelandlord's letter from between Aurora's hands. 

"What is this?" She could not read in any language. 

"I must pay my rent within nineteen days. "

"Have you not paid it?"

The delinquent shook her head. 

"Where is the gold that came into your purse? All gone?"

"For rice and potatoes, " said Aurora, and for the first time she uttereda genuine laugh, under that condition of mind which Latins usuallysubstitute for fortitude. Palmyre laughed too, very properly. 

Another silence followed. The lady could not return the quadroon'ssearching gaze. 

"Momselle Aurore, " suddenly said Palmyre, "you want me to work a spellfor something else. "

Aurora started, looked up for an instant in a frightened way, and thendropped her eyes and let her head droop, murmuring:

"No, I do not. "

Palmyre fixed a long look upon her former mistress. She saw that thoughAurora might be distressed about the rent, there was something else, --adeeper feeling, --impelling her upon a course the very thought of whichdrove the color from her lips and made her tremble. 

"You are wearing red, " said the philosophe. 

Aurora's hand went nervously to the red ribbon about her neck. 

"It is an accident; I had nothing else convenient. "

"Miché Agoussou loves red, " persisted Palmyre. (Monsieur Agoussou isthe demon upon whom the voudous call in matters of love. )

The color that came into Aurora's cheek ought to have suited Monsieurprecisely. 

"It is an accident, " she feebly insisted. 

"Well, " presently said Palmyre, with a pretence of abandoning herimpression, "then you want me to work you a spell for money, do you?"

Aurora nodded, while she still avoided the quadroon's glance. 

"I know better, " thought the philosophe. "You shall have the sort youwant. "

The widow stole an upward glance. 

"Oh!" said Palmyre, with the manner of one making a decided digression, "I have been wanting to ask you something. That evening at thepharmacy--was there a tall, handsome gentleman standing by the counter?"

"He was standing on the other side. "

"Did you see his face?"

"No; his back was turned. "

"Momselle Aurore, " said Palmyre, dropping her elbows upon her knees andtaking the lady's hand as if the better to secure the truth, "was thatthe gentleman you met at the ball?"

"My faith!" said Aurora, stretching her eyebrows upward. "I did notthink to look. Who was it?"

But Palmyre Philosophe was not going to give more than she got, even toher old-time Momselle; she merely straightened back into her chair withan amiable face. 

"Who do you think he is?" persisted Aurora, after a pause, smilingdownward and toying with her rings. 

The quadroon shrugged. 

They both sat in reverie for a moment--a long moment for such sprightlynatures--and Palmyre's mien took on a professional gravity. Shepresently pushed the landlord's letter under the lady's hands as theylay clasped in her lap, and a moment after drew Aurora's glance with herlarge, strong eyes and asked:

"What shall we do?"

The lady immediately looked startled and alarmed and again dropped hereyes in silence. The quadroon had to speak again. 

"We will burn a candle. "

Aurora trembled. 

"No, " she succeeded in saying. 

"Yes, " said Palmyre, "you must get your rent money. " But the charm whichshe was meditating had no reference to rent money. "She knows that, "thought the voudou. 

As she rose and called her Congo slave-woman, Aurora made as if toprotest further; but utterance failed her. She clenched her hands andprayed to fate for Clotilde to come and lead her away as she had done atthe apothecary's. And well she might. 

The articles brought in by the servant were simply a little pound-cakeand cordial, a tumbler half-filled with the _sirop naturelle_ of thesugar-cane, and a small piece of candle of the kind made from thefragrant green wax of the candleberry myrtle. These were set upon thesmall table, the bit of candle standing, lighted, in the tumbler ofsirup, the cake on a plate, the cordial in a wine-glass. This feeblechild's play was all; except that as Palmyre closed out all daylightfrom the room and received the offering of silver that "paid the floor"and averted _guillons_ (interferences of outside imps), Aurora, --alas!alas!--went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed upon the candle'sflame, and silently called on Assonquer (the imp of good fortune) tocast his snare in her behalf around the mind and heart of--she knewnot whom. 

By and by her lips, which had moved at first, were still and she onlywatched the burning wax. When the flame rose clear and long it was asign that Assonquer was enlisted in the coveted endeavor. When the wicksputtered, the devotee trembled in fear of failure. Its charred endcurled down and twisted away from her and her heart sank; but the tallfigure of Palmyre for a moment came between, the wick was snuffed, theflame tapered up again, and for a long time burned, a bright, tremulouscone. Again the wick turned down, but this time toward her, --apropitious omen, --and suddenly fell through the expended wax and wentout in the sirup. 

The daylight, as Palmyre let it once more into the apartment, showedAurora sadly agitated. In evidence of the innocence of her flutteringheart, guilt, at least for the moment, lay on it, an appalling burden. 

"That is all, Palmyre, is it not? I am sure that is all--it must be all. I cannot stay any longer. I wish I was with Clotilde; I have stayedtoo long. "

"Yes; all for the present, " replied the quadroon. "Here, here is somecharmed basil; hold it between your lips as you walk--"

"But I am going to my landlord's office!"

"Office? Nobody is at his office now; it is too late. You would findthat your landlord had gone to dinner. I will tell you, though, whereyou _must_ go. First go home; eat your dinner; and this evening [theCreoles never say afternoon], about a half-hour before sunset, walk downRoyale to the lower corner of the Place d'Armes, pass entirely aroundthe square and return up Royale. Never look behind until you get intoyour house again. "

Aurora blushed with shame. 

"Alone?" she exclaimed, quite unnerved and tremulous. 

"You will seem to be alone; but I will follow behind you when you passhere. Nothing shall hurt you. If you do that, the charm will certainlywork; if you do not--"

The quadroon's intentions were good. She was determined to see who itwas that could so infatuate her dear little Momselle; and, as on such anevening as the present afternoon promised to merge into all New Orleanspromenaded on the Place d'Armes and the levee, her charm was a verypractical one. 

"And that will bring the money, will it?" asked Aurora. 

"It will bring anything you want. "

"Possible?"

"These things that _you_ want, Momselle Aurore, are easy to bring. Youhave no charms working against you. But, oh, I wish to God I could workthe _curse_ I want to work!" The woman's eyes blazed, her bosom heaved, she lifted her clenched hand above her head and looked upward, crying:"I would give this right hand off at the wrist to catch AgricolaFusilier where I could work him a curse! But I shall; I shall some daybe revenged!" She pitched her voice still higher. "I cannot die till Ihave been! There is nothing that could kill me, I want my revenge sobad!" As suddenly as she had broken out, she hushed, unbarred the door, and with a stern farewell smile saw Aurora turn homeward. 

"Give me something to eat, _chérie_, " cried the exhausted lady, droppinginto Clotilde's chair and trying to die. 

"Ah! _maman_, what makes you look so sick?"

Aurora waved her hand contemptuously and gasped. 

"Did you see him? What kept you so long--so long?"

"Ask me nothing; I am so enraged with disappointment. He was gone todinner!"

"Ah! my poor mother!"

"And I must go back as soon as I can take a little _sieste_. I amdetermined to see him this very day. "

"Ah! my poor mother!"

CHAPTER XV

ROLLED IN THE DUST

"No, Frowenfeld, " said little Doctor Keene, speaking for theafter-dinner loungers, "you must take a little human advice. Go, get theair on the Plaza. We will keep shop for you. Stay as long as you likeand come home in any condition you think best. " And Joseph, tormentedinto this course, put on his hat and went out. 

"Hard to move as a cow in the moonlight, " continued Doctor Keene, "andknows just about as much of the world. He wasn't aware, until I told himto-day, that there are two Honoré Grandissimes. " [Laughter. ]

"Why did you tell him?"

"I didn't give him anything but the bare fact. I want to see how long itwill take him to find out the rest. "

The Place d'Armes offered amusement to every one else rather than to theimmigrant. The family relation, the most noticeable feature of its'well-pleased groups, was to him too painful a reminder of his latelosses, and, after an honest endeavor to flutter out of the innertwilight of himself into the outer glare of a moving world, he had givenup the effort and had passed beyond the square and seated himself upon arude bench which encircled the trunk of a willow on the levee. 

The negress, who, resting near by with a tray of cakes before her, hasbeen for some time contemplating the three-quarter face of herunconscious neighbor, drops her head at last with a small, Ethiopian, feminine laugh. It is a self-confession that, pleasant as the study ofhis countenance is, to resolve that study into knowledge is beyond herpowers; and very pardonably so it is, she being but a _marchande desgâteaux_ (an itinerant cake-vender), and he, she concludes, a man ofparts. There is a purpose, too, as well as an admission, in the laugh. She would like to engage him in conversation. But he does not notice. Little supposing he is the object of even a cake-merchant's attention, he is lost in idle meditation. 

One would guess his age to be as much as twenty-six. His face isbeardless, of course, like almost everybody's around him, and of aGerman kind of seriousness. A certain diffidence in his look may tend torender him unattractive to careless eyes, the more so since he has aslight appearance of self-neglect. On a second glance, his refinementshows out more distinctly, and one also sees that he is not shabby. Thelittle that seems lacking is woman's care, the brush of attentivefingers here and there, the turning of a fold in the high-collared coat, and a mere touch on the neckerchief and shirt-frill. He has a decidedlygood forehead. His blue eyes, while they are both strong and modest, arenoticeable, too, as betraying fatigue, and the shade of gravity in themis deepened by a certain worn look of excess--in books; a most unusuallook in New Orleans in those days, and pointedly out of keeping with thescene which was absorbing his attention. 

You might mistake the time for mid-May. Before the view lies the Placed'Armes in its green-breasted uniform of new spring grass crosseddiagonally with white shell walks for facings, and dotted with the_élite_ of the city for decorations. Over the line of shade-trees whichmarks its farther boundary, the white-topped twin turrets of St. LouisCathedral look across it and beyond the bared site of the removedbattery (built by the busy Carondelet to protect Louisiana from herselfand Kentucky, and razed by his immediate successors) and out upon theMississippi, the color of whose surface is beginning to change with thechanging sky of this beautiful and now departing day. A breeze, which isalmost early June, and which has been hovering over the bosom of thegreat river and above the turf-covered levee, ceases, as if it sankexhausted under its burden of spring odors, and in the profound calm thecathedral bell strikes the sunset hour. From its neighboring garden, theconvent of the Ursulines responds in a tone of devoutness, while fromthe parapet of the less pious little Fort St. Charles, the evening gunsends a solemn ejaculation rumbling down the "coast;" a drum rolls, theair rises again from the water like a flock of birds, and many in thesquare and on the levee's crown turn and accept its gentle blowing. Rising over the levee willows, and sinking into the streets, --which arelower than the water, --it flutters among the balconies and in and out ofdim Spanish arcades, and finally drifts away toward that part of the skywhere the sun is sinking behind the low, unbroken line of forest. Thereis such seduction in the evening air, such sweetness of flowers on itsevery motion, such lack of cold, or heat, or dust, or wet, that thepeople have no heart to stay in-doors; nor is there any reason why theyshould. The levee road is dotted with horsemen, and the willow avenue onthe levee's crown, the whole short mile between Terre aux Boeufs gate onthe right and Tchoupitoulas gate on the left, is bright withpromenaders, although the hour is brief and there will be no twilight;for, so far from being May, it is merely that same nineteenth of whichwe have already spoken, --the nineteenth of Louisiana's deliciousFebruary. 

Among the throng were many whose names were going to be written large inhistory. There was Casa Calvo, --Sebastian de Casa Calvo de la Puerta yO'Farril, Marquis of Casa Calvo, --a man then at the fine age offifty-three, elegant, fascinating, perfect in Spanish courtesy andSpanish diplomacy, rolling by in a showy equipage surrounded by aclanking body-guard of the Catholic king's cavalry. There was youngDaniel Clark, already beginning to amass those riches which an age oflitigation has not to this day consumed; it was he whom the Frenchcolonial prefect, Laussat, in a late letter to France, had extolled as aman whose "talents for intrigue were carried to a rare degree ofexcellence. " There was Laussat himself, in the flower of his years, sourwith pride, conscious of great official insignificance and full of pettyspites--he yet tarried in a land where his beautiful wife was the "modelof taste. " There was that convivial old fox, Wilkinson, who had plottedfor years with Miro and did not sell himself and his country to Spainbecause--as we now say--"he found he could do better;" who modestlyconfessed himself in a traitor's letter to the Spanish king as a man"whose head may err, but whose heart cannot deceive!" and who broughtGovernor Gayoso to an early death-bed by simply out-drinking him. Therealso was Edward Livingston, attorney-at-law, inseparably joined to themention of the famous Batture cases--though that was later. There alsowas that terror of colonial peculators, the old ex-Intendant Morales, who, having quarrelled with every governor of Louisiana he ever saw, wasnow snarling at Casa Calvo from force of habit. 

And the Creoles--the Knickerbockers of Louisiana--but time would failus. The Villeres and Destrehans--patriots and patriots' sons; the De LaChaise family in mourning for young Auguste La Chaise ofKentuckian-Louisianian-San Domingan history; the Livaudaises, _père etfils_, of Haunted House fame, descendants of the first pilot of theBelize; the pirate brothers Lafitte, moving among the best; Marigny deMandeville, afterwards the marquis member of Congress; the Davezacs, theMossys, the Boulignys, the Labatuts, the Bringiers, the De Trudeaus, theDe Macartys, the De la Houssayes, the De Lavilleboeuvres, the Grandprés, the Forstalls; and the proselyted Creoles: Étienne de Boré (he was thefather of all such as handle the sugar-kettle); old man Pitot, whobecame mayor; Madame Pontalba and her unsuccessful suitor, JohnMcDonough; the three Girods, the two Graviers, or the lone JulianPoydras, godfather of orphan girls. Besides these, and among them asshining fractions of the community, the numerous representatives of thenot only noble, but noticeable and ubiquitous, family of Grandissime:Grandissimes simple and Grandissimes compound; Brahmins, Mandarins andFusiliers. One, 'Polyte by name, a light, gay fellow, with classicfeatures, hair turning gray, is standing and conversing with this grouphere by the mock-cannon inclosure of the grounds. Another, his cousin, Charlie Mandarin, a tall, very slender, bronzed gentleman in a flannelhunting-shirt and buckskin leggings, is walking, in moccasins, with asweet lady in whose tasteful attire feminine scrutiny, but such only, might detect economy, but whose marked beauty of yesterday is retreatingand reappearing in the flock of children who are noisily running roundand round them, nominally in the care of three fat and venerable blacknurses. Another, yonder, Théophile Grandissime, is whipping hisstockings with his cane, a lithe youngster in the height of the fashion(be it understood the fashion in New Orleans was five years or so behindParis), with a joyous, noble face, a merry tongue and giddy laugh, and aconfession of experiences which these pages, fortunately for their moraltone, need not recount. All these were there and many others. 

This throng, shifting like the fragments of colored glass in thekaleidoscope, had its far-away interest to the contemplative Joseph. Tothem he was of little interest, or none. Of the many passers, scarcelyan occasional one greeted him, and such only with an extremely politeand silent dignity which seemed to him like saying something of thissort: "Most noble alien, give you good-day--stay where you are. Profoundly yours--"

Two men came through the Place d'Armes on conspicuously fine horses. Oneit is not necessary to describe. The other, a man of perhapsthirty-three or thirty-four years of age, was extremely handsome andwell dressed, the martial fashion of the day showing his tall and finelyknit figure to much advantage. He sat his horse with an uncommon grace, and, as he rode beside his companion, spoke and gave ear by turns withan easy dignity sufficient of itself to have attracted popularobservation. It was the apothecary's unknown friend. Frowenfeld noticedthem while they were yet in the middle of the grounds. He could hardlyhave failed to do so, for some one close beside his bench in undoubtedallusion to one of the approaching figures exclaimed:

"Here comes Honoré Grandissime. "

Moreover, at that moment there was a slight unwonted stir on the Placed'Armes. It began at the farther corner of the square, hard by thePrincipal, and spread so quickly through the groups near about, that ina minute the entire company were quietly made aware of something goingnotably wrong in their immediate presence. There was no running to seeit. There seemed to be not so much as any verbal communication of thematter from mouth to mouth. Rather a consciousness appeared to catchnoiselessly from one to another as the knowledge of human intrusioncomes to groups of deer in a park. There was the same elevating of thehead here and there, the same rounding of beautiful eyes. Some stared, others slowly approached, while others turned and moved away; but acommon indignation was in the breast of that thing dreadful everywhere, but terrible in Louisiana, the Majority. For there, in the presence ofthose good citizens, before the eyes of the proudest and fairest mothersand daughters of New Orleans, glaringly, on the open Plaza, the Creolewhom Joseph had met by the graves in the field, Honoré Grandissime, theuttermost flower on the topmost branch of the tallest family tree evertransplanted from France to Louisiana, Honoré, --the worshiped, themagnificent, --in the broad light of the sun's going down, rode side byside with the Yankee governor and was not ashamed!

Joseph, on his bench, sat contemplating the two parties to this scandalas they came toward him. Their horses' flanks were damp from somepleasant gallop, but their present gait was the soft, mettlesomemovement of animals who will even submit to walk if their mastersinsist. As they wheeled out of the broad diagonal path that crossed thesquare, and turned toward him in the highway, he fancied that the Creoleobserved him. He was not mistaken. As they seemed about to pass the spotwhere he sat, M. Grandissime interrupted the governor with a word and, turning his horse's head, rode up to the bench, lifting his hat ashe came. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Frowenfeld. "

Joseph, looking brighter than when he sat unaccosted, rose and blushed. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, you know my uncle very well, I believe--AgricoleFusilier--long beard?"

"Oh! yes, sir, certainly. "

"Well, Mr. Frowenfeld, I shall be much obliged if you will tellhim--that is, should you meet him this evening--that I wish to see him. If you will be so kind?"

"Oh! yes, sir, certainly. "

Frowenfeld's diffidence made itself evident in this reiterated phrase. 

"I do not know that you will see him, but if you should, you know--"

"Oh, certainly, sir!"

The two paused a single instant, exchanging a smile of amiable reminderfrom the horseman and of bashful but pleased acknowledgment from the onewho saw his precepts being reduced to practice. 

"Well, good-evening, Mr. Frowenfeld. "

M. Grandissime lifted his hat and turned. Frowenfeld sat down. 

"_Bou zou, Miché Honoré!_" called the _marchande_. 

"_Comment to yé, Clemence?_"

The merchant waved his hand as he rode away with his companion. 

"_Beau Miché, là_, " said the _marchande_, catching Joseph's eye. 

He smiled his ignorance and shook his head. 

"Dass one fine gen'leman, " she repeated. "_Mo pa'lé Anglé_, " she addedwith a chuckle. 

"You know him?"

"Oh! yass, sah; Mawse Honoré knows me, yass. All de gen'lemens knows me. I sell de _calas;_ mawnin's sell _calas_, evenin's sell zinzer-cake. _You_ know me" (a fact which Joseph had all along been aware of). "Datme w'at pass in rue Royale ev'y mawnin' holl'in' '_Bé calas toutschauds_, ' an' singin'; don't you know?"

The enthusiasm of an artist overcame any timidity she might have beensupposed to possess, and, waiving the formality of an invitation, shebegan, to Frowenfeld's consternation, to sing, in a loud, nasal voice. 

But the performance, long familiar, attracted no public attention, andhe for whose special delight it was intended had taken an attitude ofdisclaimer and was again contemplating the quiet groups of the Placed'Armes and the pleasant hurry of the levee road. 

"Don't you know?" persisted the woman. "Yass, sah, dass me; I'sClemence. "

But Frowenfeld was looking another way. 

"You know my boy, " suddenly said she. 

Frowenfeld looked at her. 

"Yass, sah. Dat boy w'at bring you de box of _basilic_ lass Chrismus;dass my boy. "

She straightened her cakes on the tray and made some changes in theirarrangement that possibly were important. 

"I learned to speak English in Fijinny. Bawn dah. "

She looked steadily into the apothecary's absorbed countenance for afull minute, then let her eyes wander down the highway. The human tidewas turning cityward. Presently she spoke again. 

"Folks comin' home a'ready, yass. "

Her hearer looked down the road. 

Suddenly a voice that, once heard, was always known, --deep and pompous, as if a lion roared, --sounded so close behind him as to startle him halffrom his seat. 

"Is this a corporeal man, or must I doubt my eyes? Hah! ProfessorFrowenfeld!" it said. 

"Mr. Fusilier!" exclaimed Frowenfeld in a subdued voice, while heblushed again and looked at the new-comer with that sort of awe whichchildren experience in a menagerie. 

"_Citizen_ Fusilier, " said the lion. 

Agricola indulged to excess the grim hypocrisy of brandishing thecatchwords of new-fangled reforms; they served to spice a breath thatwas strong with the praise of the "superior liberties of Europe, "--thoseold, cast-iron tyrannies to get rid of which America was settled. 

Frowenfeld smiled amusedly and apologetically at the same moment. 

"I am glad to meet you. I--"

He was going on to give Honoré Grandissime's message, but wasinterrupted. 

"My young friend, " rumbled the old man in his deepest key, smilingemotionally and holding and solemning continuing to shake Joseph's hand, "I am sure you are. You ought to thank God that you have myacquaintance. "

Frowenfeld colored to the temples. 

"I must acknowledge--" he began. 

"Ah!" growled the lion, "your beautiful modesty leads you to misconstrueme, sir. You pay my judgment no compliment. I know your worth, sir; Imerely meant, sir, that in me--poor, humble me--you have secured asympathizer in your tastes and plans. Agricola Fusilier, sir, is not acock on a dunghill, to find a jewel and then scratch it aside. "

The smile of diffidence, but not the flush, passed from the young man'sface, and he sat down forcibly. 

"You jest, " he said. 

The reply was a majestic growl. 

"I _never_ jest!" The speaker half sat down, then straightened up again. "Ah, the Marquis of Caso Calvo!--I must bow to him, though an honestman's bow is more than he deserves. "

"More than he deserves?" was Frowenfeld's query. 

"More than he deserves!" was the response. 

"What has he done? I have never heard--"

The denunciator turned upon Frowenfeld his most royal frown, andretorted with a question which still grows wild in Louisiana:

"What"--he seemed to shake his mane--"what has he _not_ done, sir?" andthen he withdrew his frown slowly, as if to add, "You'll be careful nexttime how you cast doubt upon a public official's guilt. "

The marquis's cavalcade came briskly jingling by. Frowenfeld saw withinthe carriage two men, one in citizen's dress, the other in a brilliantuniform. The latter leaned forward, and, with a cordiality which struckthe young spectator as delightful, bowed. The immigrant glanced atCitizen Fusilier, expecting to see the greeting returned with greathaughtiness; instead of which that person uncovered his leonine head, and, with a solemn sweep of his cocked hat, bowed half his length. Nay, he more than bowed, he bowed down--so that the action hurt Frowenfeldfrom head to foot. 

"What large gentlemen was that sitting on the other side?" asked theyoung man, as his companion sat down with the air of having finishedan oration. 

"No gentleman at all!" thundered the citizen. "That fellow" (beetlingfrown), "that _fellow_ is Edward Livingston. "

"The great lawyer?"

"The great villain!"

Frowenfeld himself frowned. 

The old man laid a hand upon his junior's shoulder and growledbenignantly:

"My young friend, your displeasure delights me!"

The patience with which Frowenfeld was bearing all this forced a chuckleand shake of the head from the _marchande_. 

Citizen Fusilier went on speaking in a manner that might be construedeither as address or soliloquy, gesticulating much and occasionallyletting out a fervent word that made passers look around and Josephinwardly wince. With eyes closed and hands folded on the top of theknotted staff which he carried but never used, he delivered anapostrophe to the "spotless soul of youth, " enticed by the "spirit ofadventure" to "launch away upon the unploughed sea of the future!" Helifted one hand and smote the back of the other solemnly, once, twice, and again, nodding his head faintly several times without opening hiseyes, as who should say, "Very impressive; go on, " and so resumed; spokeof this spotless soul of youth searching under unknown latitudes for the"sunken treasures of experience"; indulged, as the reporters of our daywould say, in "many beautiful nights of rhetoric, " and finally depictedthe loathing with which the spotless soul of youth "recoils!"--suitingthe action to the word so emphatically as to make a pretty little boywho stood gaping at him start back--"on encountering in the holychambers of public office the vultures hatched in the nests of ambitionand avarice!"

Three or four persons lingered carelessly near by with ears wide open. Frowenfeld felt that he must bring this to an end, and, like any youngperson who has learned neither deceit nor disrespect to seniors, heattempted to reason it down. 

"You do not think many of our public men are dishonest!"

"Sir!" replied the rhetorician, with a patronizing smile, "h-you must bethinking of France!"

"No, sir; of Louisiana. "

"Louisiana! Dishonest? All, sir, all. They are all as corrupt asOlympus, sir!"

"Well, " said Frowenfeld, with more feeling than was called for, "thereis one who, I feel sure, is pure. I know it by his face!"

The old man gave a look of stern interrogation. 

"Governor Claiborne. "

"Ye-e-e g-hods! Claiborne! _Claiborne!_ Why, he is a Yankee!"

The lion glowered over the lamb like a thundercloud. 

"He is a Virginian, " said Frowenfeld. 

"He is an American, and no American can be honest. "

"You are prejudiced, " exclaimed the young man. 

Citizen Fusilier made himself larger. 

"What is prejudice? I do not know. "

"I am an American myself, " said Frowenfeld, rising up with his faceburning. 

The citizen rose up also, but unruffled. 

"My beloved young friend, " laying his hand heavily upon the other'sshoulder, "you are not. You were merely born in America. "

But Frowenfeld was not appeased. 

"Hear me through, " persisted the flatterer. "You were merely born inAmerica. I, too, was born in America--but will any man responsible forhis opinion mistake me--Agricola Fusilier--for an American?"

He clutched his cane in the middle and glared around, but no personseemed to be making the mistake to which he so scornfully alluded, andhe was about to speak again when an outcry of alarm comingsimultaneously from Joseph and the _marchande_ directed his attention toa lady in danger. 

The scene, as afterward recalled to the mind of the un-American citizen, included the figures of his nephew and the new governor returning upthe road at a canter; but, at the time, he knew only that a lady ofunmistakable gentility, her back toward him, had just gathered her robesand started to cross the road, when there was a general cry of warning, and the _marchande_ cried, "_Garde choual!_" while the lady leapeddirectly into the danger and his nephew's horse knocked her tothe earth!

Though there was a rush to the rescue from every direction, she was onher feet before any one could reach her, her lips compressed, nostrilsdilated, cheek burning, and eyes flashing a lady's wrath upon adismounted horseman. It was the governor. As the crowd had rushed in, the startled horses, from whom the two riders had instantly leaped, drewviolently back, jerking their masters with them and leaving only thegovernor in range of the lady's angry eye. 

"Mademoiselle!" he cried, striving to reach her. 

She pointed him in gasping indignation to his empty saddle, and, as thecrowd farther separated them, waved away all permission to apologize andturned her back. 

"Hah!" cried the crowd, echoing her humor. 

"Lady, " interposed the governor, "do not drive us to the rudeness ofleaving--"

"_Animal, vous!_" cried half a dozen, and the lady gave him such a lookof scorn that he did not finish his sentence. 

"Open the way, there, " called a voice in French. 

It was Honoré Grandissime. But just then he saw that the lady had foundthe best of protectors, and the two horsemen, having no choice, remounted and rode away. As they did so, M. Grandissime called somethinghurriedly to Frowenfeld, on whose arm the lady hung, concerning the careof her; but his words were lost in the short yell of derision sent afterhimself and his companion by the crowd. 

Old Agricola, meanwhile, was having a trouble of his own. He hadfollowed Joseph's wake as he pushed through the throng; but as the ladyturned her face he wheeled abruptly away. This brought again into viewthe bench he had just left, whereupon he, in turn, cried out, and, dashing through all obstructions, rushed back to it, lifting his uglystaff as he went and flourishing it in the face of Palmyre Philosophe. 

She stood beside the seat with the smile of one foiled and intenselyconscious of peril, but neither frightened nor suppliant, holding backwith her eyes the execution of Agricola's threat against her life. 

Presently she drew a short step backward, then another, then a third, and then turned and moved away down the avenue of willows, followed fora few steps by the lion and by the laughing comment of the _marchande_, who stood looking after them with her tray balanced on her head. 

"_Ya, ya! ye connais voudou bien!_[1]"

[Footnote 1: "They're up in the voudou arts. "]

The old man turned to rejoin his companion. The day was rapidly givingplace to night and the people were withdrawing to their homes. Hecrossed the levee, passed through the Place d'Armes and on into thecity without meeting the object of his search. For Joseph and the ladyhad hurried off together. 

As the populace floated away in knots of three, four and five, those whohad witnessed mademoiselle's (?) mishap told it to those who had not;explaining that it was the accursed Yankee governor who had designedlydriven his horse at his utmost speed against the fair victim (some ofthem butted against their hearers by way of illustration); that thefiend had then maliciously laughed; that this was all the Yankees cameto New Orleans for, and that there was an understanding amongthem--"Understanding, indeed!" exclaimed one, "They have instructionsfrom the President!"--that unprotected ladies should be run downwherever overtaken. If you didn't believe it you could ask the tyrant, Claiborne, himself; he made no secret of it. One or two--but they wereconsidered by others extravagant--testified that, as the lady fell, theyhad seen his face distorted with a horrid delight, and had heard himcry: "Daz de way to knog them!"

"But how came a lady to be out on the levee, at sunset, on foot andalone?" asked a citizen, and another replied--both using the French ofthe late province:

"As for being on foot"--a shrug. "But she was not alone; she had a_milatraisse_ behind her. "

"Ah! so; that was well. "

"But--ha, ha!--the _milatraisse_, seeing her mistress out of danger, takes the opportunity to try to bring the curse upon Agricola Fusilierby sitting down where he had just risen up, and had to get away from himas quickly as possible to save her own skull. "

"And left the lady?"

"Yes; and who took her to her home at last, but Frowenfeld, theapothecary!"

"Ho, ho! the astrologer! We ought to hang that fellow. "

"With his books tied to his feet, " suggested a third citizen. "It is nomore than we owe to the community to go and smash his show-window. Hehad better behave himself. Come, gentlemen, a little _taffia_ will do usgood. When shall we ever get through these exciting times?"

CHAPTER XVI

STARLIGHT IN THE RUE CHARTRES

"Oh! M'sieur Frowenfel', tague me ad home!"

It was Aurora, who caught the apothecary's arm vehemently in both herhands with a look of beautiful terror. And whatever Joseph's astronomymight have previously taught him to the contrary, he knew by his sensesthat the earth thereupon turned entirely over three times intwo seconds. 

His confused response, though unintelligible, answered all purposes, asthe lady found herself the next moment hurrying across the Place d'Armesclose to his side, and as they by-and-by passed its farther limits shebegan to be conscious that she was clinging to her protector as thoughshe would climb up and hide under his elbow. As they turned up the rueChartres she broke the silence. 

"Oh!-h!"--breathlessly, --"'h!--M'sieur Frowenf'--you walkin' so faz!"

"Oh!" echoed Frowenfeld, "I did not know what I was doing. "

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the lady, "me, too, juz de sem lag you!_attendez_; wait. "

They halted; a moment's deft manipulation of a veil turned it into awrapping for her neck. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', oo dad man was? You know 'im?"

She returned her hand to Frowenfeld's arm and they moved on. 

"The one who spoke to you, or--you know the one who got near enough toapologize is not the one whose horse struck you!"

"I din know. But oo dad odder one? I saw h-only 'is back, bud I thing itis de sem--"

She identified it with the back that was turned to her during her lastvisit to Frowenfeld's shop; but finding herself about to mention amatter so nearly connected with the purse of gold, she checked herself;but Frowenfeld, eager to say a good word for his acquaintance, venturedto extol his character while he concealed his name. 

"While I have never been introduced to him, I have some acquaintancewith him, and esteem him a noble gentleman. "

"W'ere you meet him?"

"I met him first, " he said, "at the graves of my parents and sisters. "

There was a kind of hush after the mention, and the lady made no reply. 

"It was some weeks after my loss, " resumed Frowenfeld. 

"In wad _cimetière_ dad was?"

"In no cemetery--being Protestants, you know--"

"Ah, yes, sir?" with a gentle sigh. 

"The physician who attended me procured permission to bury them on someprivate land below the city. "

"Not in de groun'[2]?"

[Footnote 2: Only Jews and paupers are buried in the ground in NewOrleans. ]

"Yes; that was my father's expressed wish when he died. "

"You 'ad de fivver? Oo nurse you w'en you was sick?"

"An old hired negress. "

"Dad was all?"

"Yes. "

"Hm-m-m!" she said piteously, and laughed in her sleeve. 

Who could hope to catch and reproduce the continuous lively thrill whichtraversed the frame of the escaped book-worm as every moment there wasrepeated to his consciousness the knowledge that he was walking acrossthe vault of heaven with the evening star on his arm--at least, that hewas, at her instigation, killing time along the dim, ill-lighted_trottoirs_ of the rue Chartres, with Aurora listening sympatheticallyat his side. But let it go; also the sweet broken English with which shenow and then interrupted him; also the inward, hidden sparkle of herdancing Gallic blood; her low, merry laugh; the roguish mentalreservation that lurked behind her graver speeches; the droll bravadosshe uttered against the powers that be, as with timid fingers he brushedfrom her shoulder a little remaining dust of the late encounter--thesethings, we say, we let go, --as we let butterflies go rather than pinthem to paper. 

They had turned into the rue Bienville, and were walking toward theriver, Frowenfeld in the midst of a long sentence, when a low cry oftearful delight sounded in front of them, some one in long robes glidedforward, and he found his arm relieved of its burden and that burdentransferred to the bosom and passionate embrace of another--we hadalmost said a fairer--Creole, amid a bewildering interchange of kissesand a pelting shower of Creole French. 

A moment after, Frowenfeld found himself introduced to "my dotter, Clotilde, " who all at once ceased her demonstrations of affection andbowed to him with a majestic sweetness, that seemed one instant gratefuland the next, distant. 

"I can hardly understand that you are not sisters, " said Frowenfeld, alittle awkwardly. 

"Ah! _ecoutez!_" exclaimed the younger. 

"Ah! _par exemple!_" cried the elder, and they laughed down each other'sthroats, while the immigrant blushed. 

This encounter was presently followed by a silent surprise when theystopped and turned before the door of Number 19, and Frowenfeldcontrasted the women with their painfully humble dwelling. But thereinis where your true Creole was, and still continues to be, properly, yea, delightfully un-American; the outside of his house may be as rough asthe outside of a bird's nest; it is the inside that is for the birds;and the front room of this house, when the daughter presently threw openthe batten shutters of its single street door, looked as bright andhappy, with its candelabra glittering on the mantel, and its curtains ofsnowy lace, as its bright-eyed tenants. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', if you pliz to come in, " said Aurora, and the timidapothecary would have bravely accepted the invitation, but for a quicklook which he saw the daughter give the mother; whereupon he asked, instead, permission to call at some future day, and received the cordialleave of Aurora and another bow from Clotilde. 

CHAPTER XVII

THAT NIGHT

Do we not fail to accord to our nights their true value? We are evergiving to our days the credit and blame of all we do and mis-do, forgetting those silent, glimmering hours when plans--and sometimesplots--are laid; when resolutions are formed or changed; when heaven, and sometimes heaven's enemies, are invoked; when anger and evilthoughts are recalled, and sometimes hate made to inflame and fester;when problems are solved, riddles guessed, and things made apparent inthe dark, which day refused to reveal. Our nights are the keys to ourdays. They explain them. They are also the day's correctors. Night'sleisure untangles the mistakes of day's haste. We should not attempt tocomprise our pasts in the phrase, "in those days;" we should rather say"in those days and nights. "

That night was a long-remembered one to the apothecary of the rueRoyale. But it was after he had closed his shop, and in his back roomsat pondering the unusual experiences of the evening, that it began tobe, in a higher degree, a night of events to most of those persons whohad a part in its earlier incidents. 

That Honoré Grandissime whom Frowenfeld had only this day learned toknow as _the_ Honoré Grandissime and the young governor-general werecloseted together. 

"What can you expect, my-de'-seh?" the Creole was asking, as theyconfronted each other in the smoke of their choice tobacco. "Remember, they are citizens by compulsion. You say your best and wisest law isthat one prohibiting the slave-trade; my-de'-seh, I assure you, privately, I agree with you; but they abhor your law!

"Your principal danger--at least, I mean difficulty--is this: that theLouisianais themselves, some in pure lawlessness, some through loss ofoffice, some in a vague hope of preserving the old condition of things, will not only hold off from all participation in your government, butwill make all sympathy with it, all advocacy of its principles, andespecially all office-holding under it, odious--disreputable--infamous. You may find yourself constrained to fill your offices with men who canface down the contumely of a whole people. You know what such mengenerally are. One out of a hundred may be a moral hero--the ninety-ninewill be scamps; and the moral hero will most likely get his brains blownout early in the day. 

"Count O'Reilly, when he established the Spanish power here thirty-fiveyears ago, cut a similar knot with the executioner's sword; but, my-de'-seh, you are here to establish a _free_ government; and how canyou make it freer than the people wish it? There is your riddle! Theyhold off and say, 'Make your government as free as you can, but do notask us to help you;' and before you know it you have no retainers but agang of shameless mercenaries, who will desert you whenever theindignation of this people overbalances their indolence; and you willfall the victim of what you may call our mutinous patriotism. "

The governor made a very quiet, unappreciative remark about a"patriotism that lets its government get choked up with corruption andthen blows it out with gunpowder!"

The Creole shrugged. 

"And repeats the operation indefinitely, " he said. 

The governor said something often heard, before and since, to the effectthat communities will not sacrifice themselves for mere ideas. 

"My-de'-seh, " replied the Creole, "you speak like a true Anglo-Saxon;but, sir! how many communities have _committed_ suicide. And thisone?--why, it is _just_ the kind to do it!"

"Well, " said the governor, smilingly, "you have pointed out what youconsider to be the breakers, now can you point out the channel?"

"Channel? There is none! And you, nor I, cannot dig one. Two greatforces _may_ ultimately do it, Religion and Education--as I was tellingyou I said to my young friend, the apothecary, --but still I am free tosay what would be my first and principal step, if I was in yourplace--as I thank God I am not. "

The listener asked him what that was. 

"Wherever I could find a Creole that I could venture to trust, my-de'-seh, I would put him in office. Never mind a little politicalheterodoxy, you know; almost any man can be trusted to shoot away fromthe uniform he has on. And then--"

"But, " said the other, "I have offered you--"

"Oh!" replied the Creole, like a true merchant, "me, I am too busy; itis impossible! But, I say, I would _compel_, my-de'-seh, this people togovern themselves!"

"And pray, how would you give a people a free government and then compelthem to administer it?"

"My-de'-seh, you should not give one poor Creole the puzzle whichbelongs to your whole Congress; but you may depend on this, that theworst thing for all parties--and I say it only because it is worst forall--would be a feeble and dilatory punishment of bad faith. "

When this interview finally drew to a close the governor had made amemorandum of some fifteen or twenty Grandissimes, scattered throughdifferent cantons of Louisiana, who, their kinsman Honoré thought, wouldnot decline appointments. 

 * * * * *

Certain of the Muses were abroad that night. Faintly audible to theapothecary of the rue Royale through that deserted stillness which isyet the marked peculiarity of New Orleans streets by night, came from aneighboring slave-yard the monotonous chant and machine-like tune-beatof an African dance. There our lately met _marchande_ (albeit she wasbut a guest, fortified against the street-watch with her master'swritten "pass") led the ancient Calinda dance with that well-known songof derision, in whose ever multiplying stanzas the helpless satire of afeeble race still continues to celebrate the personal failings of eachnewly prominent figure among the dominant caste. There was a new distichto the song to-night, signifying that the pride of the Grandissimes mustfind his friends now among the Yankees:

 "Miché Hon'ré, allé! h-allé! Trouvé to zamis parmi les Yankis. Dancé calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum! Dancé calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum!

Frowenfeld, as we have already said, had closed his shop, and wassitting in the room behind it with one arm on his table and the other onhis celestial globe, watching the flicker of his small fire and musingupon the unusual experiences of the evening. Upon every side thereseemed to start away from his turning glance the multiplied shadows ofsomething wrong. The melancholy face of that Honoré Grandissime, hislandlord, at whose mention Dr. Keene had thought it fair to laughwithout explaining; the tall, bright-eyed _milatraisse_; old Agricola;the lady of the basil; the newly identified merchant friend, now themore satisfactory Honoré, --they all came before him in his meditation, provoking among themselves a certain discord, faint but persistent, towhich he strove to close his ear. For he was brain-weary. Even in thebright recollection of the lady and her talk he became involved amongshadows, and going from bad to worse, seemed at length almost to gasp inan atmosphere of hints, allusions, faint unspoken admissions, ill-concealed antipathies, unfinished speeches, mistaken identities andwhisperings of hidden strife. The cathedral clock struck twelve and wasanswered again from the convent belfry; and as the notes died away hesuddenly became aware that the weird, drowsy throb of the African songand dance had been swinging drowsily in his brain for an unknownlapse of time. 

The apothecary nodded once or twice, and thereupon rose up and preparedfor bed, thinking to sleep till morning. 

 * * * * *

Aurora and her daughter had long ago put out their chamber light. Earlyin the evening the younger had made favorable mention of retiring, towhich the elder replied by asking to be left awhile to her own thoughts. Clotilde, after some tender protestations, consented, and passed throughthe open door that showed, beyond it, their couch. The air had grownjust cool and humid enough to make the warmth of one small brand on thehearth acceptable, and before this the fair widow settled herself togaze beyond her tiny, slippered feet into its wavering flame, and think. Her thoughts were such as to bestow upon her face that enhancement ofbeauty that comes of pleasant reverie, and to make it certain that thatlittle city afforded no fairer sight, --unless, indeed, it was the figureof Clotilde just beyond the open door, as in her white nightdress, enriched with the work of a diligent needle, she knelt upon the low_prie-Dieu_ before the little family altar, and committed her pure soulto the Divine keeping. 

Clotilde could not have been many minutes asleep when Aurora changed hermind and decided to follow. The shade upon her face had deepened for amoment into a look of trouble; but a bright philosophy, which was partof her paternal birthright, quickly chased it away, and she passed toher room, disrobed, lay softly down beside the beauty already there andsmiled herself to sleep, --

 "Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. "

But she also wakened again, and lay beside her unconscious bedmate, occupied with the company of her own thoughts. "Why should these littleconcealments ruffle my bosom? Does not even Nature herself practisewiles? Look at the innocent birds; do they build where everybody cancount their eggs? And shall a poor human creature try to be better thana bird? Didn't I say my prayers under the blanket just now?"

Her companion stirred in her sleep, and she rose upon one elbow to bendupon the sleeper a gaze of ardent admiration. "Ah, beautiful littlechick! how guileless! indeed, how deficient in that respect!" She satup in the bed and hearkened; the bell struck for midnight. Was that thehour? The fates were smiling! Surely M. Assonquer himself must havewakened her to so choice an opportunity. She ought not to despise it. Now, by the application of another and easily wrought charm, thatdarkened hour lately spent with Palmyre would have, as it were, itscolors set. 

The night had grown much cooler. Stealthily, by degrees, she rose andleft the couch. The openings of the room were a window and two doors, and these, with much caution, she contrived to open without noise. Noneof them exposed her to the possibility of public view. One door lookedinto the dim front room; the window let in only a flood of moonlightover the top of a high house which was without openings on that side;the other door revealed a weed-grown back yard, and that invaluableprotector, the cook's hound, lying fast asleep. 

In her night-clothes as she was, she stood a moment in the centre of thechamber, then sank upon one knee, rapped the floor gently but audiblythrice, rose, drew a step backward, sank upon the other knee, rappedthrice, rose again, stepped backward, knelt the third time, the thirdtime rapped, and then, rising, murmured a vow to pour upon the groundnext day an oblation of champagne--then closed the doors and window andcrept back to bed. Then she knew how cold she had become. It seemed asthough her very marrow was frozen. She was seized with such anuncontrollable shivering that Clotilde presently opened her eyes, threwher arm about her mother's neck, and said:

"Ah! my sweet mother, are you so cold?"

"The blanket was all off of me, " said the mother, returning the embrace, and the two sank into unconsciousness together. 

 * * * * *

Into slumber sank almost at the same moment Joseph Frowenfeld. He awoke, not a great while later, to find himself standing in the middle of thefloor. Three or four men had shouted at once, and three pistol-shots, almost in one instant, had resounded just outside his shop. He hadbarely time to throw himself into half his garments when the knockersounded on his street door, and when he opened it Agricola Fusilierentered, supported by his nephew Honoré on one side and Doctor Keene onthe other. The latter's right hand was pressed hard against a bloodyplace in Agricola's side. 

"Give us plenty of light, Frowenfeld, " said the doctor, "and a chair andsome lint, and some Castile soap, and some towels and sticking-plaster, and anything else you can think of. Agricola's about scared to death--"

"Professor Frowenfeld, " groaned the aged citizen, "I am basely andmortally stabbed!"

"Right on, Frowenfeld, " continued the doctor, "right on into the backroom. Fasten that front door. Here, Agricola, sit down here. That'sright, Frow. , stir up a little fire. Give me--never mind, I'll just cutthe cloth open. "

There was a moment of silent suspense while the wound was beingreached, and then the doctor spoke again. 

"Just as I thought; only a safe and comfortable gash that will keep youin-doors a while with your arm in a sling. You are more scared thanhurt, I think, old gentleman. "

"You think an infernal falsehood, sir!"

"See here, sir, " said the doctor, without ceasing to ply his dexteroushands in his art, "I'll jab these scissors into your back if you saythat again. "

"I suppose, " growled the "citizen, " "it is just the thing yourprofessional researches have qualified you for, sir!"

"Just stand here, Mr. Frowenfeld, " said the little doctor, settling downto a professional tone, "and hand me things as I ask for them. Honoré, please hold this arm; so. " And so, after a moderate lapse of time, thetreatment that medical science of those days dictated wasapplied--whatever that was. Let those who do not know give thanks. 

M. Grandissime explained to Frowenfeld what had occurred. 

"You see, I succeeded in meeting my uncle, and we went together to myoffice. My uncle keeps his accounts with me. Sometimes we look themover. We stayed until midnight; I dismissed my carriage. As we walkedhomeward we met some friends coming out of the rooms of the BagatelleClub; five or six of my uncles and cousins, and also Doctor Keene. Weall fell a-talking of my grandfather's _fête de grandpère_ of nextmonth, and went to have some coffee. When we separated, and my uncle andmy cousin Achille Grandissime and Doctor Keene and myself came downRoyal street, out from that dark alley behind your shop jumped a littleman and stuck my uncle with a knife. If I had not caught his arm hewould have killed my uncle. "

"And he escaped, " said the apothecary. 

"No, sir!" said Agricola, with his back turned. 

"I think he did. I do not think he was struck. "

"And Mr. ----, your cousin?"

"Achille? I have sent him for a carriage. "

"Why, Agricola, " said the doctor, snipping the loose ravellings from hispatient's bandages, "an old man like you should not have enemies. "

"I am _not_ an old man, sir!"

"I said _young_ man. "

"I am not a _young_ man, sir!"

"I wonder who the fellow was, " continued Doctor Keene, as he readjustedthe ripped sleeve. 

"That is _my_ affair, sir; I know who it was. "

 * * * * *

"And yet she insists, " M. Grandissime was asking Frowenfeld, standingwith his leg thrown across the celestial globe, "that I knocked her downintentionally?"

Frowenfeld, about to answer, was interrupted by a rap on the door. 

"That is my cousin, with the carriage, " said M. Grandissime, followingthe apothecary into the shop. 

Frowenfeld opened to a young man, --a rather poor specimen of theGrandissime type, deficient in stature but not in stage manner. 

"_Est il mort_?" he cried at the threshold. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, let me make you acquainted with my cousin, AchilleGrandissime. "

Mr. Achille Grandissime gave Frowenfeld such a bow as we see now only inpictures. 

"Ve'y 'appe to meck, yo' acquaintenz!"

Agricola entered, followed by the doctor, and demanded in indignantthunder-tones, as he entered:

"Who--ordered--that--carriage?"

"I did, " said Honoré. "Will you please get into it at once. "

"Ah! dear Honoré!" exclaimed the old man, "always too kind! I go in itpurely to please you. "

Good-night was exchanged; Honoré entered the vehicle and Agricola washelped in. Achille touched his hat, bowed and waved his hand to Joseph, and shook hands with the doctor, and saying, "Well, good-night. DoctorKeene, " he shut himself out of the shop with another low bow. "Think Iam going to shake hands with an apothecary?" thought M. Achille. 

Doctor Keene had refused Honoré's invitation to go with them. 

"Frowenfeld, " he said, as he stood in the middle of the shop wiping aring with a towel and looking at his delicate, freckled hand, "Ipropose, before going to bed with you, to eat some of your bread andcheese. Aren't you glad?"

"I shall be, Doctor, " replied the apothecary, "if you will tell me whatall this means. "

"Indeed I will not, --that is, not to-night. What? Why, it would takeuntil breakfast to tell what 'all this means, '--the story of thatpestiferous darky Bras Coupé, with the rest? Oh, no, sir. I would soonernot have any bread and cheese. What on earth has waked your curiosity sosuddenly, anyhow?"

"Have you any idea who stabbed Citizen Fusilier?" was Joseph's response. 

"Why, at first I thought it was the other Honoré Grandissime; but when Isaw how small the fellow was, I was at a loss, completely. But, whoeverit is, he has my bullet in him, whatever Honoré may think. "

"Will Mr. Fusilier's wound give him much trouble?" asked Joseph, as theysat down to a luncheon at the fire. 

"Hardly; he has too much of the blood of Lufki-Humma in him. But I neednot say that; for the Grandissime blood is just as strong. A wonderfulfamily, those Grandissimes! They are an old, illustrious line, and thestrength that was once in the intellect and will is going down into themuscles. I have an idea that their greatness began, hundreds of yearsago, in ponderosity of arm, --of frame, say, --and developed fromgeneration to generation, in a rising scale, first into fineness ofsinew, then, we will say, into force of will, then into power of mind, then into subtleties of genius. Now they are going back down theincline. Look at Honoré; he is high up on the scale, intellectual andsagacious. But look at him physically, too. What an exquisite mold! Whatcompact strength! I should not wonder if he gets that from the IndianQueen. What endurance he has! He will probably go to his business by andby and not see his bed for seventeen or eighteen hours. He is the flowerof the family, and possibly the last one. Now, old Agricola shows thedownward grade better. Seventy-five, if he is a day, with, maybe, one-fourth the attainments he pretends to have, and still less goodsense; but strong--as an orang-outang. Shall we go to bed?"

CHAPTER XVIII

NEW LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES

When the long, wakeful night was over, and the doctor gone, Frowenfeldseated himself to record his usual observations of the weather; but hismind was elsewhere--here, there, yonder. There are understandings thatexpand, not imperceptibly hour by hour, but as certain flowers do, bylittle explosive ruptures, with periods of quiescence between. Afterthis night of experiences it was natural that Frowenfeld should find thecircumference of his perceptions consciously enlarged. The daylightshone, not into his shop alone, but into his heart as well. The face ofAurora, which had been the dawn to him before, was now a perfectsunrise, while in pleasant timeliness had come in this Apollo of aHonoré Grandissime. The young immigrant was dazzled. He felt a longingto rise up and run forward in this flood of beams. He was unconscious offatigue, or nearly so--would, have been wholly so but for the return byand by of that same dim shadow, or shadows, still rising and dartingacross every motion of the fancy that grouped again the actors in lastnight's scenes; not such shadows as naturally go with sunlight to makeit seem brighter, but a something which qualified the light's perfectionand the air's freshness. 

Wherefore, resolved: that he would compound his life, from this timeforward, by a new formula: books, so much; observation, so much; socialintercourse, so much; love--as to that, time enough for that in thefuture (if he was in love with anybody, he certainly did not know it);of love, therefore, amount not yet necessary to state, but probably(when it should be introduced), in the generous proportion in whichphysicians prescribe _aqua_. Resolved, in other words, without ceasingto be Frowenfeld the studious, to begin at once the perusal of thisnewly found book, the Community of New Orleans. True, he knew he shouldfind it a difficult task--not only that much of it was in a strangetongue, but that it was a volume whose displaced leaves would have to belifted tenderly, blown free of much dust, re-arranged, some tornfragments laid together again with much painstaking, and even thepurport of some pages guessed out. Obviously, the place to commence atwas that brightly illuminated title-page, the ladies Nancanou. 

As the sun rose and diffused its beams in an atmosphere whosetemperature had just been recorded as 50° F. , the apothecary steppedhalf out of his shop-door to face the bracing air that came blowing uponhis tired forehead from the north. As he did so, he said to himself:

"How are these two Honoré Grandissimes related to each other, and whyshould one be thought capable of attempting the life of Agricola?"

The answer was on its way to him. 

There is left to our eyes but a poor vestige of the picturesque viewpresented to those who looked down the rue Royale before the garish daythat changed the rue Enghien into Ingine street, and dropped the 'e'from Royale. It was a long, narrowing perspective of arcades, lattices, balconies, _zaguans_, dormer windows, and blue sky--of low, tiled roofs, red and wrinkled, huddled down into their own shadows; of canvas awningswith fluttering borders, and of grimy lamp-posts twenty feet in height, each reaching out a gaunt iron arm over the narrow street and dangling alamp from its end. The human life which dotted the view displayed avariety of tints and costumes such as a painter would be glad to takejust as he found them: the gayly feathered Indian, the slashed andtinselled Mexican, the leather-breeched raftsmen, the blue-oryellow-turbaned _négresse_, the sugar-planter in white flannel andmoccasins, the average townsman in the last suit of clothes of thelately deceased century, and now and then a fashionable man in thatcostume whose union of tight-buttoned martial severity, swathed throat, and effeminate superabundance of fine linen seemed to offer a sort ofstate's evidence against the pompous tyrannies and frivolities ofthe times. 

The _marchande des calas_ was out. She came toward Joseph's shop, singing in a high-pitched nasal tone this new song:

 "Dé'tit zozos--yé té assis-- Dé'tit zozos--si la barrier. Dé'tit zozos, qui zabotté; Qui ça yé di' mo pas conné. 

 "Manzeur-poulet vini simin, Croupé si yé et croqué yé; Personn' pli' 'tend' yé zabotté-- Dé'tit zozos si la barrier. "

"You lak dat song?" she asked, with a chuckle, as she let down from herturbaned head a flat Indian basket of warm rice cakes. 

"What does it mean?"

She laughed again--more than the questioner could see occasion for. 

"Dat mean--two lill birds; dey was sittin' on de fence an' gabblin'togeddah, you know, lak you see two young gals sometime', an' you can'tmek out w'at dey sayin', even ef dey know demself? H-ya! Chicken-hawkcome 'long dat road an' jes' set down an' munch 'em, an' nobody can't nomo' hea' deir lill gabblin' on de fence, you know. "

Here she laughed again. 

Joseph looked at her with severe suspicion, but she found refuge inbenevolence. 

"Honey, you ought to be asleep dis werry minit; look lak folks beena-worr'in' you. I's gwine to pick out de werry bes' _calas_ I's gotfor you. "

As she delivered them she courtesied, first to Joseph and then, lowerand with hushed gravity, to a person who passed into the shop behindhim, bowing and murmuring politely as he passed. She followed thenew-comer with her eyes, hastily accepted the price of the cakes, whispered, "Dat's my mawstah, " lifted her basket to her head and wentaway. Her master was Frowenfeld's landlord. 

Frowenfeld entered after him, calas in hand, and with a grave"Good-morning, sir. "

"--m'sieu', " responded the landlord, with a low bow. 

Frowenfeld waited in silence. 

The landlord hesitated, looked around him, seemed about to speak, smiled, and said, in his soft, solemn voice, feeling his way word byword through the unfamiliar language:

"Ah lag to teg you apar'. "

"See me alone?"

The landlord recognized his error by a fleeting smile. 

"Alone, " said he. 

"Shall we go into my room?"

"_S'il vous plait, m'sieu'_. "

Frowenfeld's breakfast, furnished by contract from a neighboringkitchen, stood on the table. It was a frugal one, but more comfortablethan formerly, and included coffee, that subject of just pride in Creolecookery. Joseph deposited his _calas_ with these things and made hasteto produce a chair, which his visitor, as usual, declined. 

"Idd you' bregfuz, m'sieu'. "

"I can do that afterward, " said Frowenfeld; but the landlord insistedand turned away from him to look up at the books on the wall, preciselyas that other of the same name had done a few weeks before. 

Frowenfeld, as he broke his loaf, noticed this, and, as the landlordturned his face to speak, wondered that he had not before seen thecommon likeness. 

"Dez stog, " said the sombre man. 

"What, sir? Oh!--dead stock? But how can the materials of an educationbe dead stock?"

The landlord shrugged. He would not argue the point. One American traitwhich the Creole is never entirely ready to encounter is this gratuitousYankee way of going straight to the root of things. 

"Dead stock in a mercantile sense, you mean, " continued the apothecary;"but are men right in measuring such things only by their presentmarket value?"

The landlord had no reply. It was little to him, his manner intimated;his contemplation dwelt on deeper flaws in human right and wrong;yet--but it was needless to discuss it. However, he did speak. 

"Ah was elevade in Pariz. "

"Educated in Paris, " exclaimed Joseph, admiringly. "Then you certainlycannot find your education dead stock. "

The grave, not amused, smile which was the landlord's only rejoinder, though perfectly courteous, intimated that his tenant was sailing overdepths of the question that he was little aware of. But the smile in amoment gave way for the look of one who was engrossed withanother subject. 

"M'sieu', " he began; but just then Joseph made an apologetic gesture andwent forward to wait upon an inquirer after "Godfrey's Cordial;" forthat comforter was known to be obtainable at "Frowenfeld's. " Thebusiness of the American drug-store was daily increasing. WhenFrowenfeld returned his landlord stood ready to address him, with theair of having decided to make short of a matter. 

"M'sieu' ----"

"Have a seat, sir, " urged the apothecary. 

His visitor again declined, with his uniform melancholy grace. He drewclose to Frowenfeld. 

"Ah wand you mague me one _ouangan_, " he said. 

Joseph shook his head. He remembered Doctor Keene's expressed suspicionconcerning the assault of the night before. 

"I do not understand you, sir; what is that?"

"You know. "

The landlord offered a heavy, persuading smile. 

"An unguent? Is that what you mean--an ointment?"

"M'sieu', " said the applicant, with a not-to-be-deceived expression, "_vous êtes astrologue--magicien--"

"God forbid!"

The landlord was grossly incredulous. 

"You godd one 'P'tit Albert. '"

He dropped his forefinger upon an iron-clasped book on the table, whosetitle much use had effaced. 

"That is the Bible. I do not know what the Tee Albare is!"

Frowenfeld darted an aroused glance into the ever-courteous eyes of hisvisitor, who said without a motion:

"You di'n't gave Agricola Fusilier _une ouangan, la nuit passé_?"

"Sir?"

"Ee was yeh?--laz nighd?"

"Mr. Fusilier was here last night--yes. He had been attacked by anassassin and slightly wounded. He was accompanied by his nephew, who, Isuppose, is your cousin: he has the same name. "

Frowenfeld, hoping he had changed the subject, concluded with apropitiatory smile, which, however, was not reflected. 

"Ma bruzzah, " said the visitor. 

"Your brother!"

"Ma whide bruzzah; ah ham nod whide, m'sieu'. "

Joseph said nothing. He was too much awed to speak; the ejaculationthat started toward his lips turned back and rushed into his heart, andit was the quadroon who, after a moment, broke the silence:

"Ah ham de holdez son of Numa Grandissime. "

"Yes--yes, " said Frowenfeld, as if he would wave away somethingterrible. 

"Nod sell me--_ouangan_?" asked the landlord, again. 

"Sir, " exclaimed Frowenfeld, taking a step backward, "pardon me if Ioffend you; that mixture of blood which draws upon you the scorn of thiscommunity is to me nothing--nothing! And every invidious distinctionmade against you on that account I despise! But, sir, whatever may beeither your private wrongs, or the wrongs you suffer in common with yourclass, if you have it in your mind to employ any manner of secret artagainst the interests or person of any one--"

The landlord was making silent protestations, and his tenant, lost in awilderness of indignant emotions, stopped. 

"M'sieu', " began the quadroon, but ceased and stood with an expressionof annoyance every moment deepening on his face, until he finally shookhis head slowly, and said with a baffled smile: "Ah can nodspig Engliss. "

"Write it, " said Frowenfeld, lifting forward a chair. 

The landlord, for the first time in their acquaintance, accepted aseat, bowing low as he did so, with a demonstration of profoundgratitude that just perceptibly heightened his even dignity. Paper, quills, and ink were handed down from a shelf and Joseph retiredinto the shop. 

Honoré Grandissime, f. M. C. (these initials could hardly have come intouse until some months later, but the convenience covers the sin of theslight anachronism), Honoré Grandissime, free man of color, entered fromthe rear room so silently that Joseph was first made aware of hispresence by feeling him at his elbow. He handed the apothecary--but afew words in time, lest we misjudge. 

 * * * * *

The father of the two Honorés was that Numa Grandissime--that merechild--whom the Grand Marquis, to the great chagrin of the De Grapions, had so early cadetted. The commission seems not to have been thrownaway. While the province was still in first hands, Numa's was a shiningname in the annals of Kerlerec's unsatisfactory Indian wars; and in 1768(when the colonists, ill-informed, inflammable, and long ill-governed, resisted the transfer of Louisiana to Spain), at a time of life whenmost young men absorb all the political extravagances of their day, hehad stood by the side of law and government, though the popular cry wasa frenzied one for "liberty. " Moreover, he had held back his wholechafing and stamping tribe from a precipice of disaster, and had securedvaluable recognition of their office-holding capacities from thatreally good governor and princely Irishman whose one act of summaryvengeance upon a few insurgent office-coveters has branded him inhistory as Cruel O'Reilly. But the experience of those days turned Numagray, and withal he was not satisfied with their outcome. In the midstof the struggle he had weakened in one manly resolve--against his willhe married. The lady was a Fusilier, Agricola's sister, a person of rareintelligence and beauty, whom, from early childhood, the secret counselsof his seniors had assigned to him. Despite this, he had said he wouldnever marry; he made, he said, no pretensions to severeconscientiousness, or to being better than others, but--as between hisMaker and himself--he had forfeited the right to wed, they all knew how. But the Fusiliers had become very angry and Numa, finding strife aboutto ensue just when without unity he could not bring an undivided clanthrough the torrent of the revolution, had "nobly sacrificed a littlesentimental feeling, " as his family defined it, by breaking faith withthe mother of the man now standing at Joseph Frowenfeld's elbow, and whowas then a little toddling boy. It was necessary to save the party--nay, that was a slip; we should say, to save the family; this is not aparable. Yet Numa loved his wife. She bore him a boy and a girl, twins;and as her son grew in physical, intellectual, and moral symmetry, heindulged the hope that--the ambition and pride of all the variousGrandissimes now centering in this lawful son, and all strife beinglulled--he should yet see this Honoré right the wrongs which he had notquite dared to uproot. And Honoré inherited the hope and began to makeit an intention and aim even before his departure (with his half-brotherthe other Honoré) for school in Paris, at the early age of fifteen. Numasoon after died, and Honoré, after various fortunes in Paris, London, and elsewhere, in the care, or at least company, of a pious uncle inholy orders, returned to the ancestral mansion. The father's will--bythe law they might have set it aside, but that was not their way--leftthe darker Honoré the bulk of his fortune, the younger a competency. Thelatter--instead of taking office, as an ancient Grandissime should havedone--to the dismay and mortification of his kindred, establishedhimself in a prosperous commercial business. The elder bought houses andbecame a _rentier_. 

 * * * * *

The landlord handed the apothecary the following writing:

 MR. JOSEPH FROWENFELD:

 Think not that anybody is to be either poisoned by me nor yet to be made a sufferer by the exercise of anything by me of the character of what is generally known as grigri, otherwise magique. This, sir, I do beg your permission to offer my assurance to you of the same. Ah, no! it is not for that! I am the victim of another entirely and a far differente and dissimilar passion, _i. E. _, Love. Esteemed sir, speaking or writing to you as unto the only man of exclusively white blood whom I believe is in Louisiana willing to do my dumb, suffering race the real justice, I love Palmyre la Philosophe with a madness which is by the human lips or tongues not possible to be exclaimed (as, I may add, that I have in the same like manner since exactley nine years and seven months and some days). Alas! heavens! I can't help it in the least particles at all! What, what shall I do, for ah! it is pitiful! She loves me not at all, but, on the other hand, is (if I suspicion not wrongfully) wrapped up head and ears in devotion of one who does not love her, either, so cold and incapable of appreciation is he. I allude to Honoré Grandissime. 

 Ah! well do I remember the day when we returned--he and me--from the France. She was there when we landed on that levee, she was among that throng of kindreds and domestiques, she shind like the evening star as she stood there (it was the first time I saw her, but she was known to him when at fifteen he left his home, but I resided not under my own white father's roof--not at all--far from that). She cried out "A la fin to vini!" and leap herself with both resplendant arm around his neck and kist him twice on the one cheek and the other, and her resplendant eyes shining with a so great beauty. 

 If you will give me a _poudre d'amour_ such as I doubt not your great knowledge enable you to make of a power that cannot to be resist, while still at the same time of a harmless character toward the life or the health of such that I shall succeed in its use to gain the affections of that emperice of my soul, I hesitate not to give you such price as it may please you to nominate up as high as to $l, 000--nay, more. Sir, will you do that?

 I have the honor to remain, sir, Very respectfully, your obedient servant, H. Grandissime. 

Frowenfeld slowly transferred his gaze from the paper to his landlord'sface. Dejection and hope struggled with each other in the gaze that wasreturned; but when Joseph said, with a countenance full of pity, "I haveno power to help you, " the disappointed lover merely looked fixedly fora moment in the direction of the street, then lifted his hat toward hishead, bowed, and departed. 

CHAPTER XIX

ART AND COMMERCE

It was some two or three days after the interview just related that theapothecary of the rue Royale found it necessary to ask a friend to sitin the shop a few minutes while he should go on a short errand. He waskept away somewhat longer than he had intended to stay, for, as theywere coming out of the cathedral, he met Aurora and Clotilde. Both theladies greeted him with a cordiality which was almost inebriating, Aurora even extending her hand. He stood but a moment, respondingblushingly to two or three trivial questions from her; yet even in soshort a time, and although Clotilde gave ear with the sweetest smilesand loveliest changes of countenance, he experienced a lively renewal ofa conviction that this young lady was most unjustly harboring toward hima vague disrelish, if not a positive distrust. That she had some mentalreservation was certain. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', " said Aurora, as he raised his hat for good-day, "you din come home yet. "

He did not understand until he had crimsoned and answered he knew notwhat--something about having intended every day. He felt lifted he knewnot where, Paradise opened, there was a flood of glory, and then he wasalone; the ladies, leaving adieus sweeter than the perfume they carriedaway with them, floated into the south and were gone. Why was it thatthe elder, though plainly regarded by the younger with admiration, dependence, and overflowing affection, seemed sometimes to be, one mightalmost say, watched by her? He liked Aurora the better. 

On his return to the shop his friend remarked that if he received manysuch visitors as the one who had called during his absence, he might bepermitted to be vain. It was Honoré Grandissime, and he had leftno message. 

"Frowenfeld, " said his friend, "it would pay you to employ a regularassistant. "

Joseph was in an abstracted mood. 

"I have some thought of doing so. "

Unlucky slip! As he pushed open his door next morning, what was hisdismay to find himself confronted by some forty men. Five of them leapedup from the door-sill, and some thirty-five from the edge of the_trottoir_, brushed that part of their wearing-apparel which always fitswith great neatness on a Creole, and trooped into the shop. Theapothecary fell behind his defences, that is to say, his prescriptiondesk, and explained to them in a short and spirited address that he didnot wish to employ any of them on any terms. Nine-tenths of themunderstood not a word of English; but his gesture was unmistakable. Theybowed gratefully, and said good-day. 

Now Frowenfeld did these young men an injustice; and though they werefar from letting him know it, some of them felt it and interchangedexpressions of feeling reproachful to him as they stopped on the nextcorner to watch a man painting a sign. He had treated them as if theyall wanted situations. Was this so? Far from it. Only twenty men wereapplicants; the other twenty were friends who had come to see them getthe place. And again, though, as the apothecary had said, none of themknew anything about the drug business--no, nor about any other businessunder the heavens--they were all willing that he should teachthem--except one. A young man of patrician softness and costly appareltarried a moment after the general exodus, and quickly concluded that onFrowenfeld's account it was probably as well that he could not qualify, since he was expecting from France an important government appointmentas soon as these troubles should be settled and Louisiana restored toher former happy condition. But he had a friend--a cousin--whom he wouldrecommend, just the man for the position; a splendid fellow; popular, accomplished--what? the best trainer of dogs that M. Frowenfeld mightever hope to look upon; a "so good fisherman as I never saw! "--themarvel of the ball-room--could handle a partner of twice his weight; thespeaker had seen him take a lady so tall that his head hardly came up toher bosom, whirl her in the waltz from right to left--this way! andthen, as quick as lightning, turn and whirl her this way, from left toright--"so grezful ligue a peajohn! He could read and write, and knewmore comig song!"--the speaker would hasten to secure him before heshould take some other situation. 

The wonderful waltzer never appeared upon the scene; yet Joseph madeshift to get along, and by and by found a man who partially met hisrequirements. The way of it was this: With his forefinger in a bookwhich he had been reading, he was one day pacing his shop floor in deepthought. There were two loose threads hanging from the web of incidentweaving around him which ought to connect somewhere; but where? Theywere the two visits made to his shop by the young merchant, HonoréGrandissime. He stopped still to think; what "train of thought" could hehave started in the mind of such a man?

He was about to resume his walk, when there came in, or more strictlyspeaking, there shot in, a young, auburn-curled, blue-eyed man, whoseadolescent buoyancy, as much as his delicate, silver-buckled feet andclothes of perfect fit, pronounced him all-pure Creole. His name, whenit was presently heard, accounted for the blond type by revealing aFranco-Celtic origin. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', " he said, advancing like a boy coming in afterrecess, "I 'ave somet'ing beauteeful to place into yo' window. "

He wheeled half around as he spoke and seized from a naked black boy, who at that instant entered, a rectangular object enveloped in paper. 

Frowenfeld's window was fast growing to be a place of art exposition. Apair of statuettes, a golden tobacco-box, a costly jewel-casket, or apair of richly gemmed horse-pistols--the property of some ancientgentleman or dame of emaciated fortune, and which must be sold to keepup the bravery of good clothes and pomade that hid slow starvation--wentinto the shop-window of the ever-obliging apothecary, to be disposed ofby _tombola_. And it is worthy of note in passing, concerning the moraleducation of one who proposed to make no conscious compromise with anysort of evil, that in this drivelling species of gambling he saw nothinghurtful or improper. But "in Frowenfeld's window" appeared also articlesfor simple sale or mere transient exhibition; as, for instance, thewonderful tapestries of a blind widow of ninety; tremulous littlebunches of flowers, proudly stated to have been made entirely of thebones of the ordinary catfish; others, large and spreading, the sight ofwhich would make any botanist fall down "and die as mad as the wildwaves be, " whose ticketed merit was that they were composed exclusivelyof materials produced upon Creole soil; a picture of the Ursulines'convent and chapel, done in forty-five minutes by a child of ten years, the daughter of the widow Felicie Grandissime; and the siege of Troy, inordinary ink, done entirely with the pen, the labor of twenty years, by"a citizen of New Orleans. " It was natural that these things should cometo "Frowenfeld's corner, " for there, oftener than elsewhere, the criticswere gathered together. Ah! wonderful men, those critics; and, fortunately, we have a few still left. 

The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon thecounter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting. 

He said nothing--with his mouth; but stood at arm's length balancing thepainting and casting now upon it and now upon Joseph Frowenfeld a lookmore replete with triumph than Caesar's three-worded dispatch. 

The apothecary fixed upon it long and silently the gaze of asomnambulist. At length he spoke:

"What is it?"

"Louisiana rif-using to hanter de h-Union!" replied the Creole, with anecstasy that threatened to burst forth in hip-hurrahs. 

Joseph said nothing, but silently wondered at Louisiana's anatomy. 

"Gran' subjec'!" said the Creole. 

"Allegorical, " replied the hard-pressed apothecary. 

"Allegoricon? No, sir! Allegoricon never saw dat pigshoe. If you insistto know who make dat pigshoe--de hartis' stan' bif-ore you!"

"It is your work?"

"'Tis de work of me, Raoul Innerarity, cousin to de disting-wish HonoréGrandissime. I swear to you, sir, on stack of Bible' as 'igh asyo' head!"

He smote his breast. 

"Do you wish to put it in the window?"

"Yes, seh. "

"For sale?"

M. Raoul Innerarity hesitated a moment before replying:

"'Sieur Frowenfel', I think it is a foolishness to be too proud, eh? Iwant you to say, 'My frien', 'Sieur Innerarity, never care to sellanything; 'tis for egs-hibby-shun'; _mais_--when somebodylook at it, so, " the artist cast upon his work a look of languishingcovetousness, "'you say, _foudre tonnerre!_ what de dev'!--I take datris-pon-sibble-ty--you can have her for two hun'red fifty dollah!'Better not be too proud, eh, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?"

"No, sir, " said Joseph, proceeding to place it in the window, his newfriend following him about spanielwise; "but you had better let me sayplainly that it is for sale. "

"Oh--I don't care--_mais_--my rillation' will never forgive me!_Mais_--go-ahead-I-don't-care! 'T is for sale. "

"'Sieur Frowenfel', " he resumed, as they came away from the window, "oneweek ago"--he held up one finger--"what I was doing? Makin' bill ofladin', my faith!--for my cousin Honoré! an' now, I ham a hartis'! Sosoon I foun' dat, I say, 'Cousin Honoré, '"--the eloquent speaker liftedhis foot and administered to the empty air a soft, polite kick--"I nevergoin' to do anoder lick o' work so long I live; adieu!"

He lifted a kiss from his lips and wafted it in the direction of hiscousin's office. 

"Mr. Innerarity, " exclaimed the apothecary, "I fear you are making agreat mistake. "

"You tink I hass too much?"

"Well, sir, to be candid, I do; but that is not your greatest mistake. "

"What she's worse?"

The apothecary simultaneously smiled and blushed. 

"I would rather not say; it is a passably good example of Creole art;there is but one way by which it can ever be worth what you ask for it. "

"What dat is?"

The smile faded and the blush deepened as Frowenfeld replied:

"If it could become the means of reminding this community that crudeability counts next to nothing in art, and that nothing else in thisworld ought to work so hard as genius, it would be worth thousandsof dollars!"

"You tink she is worse a t'ousand dollah?" asked the Creole, shadow andsunshine chasing each other across his face. 

"No, sir. "

The unwilling critic strove unnecessarily against his smile. 

"Ow much you tink?"

"Mr. Innerarity, as an exercise it is worth whatever truth or skill ithas taught you; to a judge of paintings it is ten dollars' worth ofpaint thrown away; but as an article of sale it is worth what it willbring without misrepresentation. "

"Two--hun-rade an'--fifty--dollahs or--not'in'!" said the indignantCreole, clenching one fist, and with the other hand lifting his hat bythe front corner and slapping it down upon the counter. "Ha, ha, ha! apase of waint--a wase of paint! 'Sieur Frowenfel', you don' know not'in''bout it! You har a jedge of painting?" he added cautiously. 

"No, sir. "

"_Eh, bien! foudre tonnerre_!--look yeh! you know? 'Sieur Frowenfel'?Dat de way de publique halways talk about a hartis's firs' pigshoe. But, I hass you to pardon me, Monsieur Frowenfel', if I 'ave speak a lilltoo warm. "

"Then you must forgive me if, in my desire to set you right, I havespoken with too much liberty. I probably should have said only what Ifirst intended to say, that unless you are a person of independentmeans--"

"You t'ink I would make bill of ladin'? Ah! Hm-m!"

"--that you had made a mistake in throwing up your means of support--"

"But 'e 'as fill de place an' don' want me no mo'. You want aclerk?--one what can speak fo' lang-widge--French, Eng-lish, Spanish, _an'_ Italienne? Come! I work for you in de mawnin' an' paint in deevenin'; come!"

Joseph was taken unaware. He smiled, frowned, passed his hand across hisbrow, noticed, for the first time since his delivery of the picture, thenaked little boy standing against the edge of a door, said, "Why--, " andsmiled again. 

"I riffer you to my cousin Honoré, " said Innerarity. 

"Have you any knowledge of this business?"

"I 'ave. '

"Can you keep shop in the forenoon or afternoon indifferently, as I mayrequire?"

"Eh? Forenoon--afternoon?" was the reply. 

"Can you paint sometimes in the morning and keep shop in the evening?"

"Yes, seh. "

Minor details were arranged on the spot. Raoul dismissed the black boy, took off his coat and fell to work decanting something, with theunderstanding that his salary, a microscopic one, should begin from dateif his cousin should recommend him. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', " he called from under the counter, later in the day, "you t'ink it would be hanny disgrace to paint de pigshoe of a niggah?"

"Certainly not. "

"Ah, my soul! what a pigshoe I could paint of Bras-Coupé!"

We have the afflatus in Louisiana, if nothing else. 

CHAPTER XX

A VERY NATURAL MISTAKE

MR. Raoul Innerarity proved a treasure. The fact became patent in a fewhours. To a student of the community he was a key, a lamp, a lexicon, amicroscope, a tabulated statement, a book of heraldry, a city directory, a glass of wine, a Book of Days, a pair of wings, a comic almanac, adiving bell, a Creole _veritas_. Before the day had had time to cool, his continual stream of words had done more to elucidate the mysteriesin which his employer had begun to be befogged than half a year of theapothecary's slow and scrupulous guessing. It was like showing how tocarve a strange fowl. The way he dovetailed story into story and drewforward in panoramic procession Lufki-Humma and Epaminondas Fusilier, Zephyr Grandissime and the lady of the _lettre de cachet_, DemosthenesDe Grapion and the _fille à l'hôpital_, Georges De Grapion and the_fille à la cassette_, Numa Grandissime, father of the two Honorés, young Nancanou and old Agricola, --the way he made them

 "Knit hands and beat the ground In a light, fantastic round, "

would have shamed the skilled volubility of Sheharazade. 

"Look!" said the story-teller, summing up; "you take hanny 'istory ofFrance an' see the hage of my familie. Pipple talk about de Boulignys, de Sauvés, de Grandprès, de Lemoynes, de St. Maxents, --bla-a-a! DeGrandissimes is as hole as de dev'! What? De mose of de Creole familiesis not so hold as plenty of my yallah kinfolks!"

The apothecary found very soon that a little salt improved M. Raoul'sstatements. 

But here he was, a perfect treasure, and Frowenfeld, fleeing before hisillimitable talking power in order to digest in seclusion the ancestralepisodes of the Grandissimes and De Grapions, laid pleasant plans forthe immediate future. To-morrow morning he would leave the shop inRaoul's care and call on M. Honoré Grandissime to advise with himconcerning the retention of the born artist as a drug-clerk. To-morrowevening he would pluck courage and force his large but bashful feet upto the doorstep of Number 19 rue Bienville. And the next evening hewould go and see what might be the matter with Doctor Keene, who hadlooked ill on last parting with the evening group that lounged inFrowenfeld's door, some three days before. The intermediate hours wereto be devoted, of course, to the prescription desk and his "dead stock. "

And yet after this order of movement had been thus compactly planned, there all the more seemed still to be that abroad which, now on thisside, and now on that, was urging him in a nervous whisper to makehaste. There had escaped into the air, it seemed, and was glidingabout, the expectation of a crisis. 

Such a feeling would have been natural enough to the tenants of Number19 rue Bienville, now spending the tenth of the eighteen days of graceallowed them in which to save their little fortress. For Palmyre'sassurance that the candle burning would certainly cause the rent-moneyto be forthcoming in time was to Clotilde unknown, and to Aurora it waspoor stuff to make peace of mind of. But there was a degree ofimpracticability in these ladies, which, if it was unfortunate, was, nevertheless, a part of their Creole beauty, and made the absence of anyreally brilliant outlook what the galaxy makes a moonless sky. Perhapsthey had not been as diligent as they might have been in canvassing allpossible ways and means for meeting the pecuniary emergency so fastbearing down upon them. From a Creole standpoint, they were not badmanagers. They could dress delightfully on an incredibly small outlay;could wear a well-to-do smile over an inward sigh of stifled hunger;could tell the parents of their one or two scholars to consult theirconvenience, and then come home to a table that would make any kind soulweep; but as to estimating the velocity of bills-payable in theirorbits, such trained sagacity was not theirs. Their economy knew how toavoid what the Creole-African apothegm calls _commerce Man Lizon--quiasseté pou' trois picaillons et vend' pou' ein escalin_ (bought forthree picayunes and sold for two); but it was an economy that madetheir very hound a Spartan; for, had that economy been half as wise asit was heroic, his one meal a day would not always have been the cook'sleavings of cold rice and the lickings of the gumbo plates. 

On the morning fixed by Joseph Frowenfeld for calling on M. Grandissime, on the banquette of the rue Toulouse, directly in front of an oldSpanish archway and opposite a blacksmith's shop, --this blacksmith'sshop stood between a jeweller's store and a large, balconied anddormer-windowed wine-warehouse--Aurore Nancanou, closely veiled, hadhalted in a hesitating way and was inquiring of a gigantic negro cartmanthe whereabouts of the counting-room of M. Honoré Grandissime. 

Before he could respond she descried the name upon a staircase withinthe archway, and, thanking the cartman as she would have thanked aprince, hastened to ascend. An inspiring smell of warm rusks, comingfrom a bakery in the paved court below, rushed through the archway andup the stair and accompanied her into the cemetery-like silence of thecounting-room. There were in the department some fourteen clerks. It wasa den of Grandissimes. More than half of them were men beyond middlelife, and some were yet older. One or two were so handsome, under theirnoble silvery locks, that almost any woman--Clotilde, forinstance, --would have thought, "No doubt that one, or that one, is thehead of the house. " Aurora approached the railing which shut in thesilent toilers and directed her eyes to the farthest corner of theroom. There sat there at a large desk a thin, sickly-looking man withvery sore eyes and two pairs of spectacles, plying a quill with aprivileged loudness. 

"H-h-m-m!" said she, very softly. 

A young man laid down his rule and stepped to the rail with a silentbow. His face showed a jaded look. Night revelry, rather than care oryears, had wrinkled it; but his bow was high-bred. 

"Madame, "--in an undertone. 

"Monsieur, it is M. Grandissime whom I wish to see, " she said in French. 

But the young man responded in English. 

"You har one tenant, ent it?"

"Yes, seh. "

"Zen eet ees M. De Brahmin zat you 'ave to see. "

"No, seh; M. Grandissime. "

"M. Grandissime nevva see one tenant. "

"I muz see M. Grandissime. "

Aurora lifted her veil and laid it up on her bonnet. 

The clerk immediately crossed the floor to the distant desk. The quillof the sore-eyed man scratched louder--scratch, scratch--as though itwere trying to scratch under the door of Number 19 rue Bienville--for amoment, and then ceased. The clerk, with one hand behind him and onetouching the desk, murmured a few words, to which the other, afterglancing under his arm at Aurora, gave a short, low reply and resumedhis pen. The clerk returned, came through a gateway in the railing, ledthe way into a rich inner room, and turning with another courtly bow, handed her a cushioned armchair and retired. 

"After eighteen years, " thought Aurora, as she found herself alone. Ithad been eighteen years since any representative of the De Grapion linehad met a Grandissime face to face, so far as she knew; even thatrepresentative was only her deceased husband, a mere connection bymarriage. How many years it was since her grandfather, Georges DeGrapion, captain of dragoons, had had his fatal meeting with a Mandarinde Grandissime, she did not remember. There, opposite her on the wall, was the portrait of a young man in a corslet who might have been M. Mandarin himself. She felt the blood of her race growing warmer in herveins. "Insolent tribe, " she said, without speaking, "we have no moremen left to fight you; but now wait. See what a woman can do. "

These thoughts ran through her mind as her eye passed from one object toanother. Something reminded her of Frowenfeld, and, with mingleddefiance at her inherited enemies and amusement at the apothecary, sheindulged in a quiet smile. The smile was still there as her glance inits gradual sweep reached a small mirror. 

She almost leaped from her seat. 

Not because that mirror revealed a recess which she had not previouslynoticed; not because behind a costly desk therein sat a youngish man, reading a letter; not because he might have been observing her, for itwas altogether likely that, to avoid premature interruption, he hadavoided looking up; nor because this was evidently Honoré Grandissime;but because Honoré Grandissime, if this were he, was the same personwhom she had seen only with his back turned in the pharmacy--the riderwhose horse ten days ago had knocked her down, the Lieutenant ofDragoons who had unmasked and to whom she had unmasked at the ball! Fly!But where? How? It was too late; she had not even time to lower herveil. M. Grandissime looked up at the glass, dropped the letter with aslight start of consternation and advanced quickly toward her. For aninstant her embarrassment showed itself in a mantling blush and adistressful yearning to escape; but the next moment she rose, alla-flutter within, it is true, but with a face as nearly sedate as theinborn witchery of her eyes would allow. 

He spoke in Parisian French:

"Please be seated, madame. "

She sank down. 

"Do you wish to see me?"

"No, sir. "

She did not see her way out of this falsehood, but--she couldn't sayyes. 

Silence followed. 

"Whom do--"

"I wish to see M. Honoré Grandissime. "

"That is my name, madame. "

"Ah!"--with an angelic smile; she had collected her wits now, and wasready for war. "You are not one of his clerks?"

M. Grandissime smiled softly, while he said to himself: "You littlehoney-bee, you want to sting me, eh?" and then he answered her question. 

"No, madame; I am the gentleman you are looking for. "

"The gentleman she was look--" her pride resented the fact. "Me!"--thought she--"I am the lady whom, I have not a doubt, you havebeen longing to meet ever since the ball;" but her look was unmovedgravity. She touched her handkerchief to her lips and handed him therent notice. 

"I received that from your office the Monday before last. "

There was a slight emphasis in the announcement of the time; it was theday of the run-over. 

Honoré Grandissime, stopping with the rent-notice only half unfolded, saw the advisability of calling up all the resources of his sagacity andwit in order to answer wisely; and as they answered his call a brighternobility so overspread face and person that Aurora inwardly exclaimed atit even while she exulted in her thrust. 

"Monday before last?"

She slightly bowed. 

"A serious misfortune befell me that day, " said M. Grandissime. 

"Ah?" replied the lady, raising her brows with polite distress, "butyou have entirely recovered, I suppose. "

"It was I, madame, who that evening caused you a mortification for whichI fear you will accept no apology. "

"On the contrary, " said Aurora, with an air of generous protestation, "it is I who should apologize; I fear I injured your horse. "

M. Grandissime only smiled, and opening the rent-notice dropped hisglance upon it while he said in a preoccupied tone:

"My horse is very well, I thank you. "

But as he read the paper, his face assumed a serious air and he seemedto take an unnecessary length of time to reach the bottom of it. 

"He is trying to think how he will get rid of me, " thought Aurora; "heis making up some pretext with which to dismiss me, and when the tenthof March comes we shall be put into the street. "

M. Grandissime extended the letter toward her, but she did not lift herhands. 

"I beg to assure you, madame, I could never have permitted this noticeto reach you from my office; I am not the Honoré Grandissime for whomthis is signed. "

Aurora smiled in a way to signify clearly that that was just thesubterfuge she had been anticipating. Had she been at home she wouldhave thrown herself, face downward, upon the bed; but she only smiledmeditatively upward at the picture of an East Indian harbor and made anunnecessary rearrangement of her handkerchief under her folded hands. 

"There are, you know, "--began Honoré, with a smile which changed themeaning to "You know very well there are"--"two Honoré Grandissimes. This one who sent you this letter is a man of color--"

"Oh!" exclaimed Aurora, with a sudden malicious sparkle. 

"If you will entrust this paper to me, " said Honoré, quietly, "I willsee him and do now engage that you shall have no further trouble aboutit. Of course, I do not mean that I will pay it, myself; I dare notoffer to take such a liberty. "

Then he felt that a warm impulse had carried him a step too far. 

Aurora rose up with a refusal as firm as it was silent. She neithersmiled nor scintillated now, but wore an expression of amiablepracticality as she presently said, receiving back the rent-notice asshe spoke:

"I thank you, sir, but it might seem strange to him to find his noticein the hands of a person who can claim no interest in the matter. Ishall have to attend to it myself. "

"Ah! little enchantress, " thought her grave-faced listener, as he gaveattention, "this, after all--ball and all--is the mood in which you lookyour very, very best"--a fact which nobody knew better than theenchantress herself. 

He walked beside her toward the open door leading back into thecounting-room, and the dozen or more clerks, who, each by some ingenuityof his own, managed to secure a glimpse of them, could not fail to feelthat they had never before seen quite so fair a couple. But she droppedher veil, bowed M. Grandissime a polite "No farther, " and passed out. 

M. Grandissime walked once up and down his private office, gave the doora soft push with his foot and lighted a cigar. 

The clerk who had before acted as usher came in and handed him a slip ofpaper with a name written on it. M. Grandissime folded it twice, gazedout the window, and finally nodded. The clerk disappeared, and JosephFrowenfeld paused an instant in the door and then advanced, with abuoyant good-morning. 

"Good-morning, " responded M. Grandissime. 

He smiled and extended his hand, yet there was a mechanical andpreoccupied air that was not what Joseph felt justified in expecting. 

"How can I serve you, Mr. Frhowenfeld?" asked the merchant, glancingthrough into the counting-room. His coldness was almost all in Joseph'simagination, but to the apothecary it seemed such that he was nearlyinduced to walk away without answering. However, he replied:

"A young man whom I have employed refers to you to recommend him. "

"Yes, sir? Prhay, who is that?"

"Your cousin, I believe, Mr. Raoul Innerarity. "

M. Grandissime gave a low, short laugh, and took two steps toward hisdesk. 

"Rhaoul? Oh yes, I rhecommend Rhaoul to you. As an assistant in yo'sto'?--the best man you could find. "

"Thank you, sir, " said Joseph, coldly. "Good-morning!" he added turningto go. 

"Mr. Frhowenfeld, " said the other, "do you evva rhide?"

"I used to ride, " replied the apothecary, turning, hat in hand, andwondering what such a question could mean. 

"If I send a saddle-hoss to yo' do' on day aftah to-morrhow evening atfo' o'clock, will you rhide out with me for-h about a hour-h and ahalf--just for a little pleasu'e?"

Joseph was yet more astonished than before. He hesitated, accepted theinvitation, and once more said good-morning. 

CHAPTER XXI

DOCTOR KEENE RECOVERS HIS BULLET

It early attracted the apothecary's notice, in observing thecivilization around him, that it kept the flimsy false bottoms in itssocial errors only by incessant reiteration. As he re-entered the shop, dissatisfied with himself for accepting M. Grandissime's invitation toride, he knew by the fervent words which he overheard from the lips ofhis employee that the f. M. C. Had been making one of his reconnoisances, and possibly had ventured in to inquire for his tenant. 

"I t'ink, me, dat hanny w'ite man is a gen'leman; but I don't care if aman are good like a h-angel, if 'e har not pu'e w'ite '_ow can_ 'e be agen'leman?"

Raoul's words were addressed to a man who, as he rose up and handedFrowenfeld a note, ratified the Creole's sentiment by a spurt of tobaccojuice and an affirmative "Hm-m. "

The note was a lead-pencil scrawl, without date. 

 DEAR JOE: Come and see me some time this evening. I am on my back in bed. Want your help in a little matter. Yours, Keene. 

 I have found out who ---- ----"

Frowenfeld pondered: "I have found out who ---- ----" Ah! Doctor Keenehad found out who stabbed Agricola. 

Some delays occurred in the afternoon, but toward sunset the apothecarydressed and went out. From the doctor's bedside in the rue St. Louis, ifnot delayed beyond all expectation, he would proceed to visit the ladiesat Number 19 rue Bienville. The air was growing cold and threateningbad weather. 

He found the Doctor prostrate, wasted, hoarse, cross and almost too weakfor speech. He could only whisper, as his friend approached his pillow:

"These vile lungs!"

"Hemorrhage?"

The invalid held up three small, freckled fingers. 

Joseph dared not show pity in his gaze, but it seemed savage not toexpress some feeling, so after standing a moment he began to say:

"I am very sorry--"

"You needn't bother yourself!" whispered the doctor, who lay frowningupward. By and by he whispered again. 

Frowenfeld bent his ear, and the little man, so merry when well, repeated, in a savage hiss:

"Sit down!"

It was some time before he again broke the silence. 

"Tell you what I want--you to do--for me. "

"Well, sir--"

"Hold on!" gasped the invalid, shutting his eyes with impatience, --"tillI get through. "

He lay a little while motionless, and then drew from under his pillow awallet, and from the wallet a pistol-ball. 

"Took that out--a badly neglected wound--last day I saw you. " Here apause, an appalling cough, and by and by a whisper: "Knew the bullet inan instant. " He smiled wearily. "Peculiar size. " He made a feeblemotion. Frowenfeld guessed the meaning of it and handed him a pistolfrom a small table. The ball slipped softly home. "Refused two hundreddollars--those pistols"--with a sigh and closed eyes. By and byagain--"Patient had smart fever--but it will be gone--time youget--there. Want you to--take care--t' I get up. "

"But, Doctor--"

The sick man turned away his face with a petulant frown; but presently, with an effort at self-control, brought it back and whispered:

"You mean you--not physician?"

"Yes. "

"No. No more are half--doc's. You can do it. Simple gun-shot wound inthe shoulder. " A rest. "Pretty wound; ranges"--he gave up the effort todescribe it. "You'll see it. " Another rest. "You see--this matter hasbeen kept quiet so far. I don't want any one--else to know--anythingabout it. " He sighed audibly and looked as though he had gone to sleep, but whispered again, with his eyes closed--"'specially on culprit'sown account. "

Frowenfeld was silent: but the invalid was waiting for an answer, and, not getting it, stirred peevishly. 

"Do you wish me to go to-night?" asked the apothecary. 

"To-morrow morning. Will you--?"

"Certainly, Doctor. "

The invalid lay quite still for several minutes, looking steadily at hisfriend, and finally let a faint smile play about his mouth, --a wanreminder of his habitual roguery. 

"Good boy, " he whispered. 

Frowenfeld rose and straightened the bedclothes, took a few steps aboutthe room, and finally returned. The Doctor's restless eye had followedhim at every movement. 

"You'll go?"

"Yes, " replied the apothecary, hat in hand; "where is it?"

"Corner Bienville and Bourbon, --upper river corner, --yellow one-storyhouse, doorsteps on street. You know the house?"

"I think I do. "

"Good-night. Here!--I wish you would send that black girl in here--asyou go out--make me better fire--Joe!" the call was a ghostly whisper. 

Frowenfeld paused in the door. 

"You don't mind my--bad manners, Joe?"

The apothecary gave one of his infrequent smiles. 

"No, Doctor. "

He started toward Number 19 rue Bienville, but a light, cold sprinkleset in, and he turned back toward his shop. No sooner had the rain gothim there than it stopped, as rain sometimes will do. 

CHAPTER XXII

WARS WITHIN THE BREAST

The next morning came in frigid and gray. The unseasonable numeralswhich the meteorologist recorded in his tables might have provoked asuperstitious lover of better weather to suppose that Monsieur Danny, the head imp of discord, had been among the aërial currents. Thepassionate southern sky, looking down and seeing some six thousand toseventy-five hundred of her favorite children disconcerted andshivering, tried in vain, for two hours, to smile upon them with alittle frozen sunshine, and finally burst into tears. 

In thus giving way to despondency, it is sad to say, the sky was closelyimitating the simultaneous behavior of Aurora Nancanou. Never was prettylady in cheerier mood than that in which she had come home from Honoré'scounting-room. Hard would it be to find the material with which to buildagain the castles-in-air that she founded upon two or three littlediscoveries there made. Should she tell them to Clotilde? Ah! and forwhat? No, Clotilde was a dear daughter--ha! few women were capable ofhaving such a daughter as Clotilde; but there were things about whichshe was entirely too scrupulous. So, when she came in from that errandprofoundly satisfied that she would in future hear no more about therent than she might choose to hear, she had been too shrewd to exposeherself to her daughter's catechising. She would save her littlerevelations for disclosure when they might be used to advantage. As shethrew her bonnet upon the bed, she exclaimed, in a tone of gentle andwearied reproach:

"Why did you not remind me that M. Honoré Grandissime, that precioussomebody-great, has the honor to rejoice in a quadroon half-brother ofthe same illustrious name? Why did you not remind me, eh?"

"Ah! and you know it as well as A, B, C, " playfully retorted Clotilde. 

"Well, guess which one is our landlord?"

"Which one?"

"_Ma foi_! how do _I_ know? I had to wait a shameful long time to see_Monsieur le prince_, --just because I am a De Grapion, I know. When atlast I saw him, he says, 'Madame, this is the other Honoré Grandissime. 'There, you see we are the victims of a conspiracy; if I go to the other, he will send me back to the first. But, Clotilde, my darling, " cried thebeautiful speaker, beamingly, "dismiss all fear and care; we shall haveno more trouble about it. "

"And how, indeed, do you know that?"

"Something tells it to me in my ear. I feel it! Trust in Providence, mychild. Look at me, how happy I am; but you--you never trust inProvidence. That is why we have so much trouble, --because you don'ttrust in Providence. Oh! I am so hungry, let us have dinner. "

"What sort of a person is M. Grandissime in his appearance?" askedClotilde, over their feeble excuse for a dinner. 

"What sort? Do you imagine I had nothing better to do than noticewhether a Grandissime is good-looking or not? For all I know to thecontrary, he is--some more rice, please, my dear. "

But this light-heartedness did not last long. It was based on anunutterable secret, all her own, about which she still had tremblingdoubts; this, too, notwithstanding her consultation of the dark oracles. She was going to stop that. In the long run, these charms and spellsthemselves bring bad luck. Moreover, the practice, indulged in toexcess, was wicked, and she had promised Clotilde, --that droll littlesaint, --to resort to them no more. Hereafter, she should do nothing ofthe sort, except, to be sure, to take such ordinary precautions againstmisfortune as casting upon the floor a little of whatever she might beeating or drinking to propitiate M. Assonquer. She would have liked, could she have done it without fear of detection, to pour upon the frontdoor-sill an oblation of beer sweetened with black molasses to PapaLébat (who keeps the invisible keys of all the doors that admitsuitors), but she dared not; and then, the hound would surely havelicked it up. Ah me! was she forgetting that she was a widow?

She was in poor plight to meet the all but icy gray morning; and, tomake her misery still greater, she found, on dressing, that an accidenthad overtaken her, which she knew to be a trustworthy sign of love growncold. She had lost--alas! how can we communicate it in English!--a smallpiece of lute-string ribbon, about _so long_, which she used for--not anecktie exactly, but--

And she hunted and hunted, and couldn't bear to give up the search, andsat down to breakfast and ate nothing, and rose up and searched again(not that she cared for the omen), and struck the hound with the broom, and broke the broom, and hunted again, and looked out the front window, and saw the rain beginning to fall, and dropped into a chair--crying, "Oh! Clotilde, my child, my child! the rent collector will be hereSaturday and turn us into the street!" and so fell a-weeping. 

A little tear-letting lightened her unrevealable burden, and she rose, rejoicing that Clotilde had happened to be out of eye-and-ear-shot. Thescanty fire in the fireplace was ample to warm the room; the fire withinher made it too insufferably hot! Rain or no rain, she parted thewindow-curtains and lifted the sash. What a mark for Love's arrow shewas, as, at the window, she stretched her two arms upward! And, "rightso, " who should chance to come cantering by, the big drops of rainpattering after him, but the knightliest man in that old town, and thefittest to perfect the fine old-fashioned poetry of the scene!

"Clotilde, " said Aurora, turning from her mirror, whither she hadhastened to see if her face showed signs of tears (Clotilde was enteringthe room), "we shall never be turned out of this house by HonoréGrandissime!"

"Why?" asked Clotilde, stopping short in the floor, forgetting Aurora'strust in Providence, and expecting to hear that M. Grandissime had beenfound dead in his bed. 

"Because I saw him just now; he rode by on horseback. A man with thatnoble face could never _do such a thing_!"

The astonished Clotilde looked at her mother searchingly. This sort ofspeech about a Grandissime? But Aurora was the picture of innocence. 

Clotilde uttered a derisive laugh. 

"_Impertinente_!" exclaimed the other, laboring not to join in it. 

"Ah-h-h!" cried Clotilde, in the same mood, "and what face had he whenhe wrote that letter?"

"What face?"

"Yes, what face?"

"I do not know what face you mean, " said Aurora. 

"What face, " repeated Clotilde, "had Monsieur Honoré de Grandissime onthe day that he wrote--"

"Ah, f-fah!" cried Aurora, and turned away, "you don't know what you aretalking about! You make me wish sometimes that I were dead!"

Clotilde had gone and shut down the sash, as it began to rain hard andblow. As she was turning away, her eye was attracted by an object ata distance. 

"What is it?" asked Aurora, from a seat before the fire. 

"Nothing, " said Clotilde, weary of the sensational, --"a man in therain. "

It was the apothecary of the rue Royale, turning from that street towardthe rue Bourbon, and bowing his head against the swirling norther. 

CHAPTER XXIII

FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT

Doctor Keene, his ill-humor slept off, lay in bed in a quiescent stateof great mental enjoyment. At times he would smile and close his eyes, open them again and murmur to himself, and turn his head languidly andsmile again. And when the rain and wind, all tangled together, cameagainst the window with a whirl and a slap, his smile broadened almostto laughter. 

"He's in it, " he murmured, "he's just reaching there. I would give fiftydollars to see him when he first gets into the house and sees wherehe is. "

As this wish was finding expression on the lips of the little sick man, Joseph Frowenfeld was making room on a narrow doorstep for the outwardopening of a pair of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked withthe vigorous haste of a man in the rain. As they parted, he hurriedlyhelped them open, darted within, heedless of the odd black shape whichshuffled out of his way, wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung downthe bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face that properlygoes with a ducking, looked to see where he was. 

One object--around which everything else instantly became nothing--sethis gaze. On the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have alreadydescribed, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sentan icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay PalmyrePhilosophe. Her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound looselyabout at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; abright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and anecklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty. 

An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene set the face of thespeechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneouslycomprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions. Yet hergaze did not change. 

The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all inAfrican b's and k's, but hushed and drew off at a single word of commandfrom her mistress. 

In Frowenfeld's mind an angry determination was taking shape, to beneither trifled with nor contemned. And this again the quadroondiscerned, before he was himself aware of it. 

"Doctor Keene"--he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes. 

She did not stir or reply. 

Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat. 

At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along herglance; it gave the apothecary speech. 

"The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound. "

She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for amoment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her handtoward a chair near a comfortable fire. 

He sat down. It would be well to dry himself. He drew near the hearthand let his gaze fall into the fire. When he presently lifted his eyesand looked full upon the woman with a steady, candid glance, she wasregarding him with apparent coldness, but with secret diligence andscrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret surprise and admiration. Hardrubbing was bringing out the grain of the apothecary. But she presentlysuppressed the feeling. She hated men. 

But Frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could not resent herhostility. This monument of the shame of two races--this poisonousblossom of crime growing out of crime--this final, unanswerable whiteman's accuser--this would-be murderess--what ranks and companies wouldhave to stand up in the Great Day with her and answer as accessorybefore the fact! He looked again into the fire. 

The patient spoke:

"_Eh bi'n, Miché_?" Her look was severe, but less aggressive. Theshuffle of the old negress's feet was heard and she appeared bearingwarm and cold water and fresh bandages; after depositing themshe tarried. 

"Your fever is gone, " said Frowenfeld, standing by the bed. He had laidhis fingers on her wrist. She brushed them off and once more turned fullupon him the cold hostility of her passionate eyes. 

The apothecary, instead of blushing, turned pale. 

"You--" he was going to say, "You insult me;" but his lips came tightlytogether. Two big cords appeared between his brows, and his blue eyesspoke for him. Then, as the returning blood rushed even to his forehead, he said, speaking his words one by one;

"Please understand that you must trust me. "

She may not have understood his English, but she comprehended, nevertheless. She looked up fixedly for a moment, then passively closedher eyes. Then she turned, and Frowenfeld put out one strong arm, helpedher to a sitting posture on the side of the bed and drew the shawlabout her. 

"Zizi, " she said, and the negress, who had stood perfectly still sincedepositing the water and bandages, came forward and proceeded to barethe philosophe's superb shoulder. As Frowenfeld again put forward hishand, she lifted her own as if to prevent him, but he kindly and firmlyput it away and addressed himself with silent diligence to his task; andby the time he had finished, his womanly touch, his commandinggentleness, his easy despatch, had inspired Palmyre not only with asense of safety, comfort, and repose, but with a pleased wonder. 

This woman had stood all her life with dagger drawn, on the defensiveagainst what certainly was to her an unmerciful world. With possiblyone exception, the man now before her was the only one she had everencountered whose speech and gesture were clearly keyed to that profoundrespect which is woman's first, foundation claim on man. And yet, byinexorable decree, she belonged to what we used to call "the happiestpeople under the sun. " We ought to stop saying that. 

So far as Palmyre knew, the entire masculine wing of the mighty andexalted race, three-fourths of whose blood bequeathed her none of itsprerogatives, regarded her as legitimate prey. The man before her didnot. There lay the fundamental difference that, in her sight, as soon asshe discovered it, glorified him. Before this assurance the coldfierceness of her eyes gave way, and a friendlier light from themrewarded the apothecary's final touch. He called for more pillows, madea nest of them, and, as she let herself softly into it, directed hisnext consideration toward his hat and the door. 

It was many an hour after he had backed out into the trivial remains ofthe rain-storm before he could replace with more tranquillizing imagesthe vision of the philosophe reclining among her pillows, in the act ofmaking that uneasy movement of her fingers upon the collar button of herrobe, which women make when they are uncertain about the perfection oftheir dishabille, and giving her inaudible adieu with the majesty ofan empress. 

CHAPTER XXIV

FROWENFELD MAKES AN ARGUMENT

On the afternoon of the same day on which Frowenfeld visited the houseof the philosophe, the weather, which had been so unfavorable to hislate plans, changed; the rain ceased, the wind drew around to the south, and the barometer promised a clear sky. Wherefore he decided to leavehis business, when he should have made his evening weather notes, to thecare of M. Raoul Innerarity, and venture to test both MademoiselleClotilde's repellent attitude and Aurora's seeming cordiality at Number19 rue Bienville. 

Why he should go was a question which the apothecary felt himself butpartially prepared to answer. What necessity called him, what good wasto be effected, what was to happen next, were points he would have likedto be clear upon. That he should be going merely because he was invitedto come--merely for the pleasure of breathing their atmosphere--that heshould be supinely gravitating toward them--this conclusion hepositively could not allow; no, no; the love of books and the fear ofwomen alike protested. 

True, they were a part of that book which is pronounced "the properstudy of mankind, "--indeed, that was probably the reason which hesought: he was going to contemplate them as a frontispiece to thatunwriteable volume which he had undertaken to con. Also, there was acharitable motive. Doctor Keene, months before, had expressed a deepconcern regarding their lack of protection and even of daily provision;he must quietly look into that. Would some unforeseen circumstance shuthim off this evening again from this very proper use of time andopportunity?

As he was sitting at the table in his back room, registering his sunsetobservations, and wondering what would become of him if Aurora should beout and that other in, he was startled by a loud, deep voice exclaiming, close behind him:

"_Eh, bien! Monsieur le Professeur!_"

Frowenfeld knew by the tone, before he looked behind him, that he wouldfind M. Agricola Fusilier very red in the face; and when he looked, theonly qualification he could make was that the citizen's countenance wasnot so ruddy as the red handkerchief in which his arm was hanging. 

"What have you there?" slowly continued the patriarch, taking his freehand off his fettered arm and laying it upon the page as Frowenfeldhurriedly rose, and endeavored to shut the book. 

"Some private memoranda, " answered the meteorologist, managing to getone page turned backward, reddening with confusion and indignation, andnoticing that Agricola's spectacles were upside down. 

"Private! Eh? No such thing, sir! Professor Frowenfeld, allow me" (aclassic oath) "to say to your face, sir, that you are the most brilliantand the most valuable man--of your years--in afflicted Louisiana! Ha!"(reading:) "'Morning observation; Cathedral clock, 7 A. M. Thermometer 70degrees. ' Ha! 'Hygrometer l5'--but this is not to-day's weather? Ah! no. Ha! 'Barometer 30. 380. ' Ha! 'Sky cloudy, dark; wind, south, light. ' Ha!'River rising. ' Ha! Professor Frowenfeld, when will you give yoursplendid services to your section? You must tell me, my son, for I askyou, my son, not from curiosity, but out of impatient interest. "

"I cannot say that I shall ever publish my tables, " replied the "son, "pulling at the book. 

"Then, sir, in the name of Louisiana, " thundered the old man, clingingto the book, "I can! They shall be published! Ah! yes, dear Frowenfeld. The book, of course, will be in French, eh? You would not so affront themost sacred prejudices of the noble people to whom you owe everything asto publish it in English? You--ah! have we torn it?"

"I do not write French, " said the apothecary, laying the torn edgestogether. 

"Professor Frowenfeld, men are born for each other. What do I beholdbefore me? I behold before me, in the person of my gifted young friend, a supplement to myself! Why has Nature strengthened the soul of Agricolato hold the crumbling fortress of this body until these eyes--which wereonce, my dear boy, as proud and piercing as the battle-steed's--havebecome dim?"

Joseph's insurmountable respect for gray hairs kept him standing, buthe did not respond with any conjecture as to Nature's intentions, andthere was a stern silence. 

The crumbling fortress resumed, his voice pitched low like the beginningof the long roll. He knew Nature's design. 

"It was in order that you, Professor Frowenfeld, might become my vicar!Your book shall be in French! We must give it a wide scope! It shallcontain valuable geographical, topographical, biographical, andhistorical notes. It shall contain complete lists of all the officialsin the province (I don't say territory, I say province) with theirsalaries and perquisites; ah! we will expose that! And--ha! I will writesome political essays for it. Raoul shall illustrate it. Honoré shallgive you money to publish it. Ah! Professor Frowenfeld, the star of yourfame is rising out of the waves of oblivion! Come--I dropped inpurposely to ask you--come across the street and take a glass of_taffia_ with Agricola Fusilier. "

This crowning honor the apothecary was insane enough to decline, andAgricola went away with many professions of endearment, but secretlyoffended because Joseph had not asked about his wound. 

All the same the apothecary, without loss of time, departed for theyellow-washed cottage, Number 19 rue Bienville. 

"To-morrow, at four P. M. , " he said to himself, "if the weather isfavorable, I ride with M. Grandissime. "

He almost saw his books and instruments look up at him reproachfully. 

The ladies were at home. Aurora herself opened the door, and Clotildecame forward from the bright fireplace with a cordiality never before sounqualified. There was something about these ladies--in their simple, but noble grace, in their half-Gallic, half-classic beauty, in a jocundbuoyancy mated to an amiable dignity--that made them appear to thescholar as though they had just bounded into life from the garlandedprocession of some old fresco. The resemblance was not a little helpedon by the costume of the late Revolution (most acceptably chastened andbelated by the distance from Paris). Their black hair, somewhat heavieron Clotilde's head, where it rippled once or twice, was knotted _enGrecque_, and adorned only with the spoils of a nosegay given toClotilde by a chivalric small boy in the home of her music scholar. 

"We was expectin' you since several days, " said Clotilde, as the threesat down before the fire, Frowenfeld in a cushioned chair whosemoth-holes had been carefully darned. 

Frowenfeld intimated, with tolerable composure, that matters beyond hiscontrol had delayed his coming, beyond his intention. 

"You gedd'n' ridge, " said Aurora, dropping her wrists across each other. 

Frowenfeld, for once, laughed outright, and it seemed so odd in him todo so that both the ladies followed his example. The ambition to be richhad never entered his thought, although in an unemotional, German way, he was prospering in a little city where wealth was daily pouring in, and a man had only to keep step, so to say, to march into possessions. 

"You hought to 'ave a mo' larger sto' an' some clerque, " pursued Aurora. 

The apothecary answered that he was contemplating the enlargement of hispresent place or removal to a roomier, and that he had already employedan assistant. 

"Oo it is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?"

Clotilde turned toward the questioner a remonstrative glance. 

"His name, " replied Frowenfeld, betraying a slight embarrassment, "is--Innerarity; Mr. Raoul Innerarity; he is--"

"Ee pain' dad pigtu' w'at 'angin' in yo' window?"

Clotilde's remonstrance rose to a slight movement and a murmur. 

Frowenfeld answered in the affirmative, and possibly betrayed the faintshadow of a smile. The response was a peal of laughter from both ladies. 

"He is an excellent drug clerk, " said Frowenfeld defensively. 

Whereat Aurora laughed again, leaning over and touching Clotilde's kneewith one finger. 

"An' excellen' drug cl'--ha, ha, ha! oh!"

"You muz podden uz, M'sieu' Frowenfel', " said Clotilde, with forcedgravity. 

Aurora sighed her participation in the apology; and, a few momentslater, the apothecary and both ladies (the one as fond of the abstractas the other two were ignorant of the concrete) were engaged in ananimated, running discussion on art, society, climate, education, --allthose large, secondary _desiderata_ which seem of first importance toyoung ambition and secluded beauty, flying to and fro among thesesubjects with all the liveliness and uncertainty of a game ofpussy-wants-a-corner. 

Frowenfeld had never before spent such an hour. At its expiration, hehad so well held his own against both the others, that the three hadsettled down to this sort of entertainment: Aurora would make anassertion, or Clotilde would ask a question; and Frowenfeld, moved bythat frankness and ardent zeal for truth which had enlisted the earlyfriendship of Dr. Keene, amused and attracted Honoré Grandissime, wonthe confidence of the f. M. C. , and tamed the fiery distrust and enmity ofPalmyre, would present his opinions without the thought of a reservationeither in himself or his hearers. On their part, they would sit in deepattention, shielding their faces from the fire, and responding toenunciations directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional"yes-seh, " or "ceddenly, " or "of coze, " or, --prettier affirmationstill, --a solemn drooping of the eyelids, a slight compression of thelips, and a low, slow declination of the head. 

"The bane of all Creole art-effort"--(we take up the apothecary's wordsat a point where Clotilde was leaning forward and slightly frowning inan honest attempt to comprehend his condensed English)--"the bane of allCreole art-effort, so far as I have seen it, is amateurism. "

"Amateu--" murmured Clotilde, a little beclouded on the main word anddistracted by a French difference of meaning, but planting an elbow onone knee in the genuineness of her attention, and responding with a bow. 

"That is to say, " said Frowenfeld, apologizing for the homeliness of hisfurther explanation by a smile, "a kind of ambitious indolence that laysvery large eggs, but can neither see the necessity for building a nestbeforehand, nor command the patience to hatch the eggs afterward. "

"Of coze, " said Aurora. 

"It is a great pity, " said the sermonizer, looking at the face ofClotilde, elongated in the brass andiron; and, after a pause: "Nothingon earth can take the place of hard and patient labor. But that, in thiscommunity, is not esteemed; most sorts of it are contemned; the humblersorts are despised, and the higher are regarded with mingled patronageand commiseration. Most of those who come to my shop with their effortsat art hasten to explain, either that they are merely seeking pastime, or else that they are driven to their course by want; and if I advisethem to take their work back and finish it, they take it back and neverreturn. Industry is not only despised, but has been degraded anddisgraced, handed over into the hands of African savages. "

"Doze Creole' is _lezzy_, " said Aurora. 

"That is a hard word to apply to those who do not _consciously_ deserveit, " said Frowenfeld; "but if they could only wake up to the fact, --findit out themselves--"

"Ceddenly, " said Clotilde. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', " said Aurora, leaning her head on one side, "somepipple thing it is doze climade; 'ow you lag doze climade?"

"I do not suppose, " replied the visitor, "there is a more delightfulclimate in the world. "

"Ah-h-h!"--both ladies at once, in a low, gracious tone ofacknowledgment. 

"I thing Louisiana is a paradize-me!" said Aurora. "W'ere you goin' fin'sudge a h-air?" She respired a sample of it. "W'ere you goin' fin' sudgea so ridge groun'? De weed' in my bag yard is twenny-five feet 'igh!"

"Ah! maman!"

"Twenty-six!" said Aurora, correcting herself. "W'ere you fin' sudge areever lag dad Mississippi? _On dit_, " she said, turning to Clotilde, "_que ses eaux ont la propriété de contribuer même à multiplier l'espècehumaine_--ha, ha, ha!"

Clotilde turned away an unmoved countenance to hear Frowenfeld. 

Frowenfeld had contracted a habit of falling into meditation wheneverthe French language left him out of the conversation. 

"Yes, " he said, breaking a contemplative pause, "the climate is _too_comfortable and the soil too rich, --though I do not think it is entirelyon their account that the people who enjoy them are so sadly in arrearsto the civilized world. " He blushed with the fear that his talk wasbookish, and felt grateful to Clotilde for seeming to understandhis speech. 

"W'ad you fin' de rizzon is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" she asked. 

"I do not wish to philosophize, " he answered. 

"_Mais_, go hon. " "_Mais_, go ahade, " said both ladies, settlingthemselves. 

"It is largely owing, " exclaimed Frowenfeld, with sudden fervor, "to adefective organization of society, which keeps this community, and willcontinue to keep it for an indefinite time to come, entirely unpreparedand disinclined to follow the course of modern thought. "

"Of coze, " murmured Aurora, who had lost her bearings almost at thefirst word. 

"One great general subject of thought now is human rights, --universalhuman rights. The entire literature of the world is becoming tincturedwith contradictions of the dogmas upon which society in this section isbuilt. Human rights is, of all subjects, the one upon which thiscommunity is most violently determined to hear no discussion. It haspronounced that slavery and caste are right, and sealed up the wholesubject. What, then, will they do with the world's literature? They willcoldly decline to look at it, and will become, more and more as theworld moves on, a comparatively illiterate people. "

"Bud, 'Sieur Frowenfel', " said Clotilde, as Frowenfeld paused--Aurorawas stunned to silence, --"de Unitee State' goin' pud doze nigga'free, aind it?"

Frowenfeld pushed his hair hard back. He was in the stream now, andmight as well go through. 

"I have heard that charge made, even by some Americans. I do not know. But there is a slavery that no legislation can abolish, --the slavery ofcaste. That, like all the slaveries on earth, is a double bondage. Andwhat a bondage it is which compels a community, in order to preserve itsestablished tyrannies, to walk behind the rest of the intelligent world!What a bondage is that which incites a people to adopt a system ofsocial and civil distinctions, possessing all the enormities and none ofthe advantages of those systems which Europe is learning to despise!This system, moreover, is only kept up by a flourish of weapons. We havehere what you may call an armed aristocracy. The class over which theseinstruments of main force are held is chosen for its servility, ignorance, and cowardice; hence, indolence in the ruling class. When aman's social or civil standing is not dependent on his knowing how toread, he is not likely to become a scholar. "

"Of coze, " said Aurora, with a pensive respiration, "I thing id is dozeclimade, " and the apothecary stopped, as a man should who finds himselfunloading large philosophy in a little parlor. 

"I thing, me, dey hought to pud doze quadroon' free?" It was Clotildewho spoke, ending with the rising inflection to indicate the tentativecharacter of this daringly premature declaration. 

Frowenfeld did not answer hastily. 

"The quadroons, " said he, "want a great deal more than mere free paperscan secure them. Emancipation before the law, though it may be a rightwhich man has no right to withhold, is to them little more than amockery until they achieve emancipation in the minds and good will ofthe people--'the people, ' did I say? I mean the ruling class. " Hestopped again. One must inevitably feel a little silly, setting uptenpins for ladies who are too polite, even if able, to bowl them down. 

Aurora and the visitor began to speak simultaneously; both apologized, and Aurora said:

"'Sieur Frowenfel', w'en I was a lill girl, "--and Frowenfeld knew thathe was going to hear the story of Palmyre. Clotilde moved, with theobvious intention to mend the fire. Aurora asked, in French, why she didnot call the cook to do it, and Frowenfeld said, "Let me, "--threw onsome wood, and took a seat nearer Clotilde. Aurora had the floor. 

CHAPTER XXV

AURORA AS A HISTORIAN

Alas! the phonograph was invented three-quarters of a century too late. If type could entrap one-half the pretty oddities of Aurora'sspeech, --the arch, the pathetic, the grave, the earnest, thematter-of-fact, the ecstatic tones of her voice, --nay, could it butreproduce the movement of her hands, the eloquence of her eyes, or theshapings of her mouth, --ah! but type--even the phonograph--is such aninadequate thing! Sometimes she laughed; sometimes Clotilde, unexpectedly to herself, joined her; and twice or thrice she provoked asimilar demonstration from the ox-like apothecary, --to her own intenseamusement. Sometimes she shook her head in solemn scorn; and, whenFrowenfeld, at a certain point where Palmyre's fate locked hands for atime with that of Bras-Coupé, asked a fervid question concerning thatstrange personage, tears leaped into her eyes, as she said:

"Ah! 'Sieur Frowenfel', iv I tra to tell de sto'y of Bras-Coupé, I goin'to cry lag a lill bebby. "

The account of the childhood days upon the plantation at Cannes Bruléesmay be passed by. It was early in Palmyre's fifteenth year that thatKentuckian, 'mutual friend' of her master and Agricola, prevailed withM. De Grapion to send her to the paternal Grandissime mansion, --acomplimentary gift, through Agricola, to Mademoiselle, hisniece, --returnable ten years after date. 

The journey was made in safety; and, by and by, Palmyre was presented toher new mistress. The occasion was notable. In a great chair in thecentre sat the _grandpère_, a Chevalier de Grandissime, whose businesshad narrowed down to sitting on the front veranda and wearing hisdecorations, --the cross of St. Louis being one; on his right, ColonelNuma Grandissime, with one arm dropped around Honoré, then a boy ofPalmyre's age, expecting to be off in sixty days for France; and on theleft, with Honoré's fair sister nestled against her, "Madame Numa, " asthe Creoles would call her, a stately woman and beautiful, a greatadmirer of her brother Agricola. (Aurora took pains to explain that shereceived these minutiae from Palmyre herself in later years. ) One othermember of the group was a young don of some twenty years' age, not aninmate of the house, but only a cousin of Aurora on her deceasedmother's side. To make the affair complete, and as a seal to this tacitGrandissime-de-Grapion treaty, this sole available representative of the"other side" was made a guest for the evening. Like the true Spaniardthat he was, Don José Martinez fell deeply in love with Honoré's sister. Then there came Agricola leading in Palmyre. There were others, for theGrandissime mansion was always full of Grandissimes; but this was thecentral group. 

In this house Palmyre grew to womanhood, retaining without interruptionthe place into which she seemed to enter by right of indisputablesuperiority over all competitors, --the place of favorite attendant tothe sister of Honoré. Attendant, we say, for servant she never seemed. She grew tall, arrowy, lithe, imperial, diligent, neat, thorough, silent. Her new mistress, though scarcely at all her senior, was yetdistinctly her mistress; she had that through her Fusilier blood;experience was just then beginning to show that the Fusilier Grandissimewas a superb variety; she was a mistress one could wish to obey. Palmyreloved her, and through her contact ceased, for a time, at least, to bethe pet leopard she had been at the Cannes Brulées. 

Honoré went away to Paris only sixty days after Palmyre entered thehouse. But even that was not soon enough. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', " said Aurora, in her recital, "Palmyre, she nevertole me dad, _mais_ I am shoe, _shoe_ dad she fall in love wid HonoréGrandissime. 'Sieur Frowenfel', I thing dad Honoré Grandissime is onebad man, ent it? Whad you thing, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?"

"I think, as I said to you the last time, that he is one of the best, asI know that he is one of the kindest and most enlightened gentlemen inthe city, " said the apothecary. 

"Ah, 'Sieur Frowenfel'! ha, ha!"

"That is my conviction. "

The lady went on with her story. 

"Hanny'ow, I know she _con_tinue in love wid 'im all doze ten year'w'at 'e been gone. She baig Mademoiselle Grandissime to wrad dad ledderto my papa to ass to kip her two years mo'. "

Here Aurora carefully omitted that episode which Doctor Keene hadrelated to Frowenfeld, --her own marriage and removal to Fausse Rivière, the visit of her husband to the city, his unfortunate and finally fatalaffair with Agricola, and the surrender of all her land and slaves tothat successful duellist. 

M. De Grapion, through all that, stood by his engagement concerningPalmyre; and, at the end of ten years, to his own astonishment, responded favorably to a letter from Honoré's sister, irresistible forits goodness, good sense, and eloquent pleading, asking leave to detainPalmyre two years longer; but this response came only after the oldmaster and his pretty, stricken Aurora had wept over it until they wereweak and gentle, --and was not a response either, but only asilent consent. 

Shortly before the return of Honoré--and here it was that Aurora took upagain the thread of her account--while his mother, long-widowed, reignedin the paternal mansion, with Agricola for her manager, Bras-Coupéappeared. From that advent, and the long and varied mental sufferingswhich its consequences brought upon her, sprang that second change inPalmyre, which made her finally untamable, and ended in a manumission, granted her more for fear than for conscience' sake. When Auroraattempted to tell those experiences, even leaving Bras-Coupé as much asmight be out of the recital, she choked with tears at the very start, stopped, laughed, and said:

"_C'est tout_--daz all. 'Sieur Frowenfel', oo you fine dad pigtu' toloog lag, yonnah, hon de wall?"

She spoke as if he might have overlooked it, though twenty times, atleast, in the last hour, she had seen him glance at it. 

"It is a good likeness, " said the apothecary, turning to Clotilde, yetshowing himself somewhat puzzled in the matter of the costume. 

The ladies laughed. 

"Daz ma grade-gran'-mamma, " said Clotilde. 

"Dass one _fille à la cassette_, " said Aurora, "my gran'-muzzah; _mais_, ad de sem tarn id is Clotilde. " She touched her daughter under the chinwith a ringed finger. "Clotilde is my gran'-mamma. "

Frowenfeld rose to go. 

"You muz come again, 'Sieur Frowenfel', " said both ladies, in a breath. 

What could he say?

CHAPTER XXVI

A RIDE AND A RESCUE

"Douane or Bienville?"

Such was the choice presented by Honoré Grandissime to JosephFrowenfeld, as the former on a lively brown colt and the apothecary on anervy chestnut fell into a gentle, preliminary trot while yet in therue Royale, looked after by that great admirer of both, RaoulInnerarity. 

"Douane?" said Frowenfeld. (It was the street we call Custom-house. )

"It has mud-holes, " objected Honoré. 

"Well, then, the rue du Canal?"

"The canal--I can smell it from here. Why not rue Bienville?"

Frowenfeld said he did not know. (We give the statement for what it isworth. )

Notice their route. A spirit of perversity seems to have entered intothe very topography of this quarter. They turned up the rue Bienville(up is toward the river); reaching the levee, they took their course upthe shore of the Mississippi (almost due south), and broke into a livelygallop on the Tchoupitoulas road, which in those days skirted thatmargin of the river nearest the sunsetting, namely, the _eastern_ bank. 

Conversation moved sluggishly for a time, halting upon trite topics orswinging easily from polite inquiry to mild affirmation, and back again. They were men of thought, these two, and one of them did not fullyunderstand why he was in his present position; hence some reticence. Itwas one of those afternoons in early March that make one wonder how therest of the world avoids emigrating to Louisiana in a body. 

"Is not the season early?" asked Frowenfeld. 

M. Grandissime believed it was; but then the Creole spring always seemedso, he said. 

The land was an inverted firmament of flowers. The birds were aninnumerable, busy, joy-compelling multitude, darting and flutteringhither and thither, as one might imagine the babes do in heaven. Theorange-groves were in blossom; their dark-green boughs seemed snowedupon from a cloud of incense, and a listening ear might catch anincessant, whispered trickle of falling petals, dropping "as thehoney-comb. " The magnolia was beginning to add to its dark and shiningevergreen foliage frequent sprays of pale new leaves and long, slender, buff buds of others yet to come. The oaks, both the bare-armed and the"green-robed senators, " the willows, and the plaqueminiers, were puttingout their subdued florescence as if they smiled in grave participationwith the laughing gardens. The homes that gave perfection to this beautywere those old, large, belvidered colonial villas, of which you maystill here and there see one standing, battered into half ruin, high andbroad, among foundries, cotton-and tobacco-sheds, junk-yards, andlongshoremen's hovels, like one unconquered elephant in a wreck ofartillery. In Frowenfeld's day the "smell of their garments was likeLebanon. " They were seen by glimpses through chance openings in loftyhedges of Cherokee-rose or bois-d'arc, under boughs of cedar orpride-of-China, above their groves of orange or down their long, overarched avenues of oleander; and the lemon and the pomegranate, thebanana, the fig, the shaddock, and at times even the mango and theguava, joined "hands around" and tossed their fragrant locks above thelilies and roses. Frowenfeld forgot to ask himself further concerningthe probable intent of M. Grandissime's invitation to ride; thesebeauties seemed rich enough in good reasons. He felt glad and grateful. 

At a certain point the two horses turned of their own impulse, as byforce of habit, and with a few clambering strides mounted to the top ofthe levee and stood still, facing the broad, dancing, hurrying, brimming river. 

The Creole stole an amused glance at the elated, self-forgetful look ofhis immigrant friend. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, " he said, as the delighted apothecary turned withunwonted suddenness and saw his smile, "I believe you like this betterthan discussion. You find it easier to be in harmony with Louisiana thanwith Louisianians, eh?"

Frowenfeld colored with surprise. Something unpleasant had latelyoccurred in his shop. Was this to signify that M. Grandissime hadheard of it?

"I am a Louisianian, " replied he, as if this were a point assailed. 

"I would not insinuate otherwise, " said M. Grandissime, with a kindlygesture. "I would like you to feel so. We are citizens now of adifferent government from that under which we lived the morning we firstmet. Yet"--the Creole paused and smiled--"you are not, and I am glad youare not, what we call a Louisianian. "

Frowenfeld's color increased. He turned quickly in his saddle as if tosay something very positive, but hesitated, restrained himselfand asked:

"Mr. Grandissime, is not your Creole 'we' a word that does much damage?"

The Creole's response was at first only a smile, followed by athoughtful countenance; but he presently said, with some suddenness:

"My-de'-seh, yes. Yet you see I am, even this moment, forgetting we arenot a separate people. Yes, our Creole 'we' does damage, and our Creole'you' does more. I assure you, sir, I try hard to get my people tounderstand that it is time to stop calling those who come and addthemselves to the community, aliens, interlopers, invaders. That is whatI hear my cousins, 'Polyte and Sylvestre, in the heat of discussion, called you the other evening; is it so?"

"I brought it upon myself, " said Frowenfeld. "I brought it upon myself. "

"Ah!" interrupted M. Grandissime, with a broad smile, "excuse me--I amfully prepared to believe it. But the charge is a false one. I told themso. My-de'-seh--I know that a citizen of the United States in the UnitedStates has a right to become, and to be called, under the laws governingthe case, a Louisianian, a Vermonter, or a Virginian, as it may suit hiswhim; and even if he should be found dishonest or dangerous, he has aright to be treated just exactly as we treat the knaves and ruffians whoare native born! Every discreet man must admit that. "

"But if they do not enforce it, Mr. Grandissime, " quickly responded thesore apothecary, "if they continually forget it--if one must surrenderhimself to the errors and crimes of the community as he finds it--"

The Creole uttered a low laugh. 

"Party differences, Mr. Frowenfeld; they have them in all countries. "

"So your cousins said, " said Frowenfeld. 

"And how did you answer them?"

"Offensively, " said the apothecary, with sincere mortification. 

"Oh! that was easy, " replied the other, amusedly; "but how?"

"I said that, having here only such party differences as are commonelsewhere, we do not behave as they elsewhere do; that in most civilizedcountries the immigrant is welcome, but here he is not. I am afraid Ihave not learned the art of courteous debate, " said Frowenfeld, with asmile of apology. 

"'Tis a great art, " said the Creole, quietly, stroking his horse's neck. "I suppose my cousins denied your statement with indignation, eh?"

"Yes; they said the honest immigrant is always welcome. "

"Well, do you not find that true?"

"But, Mr. Grandissime, that is requiring the immigrant to prove hisinnocence!" Frowenfeld spoke from the heart. "And even the honestimmigrant is welcome only when he leaves his peculiar opinions behindhim. Is that right, sir?"

The Creole smiled at Frowenfeld's heat. 

"My-de'-seh, my cousins complain that you advocate measures fatal to theprevailing order of society. "

"But, " replied the unyielding Frowenfeld, turning redder than ever, "that is the very thing that American liberty gives me theright--peaceably--to do! Here is a structure of society defective, dangerous, erected on views of human relations which the world isabandoning as false; yet the immigrant's welcome is modified with thewarning not to touch these false foundations with one of his fingers. "

"Did you tell my cousins the foundations of society here are false?"

"I regret to say I did, very abruptly. I told them they were privatelyaware of the fact. "

"You may say, " said the ever-amiable Creole, "that you allowed debate torun into controversy, eh?"

Frowenfeld was silent; he compared the gentleness of this Creole'srebukes with the asperity of his advocacy of right, and felt humiliated. But M. Grandissime spoke with a rallying smile. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, you never make pills with eight corners eh?"

"No, sir. " The apothecary smiled. 

"No, you make them round; cannot you make your doctrines the same way?My-de'-seh, you will think me impertinent; but the reason I speak isbecause I wish very much that you and my cousins would not be offendedwith each other. To tell you the truth, my-de'-seh, I hoped to use youwith them--pardon my frankness. "

"If Louisiana had more men like you, M. Grandissime, " cried theuntrained Frowenfeld, "society would be less sore to the touch. "

"My-de'-seh, " said the Creole, laying his hand out toward his companionand turning his horse in such a way as to turn the other also, "do meone favor; remember that it _is_ sore to the touch. "

The animals picked their steps down the inner face of the levee andresumed their course up the road at a walk. 

"Did you see that man just turn the bend of the road, away yonder?" theCreole asked. 

"Yes. "

"Did you recognize him?"

"It was--my landlord, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Did he not have a conversation with you lately, too?"

"Yes, sir; why do you ask?"

"It has had a bad effect on him. I wonder why he is out here on foot?"

The horses quickened their paces. The two friends rode along in silence. Frowenfeld noticed his companion frequently cast an eye up along thedistant sunset shadows of the road with a new anxiety. Yet, when M. Grandissime broke the silence it was only to say:

"I suppose you find the blemishes in our state of society can all beattributed to one main defect, Mr. Frowenfeld?"

Frowenfeld was glad of the chance to answer:

"I have not overlooked that this society has disadvantages as well asblemishes; it is distant from enlightened centres; it has a language andreligion different from that of the great people of which it is nowcalled to be a part. That it has also positive blemishes of organism--"

"Yes, " interrupted the Creole, smiling at the immigrant's suddenmagnanimity, "its positive blemishes; do they all spring from onemain defect?"

"I think not. The climate has its influence, the soil has itsinfluence--dwellers in swamps cannot be mountaineers. "

"But after all, " persisted the Creole, "the greater part of our troublescomes from--"

"Slavery, " said Frowenfeld, "or rather caste. "

"Exactly, " said M. Grandissime. 

"You surprise me, sir, " said the simple apothecary. "I supposed youwere--"

"My-de'-seh, " exclaimed M. Grandissime, suddenly becoming very earnest, "I am nothing, nothing! There is where you have the advantage of me. Iam but a _dilettante_, whether in politics, in philosophy, morals, orreligion. I am afraid to go deeply into anything, lest it should makeruin in my name, my family, my property. "

He laughed unpleasantly. 

The question darted into Frowenfeld's mind, whether this might not be ahint of the matter that M. Grandissime had been trying to see him about. 

"Mr. Grandissime, " he said, "I can hardly believe you would neglect aduty either for family, property, or society. "

"Well, you mistake, " said the Creole, so coldly that Frowenfeld colored. 

They galloped on. M. Grandissime brightened again, almost to the degreeof vivacity. By and by they slackened to a slow trot and were silent. The gardens had been long left behind, and they were passing betweencontinuous Cherokee-rose hedges on the right and on the left, along thatbend of the Mississippi where its waters, glancing off three miles abovefrom the old De Macarty levee (now Carrollton), at the slightestopposition in the breeze go whirling and leaping like a herd ofdervishes across to the ever-crumbling shore, now marked by the littleyellow depot-house of Westwego. Miles up the broad flood the sun wasdisappearing gorgeously. From their saddles, the two horsemen feasted onthe scene without comment. 

But presently, M. Grandissime uttered a low ejaculation and spurred hishorse toward a tree hard by, preparing, as he went, to fasten his reinto an overhanging branch. Frowenfeld, agreeable to his beckon, imitatedthe movement. 

"I fear he intends to drown himself, " whispered M. Grandissime, as theyhurriedly dismounted. 

"Who? Not--"

"Yes, your landlord, as you call him. He is on the flatboat; I saw hishat over the levee. When we get on top the levee, we must get right intoit. But do not follow him into the water in front of the flat; it iscertain death; no power of man could keep you from going under it. "

The words were quickly spoken; they scrambled to the levee's crown. Justabreast of them lay a flatboat, emptied of its cargo and moored to thelevee. They leaped into it. A human figure swerved from the onset of theCreole and ran toward the bow of the boat, and in an instant more wouldhave been in the river. 

"Stop!" said Frowenfeld, seizing the unresisting f. M. C. Firmly by thecollar. 

Honoré Grandissime smiled, partly at the apothecary's brief speech, butmuch more at his success. 

"Let him go, Mr. Frowenfeld, " he said, as he came near. 

The silent man turned away his face with a gesture of shame. 

M. Grandissime, in a gentle voice, exchanged a few words with him, andhe turned and walked away, gained the shore, descended the levee, andtook a foot-path which soon hid him behind a hedge. 

"He gives his pledge not to try again, " said the Creole, as the twocompanions proceeded to resume the saddle. "Do not look after him. "(Joseph had cast a searching look over the hedge. )

They turned homeward. 

"Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld, " said the Creole, suddenly, "if the _immygrant_has cause of complaint, how much more has _that_ man! True, it is onlylove for which he would have just now drowned himself; yet what anaccusation, my-de'-seh, is his whole life against that 'caste' whichshuts him up within its narrow and almost solitary limits! And yet, Mr. Frowenfeld, this people esteem this very same crime of caste the holiestand most precious of their virtues. My-de'-seh, it never occurs to usthat in this matter we are interested, and therefore disqualified, witnesses. We say we are not understood; that the jury (the civilizedworld) renders its decision without viewing the body; that we are judgedfrom a distance. We forget that we ourselves are too _close_ to seedistinctly, and so continue, a spectacle to civilization, sitting in ahorrible darkness, my-de'-seh!" He frowned. 

"The shadow of the Ethiopian, " said the grave apothecary. 

M. Grandissime's quick gesture implied that Frowenfeld had said the veryword. 

"Ah! my-de'-seh, when I try sometimes to stand outside and look at it, Iam _ama-aze_ at the length, the blackness of that shadow!" (He was sodeeply in earnest that he took no care of his English. ) "It is the_Némésis_ w'ich, instead of coming afteh, glides along by the side ofthis morhal, political, commercial, social mistake! It blanches, my-de'-seh, ow whole civilization! It drhags us a centurhy behind therhes' of the world! It rhetahds and poisons everhy industrhy wegot!--mos' of all our-h immense agrhicultu'e! It brheeds a thousan'cusses that nevva leave home but jus' flutter-h up an' rhoost, my-de'-seh, on ow _heads_; an' we nevva know it!--yes, sometimes some ofus know it. "

He changed the subject. 

They had repassed the ruins of Fort St. Louis, and were well within theprecincts of the little city, when, as they pulled up from a finalgallop, mention was made of Doctor Keene. He was improving; Honoré hadseen him that morning; so, at another hour, had Frowenfeld. Doctor Keenehad told Honoré about Palmyre's wound. 

"You was at her house again this morning?" asked the Creole. 

"Yes, " said Frowenfeld. 

M. Grandissime shook his head warningly. 

"'Tis a dangerous business. You are almost sure to become the object ofslander. You ought to tell Doctor Keene to make some other arrangement, or presently you, too, will be under the--" he lowered his voice, forFrowenfeld was dismounting at the shop door, and three or fouracquaintances stood around--"under the 'shadow of the Ethiopian. '"

CHAPTER XXVII

THE FÊTE DE GRANDPÈRE

Sojourners in New Orleans who take their afternoon drive down Esplanadestreet will notice, across on the right, between it and that sorrystreak once fondly known as Champs Élysées, two or three large, oldhouses, rising above the general surroundings and displayingarchitectural features which identify them with an irrevocable past--apast when the faithful and true Creole could, without fear ofcontradiction, express his religious belief that the antipathy he feltfor the Américain invader was an inborn horror laid lengthwise in hisante-natal bones by a discriminating and appreciative Providence. Thereis, for instance, or was until lately, one house which some hundred andfifteen years ago was the suburban residence of the old sea-captaingovernor, Kerlerec. It stands up among the oranges as silent and gray asa pelican, and, so far as we know, has never had one cypress plank addedor subtracted since its master was called to France and thrown into theBastile. Another has two dormer windows looking out westward, and, whenthe setting sun strikes the panes, reminds one of a man with spectaclesstanding up in an audience, searching for a friend who is not there andwill never come back. These houses are the last remaining--if, indeed, they were not pulled down yesterday--of a group that once marked fromafar the direction of the old highway between the city's walls and thesuburb St. Jean. Here clustered the earlier aristocracy of the colony;all that pretty crew of counts, chevaliers, marquises, colonels, dons, etc. , who loved their kings, and especially their kings' moneys, with an_abandon_ which affected the accuracy of nearly all their accounts. 

Among these stood the great mother-mansion of the Grandissimes. Do notlook for it now; it is quite gone. The round, white-plastered brickpillars which held the house fifteen feet up from the reeking ground androse on loftily to sustain the great overspreading roof, or clustered inthe cool, paved basement; the lofty halls, with their multitudinousglitter of gilded brass and twinkle of sweet-smelling wax-candles; theimmense encircling veranda, where twenty Creole girls might walkabreast; the great front stairs, descending from the veranda to thegarden, with a lofty palm on either side, on whose broad steps fortyGrandissimes could gather on a birthday afternoon; and the belvidere, whence you could see the cathedral, the Ursulines', the governor'smansion, and the river, far away, shining between the villas ofTchoupitoulas Coast--all have disappeared as entirely beyond recall asthe flowers that bloomed in the gardens on the day of this _fête degrandpère_. 

Odd to say, it was not the grandpère's birthday that had passed. Forweeks the happy children of the many Grandissime branches--theMandarins, the St. Blancards, the Brahmins--had been standing withtheir uplifted arms apart, awaiting the signal to clap hands and jump, and still, from week to week, the appointed day had been made to fallback, and fall back before--what think you?--an inability tounderstand Honoré. 

It was a sad paradox in the history of this majestic old house that herbest child gave her the most annoyance; but it had long been so. Even inHonoré's early youth, a scant two years after she had watched him, overthe tops of her green myrtles and white and crimson oleanders, go away, a lad of fifteen, supposing he would of course come back a Grandissimeof the Grandissimes--an inflexible of the inflexibles--he was found"inciting" (so the stately dames and officials who graced her frontveranda called it) a Grandissime-De Grapion reconciliation by means oftransatlantic letters, and reducing the flames of the old feud, rekindled by the Fusilier-Nancanou duel, to a little foul smoke. Themain difficulty seemed to be that Honoré could not be satisfied with aclean conscience as to his own deeds and the peace and fellowships ofsingle households; his longing was, and had ever been--he had inheritedit from his father--to see one unbroken and harmonious Grandissimefamily gathering yearly under this venerated roof without reproachbefore all persons, classes, and races with whom they had ever had todo. It was not hard for the old mansion to forgive him once or twice;but she had had to do it often. It seems no over-stretch of fancy tosay she sometimes gazed down upon his erring ways with a look of patientsadness in her large and beautiful windows. 

And how had that forbearance been rewarded? Take one short instance:when, seven years before this present _fête de grandpère_, he came backfrom Europe, and she (this old home which we cannot help but personify), though in trouble then--a trouble that sent up the old feud flamesagain--opened her halls to rejoice in him with the joy of all hergathered families, he presently said such strange things in favor ofindiscriminate human freedom that for very shame's sake she hushed themup, in the fond hope that he would outgrow such heresies. But he? On topof all the rest, he declined a military commission and engaged incommerce--"shopkeeping, _parbleu!_"

However, therein was developed a grain of consolation. Honoré became--ashe chose to call it--more prudent. With much tact, Agricola was amiablycrowded off the dictator's chair, to become, instead, a sort ofseneschal. For a time the family peace was perfect, and Honoré, by atouch here to-day and a word there to-morrow, was ever lifting the name, and all who bore it, a little and a little higher; when suddenly, as inhis father's day--that dear Numa who knew how to sacrifice his verysoul, as a sort of Iphigenia for the propitiation of the family gods--asin Numa's day came the cession to Spain, so now fell this other cession, like an unexpected tornado, threatening the wreck of her children'sslave-schooners and the prostration alike of their slave-made crops andtheir Spanish liberties; and just in the fateful moment where Numa wouldhave stood by her, Honoré had let go. Ah, it was bitter!

"See what foreign education does!" cried a Mandarin de Grandissime ofthe Baton Rouge Coast. "I am sorry now"--derisively--"that I never sent_my_ boy to France, am I not? No! No-o-o! I would rather my son shouldnever know how to read, than that he should come back from Parisrepudiating the sentiments and prejudices of his own father. Iseducation better than family peace? Ah, bah! My son make friends withAméricains and tell me they--that call a negro 'monsieur'--are as goodas his father? But that is what we get for letting Honoré become amerchant. Ha! the degradation! Shaking hands with men who do not believein the slave trade! Shake hands? Yes; associate--fraternize! withapothecaries and negrophiles. And now we are invited to meet at the_fête de grandpère_, in the house where he is really the chief--the_caçique!_"

No! The family would not come together on the first appointment; no, noron the second; no, not if the grandpapa did express his wish; no, nor onthe third--nor on the fourth. 

"_Non, Messieurs_!" cried both youth and reckless age; and, sometimes, also, the stronger heads of the family, the men of means, of force andof influence, urged on from behind by their proud and beautiful wivesand daughters. 

Arms, generally, rather than heads, ruled there in those days. Sentiments (which are the real laws) took shape in accordance with thepoetry, rather than the reason, of things, and the community recognizedthe supreme domination of "the gentleman" in questions of right and of"the ladies" in matters of sentiment. Under such conditions strengthestablishes over weakness a showy protection which is the subtlest oftyrannies, yet which, in the very moment of extending its arm overwoman, confers upon her a power which a truer freedom would onlydiminish; constitutes her in a large degree an autocrat of publicsentiment and thus accepts her narrowest prejudices and most belatederrors as veriest need-be's of social life. 

The clans classified easily into three groups; there were those whoboiled, those who stewed, and those who merely steamed under a closecover. The men in the first two groups were, for the most part, thosewho were holding office under old Spanish commissions, and were dailyexpecting themselves to be displaced and Louisiana thereby ruined. Thesteaming ones were a goodly fraction of the family--the timid, theapathetic, the "conservative. " The conservatives found ease better thanexactitude, the trouble of thinking great, the agony of decidingharrowing, and the alternative of smiling cynically and being liberal somuch easier--and the warm weather coming on with a rapidity-wearying tocontemplate. 

"The Yankee was an inferior animal. "

"Certainly. "

"But Honoré had a right to his convictions. "

"Yes, that was so, too. "

"It looked very traitorous, however. "

"Yes, so it did. "

"Nevertheless, it might turn out that Honoré was advancing the trueinterests of his people. "

"Very likely. "

"It would not do to accept office under the Yankee government. "

"Of course not. "

"Yet it would never do to let the Yankees get the offices, either. "

"That was true; nobody could deny that. "

"If Spain or France got the country back, they would certainly rememberand reward those who had held out faithfully. "

"Certainly! That was an old habit with France and Spain. "

"But if they did not get the country back--"

"Yes, that is so; Honoré is a very good fellow, and--"

And, one after another, under the mild coolness of Honoré's amiabledisregard, their indignation trickled back from steam to water, and theywent on drawing their stipends, some in Honoré's counting-room, wherethey held positions, some from the provisional government, which had asyet made but few changes, and some, secretly, from the cunningCasa-Calvo; for, blow the wind east or blow the wind west, the affinityof the average Grandissime for a salary abideth forever. 

Then, at the right moment, Honoré made a single happy stroke, and eventhe hot Grandissimes, they of the interior parishes and they ofAgricola's squadron, slaked and crumbled when he wrote each a lettersaying that the governor was about to send them appointments, and thatit would be well, if they wished to _evade_ them, to write the governorat once, surrendering their present commissions. Well! Evade? They wouldevade nothing! Do you think they would so belittle themselves as towrite to the usurper? They would submit to keep the positions first. 

But the next move was Honoré's making the whole town aware of hisapostasy. The great mansion, with the old grandpère sitting out infront, shivered. As we have seen, he had ridden through the Placed'Armes with the arch-usurper himself. Yet, after all, a Grandissimewould be a Grandissime still; whatever he did he did openly. And wasn'tthat glorious--never to be ashamed of anything, no matter how bad? Itwas not everyone who could ride with the governor. 

And blood was so much thicker than vinegar that the family, that wouldnot meet either in January or February, met in the first week of March, every constituent one of them. 

The feast has been eaten. The garden now is joyous with children andthe veranda resplendent with ladies. From among the latter the eyequickly selects one. She is perceptibly taller than the others; she sitsin their midst near the great hall entrance; and as you look at herthere is no claim of ancestry the Grandissimes can make which you wouldnot allow. Her hair, once black, now lifted up into a glisteningsnow-drift, augments the majesty of a still beautiful face, while herfull stature and stately bearing suggest the finer parts of Agricola, her brother. It is Madame Grandissime, the mother of Honoré. 

One who sits at her left, and is very small, is a favorite cousin. Onher right is her daughter, the widowed señora of José Martinez; she haswonderful black hair and a white brow as wonderful. The commandingcarriage of the mother is tempered in her to a gentle dignity and calm, contrasting pointedly with the animated manners of the courtly matronsamong whom she sits, and whose continuous conversation takes thisdirection or that, at the pleasure of Madame Grandissime. 

But if you can command your powers of attention, despite those childrenwho are shouting Creole French and sliding down the rails of the frontstair, turn the eye to the laughing squadron of beautiful girls, whichevery few minutes, at an end of the veranda, appears, wheels anddisappears, and you note, as it were by flashes, the characteristics offace and figure that mark the Louisianaises in the perfection of thenew-blown flower. You see that blondes are not impossible; there, indeed, are two sisters who might be undistinguishable twins but thatone has blue eyes and golden hair. You note the exquisite pencilling oftheir eyebrows, here and there some heavier and more velvety, where aless vivacious expression betrays a share of Spanish blood. AsGrandissimes, you mark their tendency to exceed the medium Creolestature, an appearance heightened by the fashion of their robes. Thereis scarcely a rose in all their cheeks, and a full red-ripeness of thelips would hardly be in keeping; but there is plenty of life in theireyes, which glance out between the curtains of their long lashes with amerry dancing that keeps time to the prattle of tongues. You are notable to get a straight look into them, and if you could you would seeonly your own image cast back in pitiful miniature; but you turn awayand feel, as you fortify yourself with an inward smile, that they knowyou, you man, through and through, like a little song. And in turning, your sight is glad to rest again on the face of Honoré's mother. Yousee, this time, that she _is_ his mother, by a charm you had overlooked, a candid, serene and lovable smile. It is the wonder of those who seethat smile that she can ever be harsh. 

The playful, mock-martial tread of the delicate Creole feet is all atonce swallowed up by the sound of many heavier steps in the hall, andthe fathers, grandfathers, sons, brothers, uncles and nephews of thegreat family come out, not a man of them that cannot, with a littlecare, keep on his feet. Their descendants of the present day sip fromshallower glasses and with less marked results. 

The matrons, rising, offer the chief seat to the first comer, thegreat-grandsire--the oldest living Grandissime--Alcibiade, a shaken butunfallen monument of early colonial days, a browned and corrugatedsouvenir of De Vaudreuil's pomps, of O'Reilly's iron rule, of Galvez'brilliant wars--a man who had seen Bienville and Zephyr Grandissime. With what splendor of manner Madame Fusilier de Grandissime offers, andhe accepts, the place of honor! Before he sits down he pauses a momentto hear out the companion on whose arm he had been leaning. ButThéophile, a dark, graceful youth of eighteen, though he is recountingsomething with all the oblivious ardor of his kind, becomes instantlysilent, bows with grave deference to the ladies, hands the agedforefather gracefully to his seat, and turning, recommences the recitalbefore one who hears all with the same perfect courtesy--his belovedcousin Honoré. 

Meanwhile, the gentlemen throng out. Gallant crew! These are they whohave been pausing proudly week after week in an endeavor (?) tounderstand the opaque motives of Numa's son. 

In the middle of the veranda pauses a tall, muscular man of fifty, withthe usual smooth face and an iron-gray queue. That is Colonel AgamemnonBrahmin de Grandissime, purveyor to the family's military pride, conservator of its military glory, and, after Honoré, the most admiredof the name. Achille Grandissime, he who took Agricola away fromFrowenfeld's shop in the carriage, essays to engage Agamemnon inconversation, and the colonel, with a glance at his kinsman's netherlimbs and another at his own, and with that placid facility with whichthe graver sort of Creoles take up the trivial topics of the lighter, grapples the subject of boots. A tall, bronzed, slender young man, whoprefixes to Grandissime the maternal St. Blancard, asks where his wifeis, is answered from a distance, throws her a kiss and sits down on astep, with Jean Baptiste de Grandissime, a piratical-lookingblack-beard, above him, and Alphonse Mandarin, an olive-skinned boy, below. Valentine Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, goes quite down to thebottom of the steps and leans against the balustrade. He is a large, broad-shouldered, well-built man, and, as he stands smoking a cigar, with his black-stockinged legs crossed, he glances at the sky with theeye of a hunter--or, it may be, of a sailor. 

"Valentine will not marry, " says one of two ladies who lean over therail of the veranda above. "I wonder why. "

The other fixes on her a meaning look, and she twitches her shouldersand pouts, seeing she has asked a foolish question, the answer to whichwould only put Valentine in a numerous class and do him no credit. 

Such were the choice spirits of the family. Agricola had retired. Raoulwas there; his pretty auburn head might have been seen about half-way upthe steps, close to one well sprinkled with premature gray. 

"No such thing!" exclaimed his companion. 

(The conversation was entirely in Creole French. )

"I give you my sacred word of honor!" cried Raoul. 

"That Honoré is having all his business carried on in English?" askedthe incredulous Sylvestre. (Such was his name. )

"I swear--" replied Raoul, resorting to his favorite pledge--"on a stackof Bibles that high!"

"Ah-h-h-h, pf-f-f-f-f!"

This polite expression of unbelief was further emphasized by a spasmodicflirt of one hand, with the thumb pointed outward. 

"Ask him! ask him!" cried Raoul. 

"Honoré!" called Sylvestre, rising up. Two or three persons passed thecall around the corner of the veranda. 

Honoré came with a chain of six girls on either arm. By the time hearrived, there was a Babel of discussion. 

"Raoul says you have ordered all your books and accounts to be writtenin English, " said Sylvestre. 

"Well?"

"It is not true, is it?"

"Yes. "

The entire veranda of ladies raised one long-drawn, deprecatory "Ah!"except Honoré's mother. She turned upon him a look of silent but intenseand indignant disappointment. 

"Honoré!" cried Sylvestre, desirous of repairing his defeat, "Honoré!"

But Honoré was receiving the clamorous abuse of the two half dozens ofgirls. 

"Honoré!" cried Sylvestre again, holding up a torn scrap ofwriting-paper which bore the marks of the counting-room floor and of aboot-heel, "how do you spell 'la-dee?'"

There was a moment's hush to hear the answer. 

"Ask Valentine, " said Honoré. 

Everybody laughed aloud. That taciturn man's only retort was to surveythe company above him with an unmoved countenance, and to push the ashesslowly from his cigar with his little finger. M. Valentine Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, could not read. 

"Show it to Agricola, " cried two or three, as that great man came outupon the veranda, heavy-eyed, and with tumbled hair. 

Sylvestre, spying Agricola's head beyond the ladies, put the question. 

"How is it spelled on that paper?" retorted the king of beasts. 

"L-a-y--"

"Ignoramus!" growled the old man. 

"I did not spell it, " cried Raoul, and attempted to seize the paper. ButSylvestre throwing his hand behind him, a lady snatched the paper, twoor three cried "Give it to Agricola!" and a pretty boy, whom thelaughter and excitement had lured from the garden, scampered up thesteps and handed it to the old man. 

"Honoré!" cried Raoul, "it must not be read. It is one of your privatematters. "

But Raoul's insinuation that anybody would entrust him with a privatematter brought another laugh. 

Honoré nodded to his uncle to read it out, and those who could notunderstand English, as well as those who could, listened. It was a paperSylvestre had picked out of a waste-basket on the day of Aurore's visitto the counting-room. Agricola read:

 "What is that layde want in thare with Honoré?" "Honoré is goin giv her bac that proprety--that is Aurore De Grapion what Agricola kill the husband. "

That was the whole writing, but Agricola never finished. He was readingaloud--"that is Aurore De Grap--"

At that moment he dropped the paper and blackened with wrath; a sharpflash of astonishment ran through the company; an instant of silencefollowed and Agricola's thundering voice rolled down upon Sylvestre in asuccession of terrible imprecations. 

It was painful to see the young man's face as, speechless, he receivedthis abuse. He stood pale and frightened, with a smile playing about hismouth, half of distress and half of defiance, that said as plain as asmile could say, "Uncle Agricola, you will have to pay forthis mistake. "

As the old man ceased, Sylvestre turned and cast a look downward toValentine Grandissime, then walked up the steps, and passing with acourteous bow through the group that surrounded Agricola, went into thehouse. Valentine looked at the zenith, then at his shoe-buckles, tossedhis cigar quietly into the grass and passed around a corner of the houseto meet Sylvestre in the rear. 

Honoré had already nodded to his uncle to come aside with him, andAgricola had done so. The rest of the company, save a few male figuresdown in the garden, after some feeble efforts to keep up their spiritson the veranda, remarked the growing coolness or the waning daylight, and singly or in pairs withdrew. It was not long before Raoul, who hadcome up upon the veranda, was left alone. He seemed to wait forsomething, as, leaning over the rail while the stars came out, he sangto himself, in a soft undertone, a snatch of a Creole song:

 "La pluie--la pluie tombait, Crapaud criait, Moustique chantait--"

The moon shone so brightly that the children in the garden did not breakoff their hide-and-seek, and now and then Raoul suspended the murmur ofhis song, absorbed in the fate of some little elf gliding from one blackshadow to crouch in another. He was himself in the deep shade of amagnolia, over whose outer boughs the moonlight was trickling, as if thewhole tree had been dipped in quicksilver. 

In the broad walk running down to the garden gate some six or seven darkforms sat in chairs, not too far away for the light of their cigars tobe occasionally seen and their voices to reach his ear; but he did notlisten. In a little while there came a light footstep, and a soft, mock-startled "Who is that?" and one of that same sparkling group ofgirls that had lately hung upon Honoré came so close to Raoul, in herattempt to discern his lineaments, that their lips accidentally met. They had but a moment of hand-in-hand converse before they were hustledforth by a feminine scouting party and thrust along into one of thegreat rooms of the house, where the youth and beauty of the Grandissimeswere gathered in an expansive semicircle around a languishing fire, waiting to hear a story, or a song, or both, or half a dozen of each, from that master of narrative and melody, Raoul Innerarity. 

"But mark, " they cried unitedly, "you have got to wind up with the storyof Bras-Coupé!"

"A song! A song!"

"_Une chanson Créole! Une chanson des nègres!_"

"Sing 'yé tolé dancé la doung y doung doung!'" cried a black-eyed girl. 

Raoul explained that it had too many objectionable phrases. 

"Oh, just hum the objectionable phrases and go right on. "

But instead he sang them this:

 "_La prémier' fois mo té 'oir li, Li té posé au bord so lit; Mo di', Bouzon, bel n'amourèse! L'aut' fois li té si' so la saise Comme vié Madam dans so fauteil, Quand li vivé cóté soleil. 

 So giés yé té plis noir passé la nouitte, So dé la lev' plis doux passe la quitte! Tou' mo la vie, zamein mo oir Ein n' amourèse zoli comme ça! Mo' blié manzé--mo' blié boir'-- Mo' blié tout dipi ç' temps-là-- Mo' blié parlé--mo' blié dormi, Quand mo pensé aprés zami!_"

"And you have heard Bras-Coupé sing that, yourself?"

"Once upon a time, " said Raoul, warming with his subject, "we werecoming down from Pointe Macarty in three pirogues. We had been threedays fishing and hunting in Lake Salvador. Bras-Coupé had one piroguewith six paddles--"

"Oh, yes!" cried a youth named Baltazar; "sing that, Raoul!"

And he sang that. 

"But oh, Raoul, sing that song the negroes sing when they go out in thebayous at night, stealing pigs and chickens!"

"That boat song, do you mean, which they sing as a signal to those onshore?" He hummed. 

[Illustration: Music]

 "Dé zabs, dé zabs, dé counou ouaïe ouaïe, Dé zabs, dé zabs, dé counou ouaïe ouaïe, Counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, Counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, Counou ouaïe ouaïe ouaïe, momza; Momza, momza, momza, momza, Roza, roza, roza-et--momza. "

This was followed by another and still another, until the hour began togrow late. And then they gathered closer around him and heard thepromised story. At the same hour Honoré Grandissime, wrapping himself ina greatcoat and giving himself up to sad and somewhat bitterreflections, had wandered from the paternal house, and by and by fromthe grounds, not knowing why or whither, but after a time soliciting, atFrowenfeld's closing door, the favor of his company. He had been feelinga kind of suffocation. This it was that made him seek and prize thepresence and hand-grasp of the inexperienced apothecary. He led him outto the edge of the river. Here they sat down, and with a laboriousattempt at a hard and jesting mood, Honoré told the same dark story. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPÉ

"A very little more than eight years ago, " began Honoré--but not onlyHonoré, but Raoul also; and not only they, but another, earlier on thesame day, --Honoré, the f. M. C. But we shall not exactly follow the wordsof any one of these. 

Bras-Coupé, they said, had been, in Africa and under another name, aprince among his people. In a certain war of conquest, to which he hadbeen driven by _ennui_, he was captured, stripped of his royalty, marched down upon the beach of the Atlantic, and, attired as a true sonof Adam, with two goodly arms intact, became a commodity. Passing out offirst hands in barter for a looking-glass, he was shipped in good orderand condition on board the good schooner _Égalité_, whereof Blank wasmaster, to be delivered without delay at the port of Nouvelle Orléans(the dangers of fire and navigation excepted), unto Blank Blank. Inwitness whereof, He that made men's skins of different colors, but allblood of one, hath entered the same upon His book, and sealed it to theday of judgment. 

Of the voyage little is recorded--here below; the less the better. Partof the living merchandise failed to keep; the weather was rough, thecargo large, the vessel small. However, the captain discovered there wasroom over the side, and there--all flesh is grass--from time to timeduring the voyage he jettisoned the unmerchantable. 

Yet, when the reopened hatches let in the sweet smell of the land, Bras-Coupé had come to the upper--the favored--the buttered side of theworld; the anchor slid with a rumble of relief down through the muddyfathoms of the Mississippi, and the prince could hear through theschooner's side the savage current of the river, leaping and lickingabout the bows, and whimpering low welcomes home. A splendid picture tothe eyes of the royal captive, as his head came up out of the hatchway, was the little Franco-Spanish-American city that lay on the low, brimming bank. There were little forts that showed their whitewashedteeth; there was a green parade-ground, and yellow barracks, andcabildo, and hospital, and cavalry stables, and custom-house, and a mostinviting jail, convenient to the cathedral--all of dazzling white andyellow, with a black stripe marking the track of the conflagration of1794, and here and there among the low roofs a lofty one withround-topped dormer windows and a breezy belvidere looking out upon theplantations of coffee and indigo beyond the town. 

When Bras-Coupé staggered ashore, he stood but a moment among a droveof "likely boys, " before Agricola Fusilier, managing the businessadventures of the Grandissime estate, as well as the residents thereon, and struck with admiration for the physical beauties of the chieftain (aman may even fancy a negro--as a negro), bought the lot, and, both toresell him with the rest to some unappreciative 'Cadian, induced DonJosé Martinez' overseer to become his purchaser. 

Down in the rich parish of St. Bernard (whose boundary line now touchesthat of the distended city) lay the plantation, known before Bras-Coupépassed away as La Renaissance. Here it was that he entered at once upona chapter of agreeable surprises. He was humanely met, presented with aclean garment, lifted into a cart drawn by oxen, taken to a whitewashedcabin of logs, finer than his palace at home, and made to comprehendthat it was a free gift. He was also given some clean food, whereupon hefell sick. At home it would have been the part of piety for the magnatenext the throne to launch him heavenward at once; but now, healing doseswere administered, and to his amazement he recovered. It reminded himthat he was no longer king. 

His name, he replied to an inquiry touching that subject, was --------, something in the Jaloff tongue, which he by and by condescended torender into Congo: Mioko-Koanga; in French Bras-Coupé; the Arm Cut Off. Truly it would have been easy to admit, had this been his meaning, thathis tribe, in losing him, had lost its strong right arm close off at theshoulder; not so easy for his high-paying purchaser to allow, if thisother was his intent: that the arm which might no longer shake the spearor swing the wooden sword was no better than a useless stump never to belifted for aught else. But whether easy to allow or not, that was hismeaning. He made himself a type of all Slavery, turning into flesh andblood the truth that all Slavery is maiming. 

He beheld more luxury in a week than all his subjects had seen in acentury. Here Congo girls were dressed in cottons and flannels worth, where he came from, an elephant's tusk apiece. Everybody woreclothes--children and lads alone excepted. Not a lion had invaded thesettlement since his immigration. The serpents were as nothing; anoccasional one coming up through the floor--that was all. True, therewas more emaciation than unassisted conjecture could explain--aprofusion of enlarged joints and diminished muscles, which, thank God, was even then confined to a narrow section and disappeared with Spanishrule. He had no experimental knowledge of it; nay, regular meals, on thecontrary, gave him anxious concern, yet had the effect--spite of hisapprehension that he was being fattened for a purpose--of restoring theherculean puissance which formerly in Africa had made him the terror ofthe battle. 

When one day he had come to be quite himself, he was invited out intothe sunshine, and escorted by the driver (a sort of foreman to theoverseer), went forth dimly wondering. They reached a field where somemen and women were hoeing. He had seen men and women--subjects ofhis--labor--a little--in Africa. The driver handed him a hoe; heexamined it with silent interest--until by signs he was requested tojoin the pastime. 

"What?"

He spoke, not with his lips, but with the recoil of his splendid frameand the ferocious expansion of his eyes. This invitation was a cataractof lightning leaping down an ink-black sky. In one instant ofall-pervading clearness he read his sentence--WORK. 

Bras-Coupé was six feet five. With a sweep as quick as instinct the backof the hoe smote the driver full in the head. Next, the prince liftedthe nearest Congo crosswise, brought thirty-two teeth together in hiswildly kicking leg and cast him away as a bad morsel; then, throwinganother into the branches of a willow, and a woman over his head into adraining-ditch, he made one bound for freedom, and fell to his knees, rocking from side to side under the effect of a pistol-ball from theoverseer. It had struck him in the forehead, and running around theskull in search of a penetrable spot, tradition--which sometimesjests--says came out despairingly, exactly where it had entered. 

It so happened that, except the overseer, the whole company were black. Why should the trivial scandal be blabbed? A plaster or two madeeverything even in a short time, except in the driver's case--for thedriver died. The woman whom Bras-Coupé had thrown over his head lived tosell _calas_ to Joseph Frowenfeld. 

Don José, young and austere, knew nothing about agriculture and cared asmuch about human nature. The overseer often thought this, but never saidit; he would not trust even himself with the dangerous criticism. Whenhe ventured to reveal the foregoing incidents to the señor he laid allthe blame possible upon the man whom death had removed beyond the reachof correction, and brought his account to a climax by hazarding theasserting that Bras-Coupé was an animal that could not be whipped. 

"Caramba!" exclaimed the master, with gentle emphasis, "how so?"

"Perhaps señor had better ride down to the quarters, " replied theoverseer. 

It was a great sacrifice of dignity, but the master made it. 

"Bring him out. "

They brought him out--chains on his feet, chains on his wrists, an ironyoke on his neck. The Spanish Creole master had often seen the bull, with his long, keen horns and blazing eye, standing in the arena; butthis was as though he had come face to face with a rhinoceros. 

"This man is not a Congo, " he said. 

"He is a Jaloff, " replied the encouraged overseer. "See his fine, straight nose; moreover, he is a _candio_--a prince. If I whip him hewill die. "

The dauntless captive and fearless master stood looking into eachother's eyes until each recognized in the other his peer in physicalcourage, and each was struck with an admiration for the other which noafter difference was sufficient entirely to destroy. Had Bras-Coupé'seye quailed but once--just for one little instant--he would have got thelash; but, as it was--

"Get an interpreter, " said Don José; then, more privately, "and come toan understanding. I shall require it of you. "

Where might one find an interpreter--one not merely able to render aJaloff's meaning into Creole French, or Spanish, but with such a turnfor diplomatic correspondence as would bring about an "understanding"with this African buffalo? The overseer was left standing and thinking, and Clemence, who had not forgotten who threw her into thedraining-ditch, cunningly passed by. 

"Ah, Clemence--"

"_Mo pas capabe! Mo pas capabe!_ (I cannot, I cannot!) _Ya, ya, ya! 'oirMiché Agricol' Fusilier! ouala yune bon monture, oui!_"--which was tosignify that Agricola could interpret the very Papa Lébat. 

"Agricola Fusilier! The last man on earth to make peace. "

But there seemed to be no choice, and to Agricola the overseer went. Itwas but a little ride to the Grandissime place. 

"I, Agricola Fusilier, stand as an interpreter to a negro? H-sir!"

"But I thought you might know of some person, " said the weakeningapplicant, rubbing his ear with his hand. 

"Ah!" replied Agricola, addressing the surrounding scenery, "if I didnot--who would? You may take Palmyre. "

The overseer softly smote his hands together at the happy thought. 

"Yes, " said Agricola, "take Palmyre; she has picked up as many negrodialects as I know European languages. "

And she went to the don's plantation as interpreter, followed byAgricola's prayer to Fate that she might in some way be overtaken bydisaster. The two hated each other with all the strength they had. Heknew not only her pride, but her passion for the absent Honoré. He hatedher, also, for her intelligence, for the high favor in which she stoodwith her mistress, and for her invincible spirit, which was moreoffensively patent to him than to others, since he was himself the chiefobject of her silent detestation. 

It was Palmyre's habit to do nothing without painstaking. "WhenMademoiselle comes to be Señora, " thought she--she knew that hermistress and the don were affianced--"it will be well to have a Señor'sesteem. I shall endeavor to succeed. " It was from this motive, then, that with the aid of her mistress she attired herself in a resplendenceof scarlet and beads and feathers that could not fail the double purposeof connecting her with the children of Ethiopia and commanding thecaptive's instant admiration. 

Alas for those who succeed too well! No sooner did the African turn histiger glance upon her than the fire of his eyes died out; and when shespoke to him in the dear accents of his native tongue, the matter ofstrife vanished from his mind. He loved. 

He sat down tamely in his irons and listened to Palmyre's argument as awrecked mariner would listen to ghostly church-bells. He would give ashort assent, feast his eyes, again assent, and feast his ears; but whenat length she made bold to approach the actual issue, and finallyuttered the loathed word, _Work_, he rose up, six feet five, a statue ofindignation in black marble. 

And then Palmyre, too, rose up, glorying in him, and went to explain tomaster and overseer. Bras-Coupé understood, she said, that he was aslave--it was the fortune of war, and he was a warrior; but, accordingto a generally recognized principle in African international law, hecould not reasonably be expected to work. 

"As Señor will remember I told him, " remarked the overseer; "how can aman expect to plow with a zebra?"

Here he recalled a fact in his earlier experience. An African of thisstripe had been found to answer admirably as a "driver" to make otherswork. A second and third parley, extending through two or three days, were held with the prince, looking to his appointment to the vacantoffice of driver; yet what was the master's amazement to learn at lengththat his Highness declined the proffered honor. 

"Stop!" spoke the overseer again, detecting a look of alarm in Palmyre'sface as she turned away, "he doesn't do any such thing. If Señor willlet me take the man to Agricola--"

"No!" cried Palmyre, with an agonized look, "I will tell. He will takethe place and fill it if you will give me to him for his own--but oh, messieurs, for the love of God--I do not want to be his wife!"

The overseer looked at the Señor, ready to approve whatever he shoulddecide. Bras-Coupé's intrepid audacity took the Spaniard's heart byirresistible assault. 

"I leave it entirely with Señor Fusilier, " he said. 

"But he is not my master; he has no right--"

"Silence!"

And she was silent; and so, sometimes, is fire in the wall. 

Agricola's consent was given with malicious promptness, and asBras-Coupé's fetters fell off it was decreed that, should he fill hisoffice efficiently, there should be a wedding on the rear veranda of theGrandissime mansion simultaneously with the one already appointed totake place in the grand hall of the same house six months from thatpresent day. In the meanwhile Palmyre should remain with Mademoiselle, who had promptly but quietly made up her mind that Palmyre should not bewed unless she wished to be. Bras-Coupé made no objection, was royallyworthless for a time, but learned fast, mastered the "gumbo" dialect ina few weeks, and in six months was the most valuable man ever bought forgourde dollars. Nevertheless, there were but three persons within asmany square miles who were not most vividly afraid of him. 

The first was Palmyre. His bearing in her presence was ever one ofsolemn, exalted respect, which, whether from pure magnanimity inhimself, or by reason of her magnetic eye, was something worth beingthere to see. "It was royal!" said the overseer. 

The second was not that official. When Bras-Coupé said--as, at statedintervals, he did say--"_Mo courri c'ez Agricole Fusilier pou' 'oir'namourouse_ (I go to Agricola Fusilier to see my betrothed, )" theoverseer would sooner have intercepted a score of painted Chickasawsthan that one lover. He would look after him and shake a prophetic head. "Trouble coming; better not deceive that fellow;" yet that was the verything Palmyre dared do. Her admiration for Bras-Coupé was almostboundless. She rejoiced in his stature; she revelled in thecontemplation of his untamable spirit; he seemed to her the giganticembodiment of her own dark, fierce will, the expanded realization ofher lifetime longing for terrible strength. But the single deficiencyin all this impassioned regard was--what so many fairer loves have foundimpossible to explain to so many gentler lovers--an entire absence ofpreference; her heart she could not give him--she did not have it. Yetafter her first prayer to the Spaniard and his overseer for deliverance, to the secret surprise and chagrin of her young mistress, she simulatedcontent. It was artifice; she knew Agricola's power, and to seem toconsent was her one chance with him. He might thus be beguiled intowithdrawing his own consent. That failing, she had Mademoiselle'spromise to come to the rescue, which she could use at the last moment;and that failing, there was a dirk in her bosom, for which a certainhard breast was not too hard. Another element of safety, of which sheknew nothing, was a letter from the Cannes Brulée. The word had reachedthere that love had conquered--that, despite all hard words, and rancor, and positive injury, the Grandissime hand--the fairest of Grandissimehands--was about to be laid into that of one who without much stretchmight be called a De Grapion; that there was, moreover, positive effortbeing made to induce a restitution of old gaming-table spoils. Honoréand Mademoiselle, his sister, one on each side of the Atlantic, werestriving for this end. Don José sent this intelligence to his kinsman asglad tidings (a lover never imagines there are two sides to that whichmakes him happy), and, to add a touch of humor, told how Palmyre, also, was given to the chieftain. The letter that came back to the youngSpaniard did not blame him so much: _he_ was ignorant of all the facts;but a very formal one to Agricola begged to notify him that if Palmyre'sunion with Bras-Coupé should be completed, as sure as there was a God inheaven, the writer would have the life of the man who knowingly had thusendeavored to dishonor one who _shared the blood of the De Grapions_. Thereupon Agricola, contrary to his general character, began to drophints to Don José that the engagement of Bras-Coupé and Palmyre need notbe considered irreversible; but the don was not desirous ofdisappointing his terrible pet. Palmyre, unluckily, played her game alittle too deeply. She thought the moment had come for herself to insiston the match, and thus provoke Agricola to forbid it. To herincalculable dismay she saw him a second time reconsider andbecome silent. 

The second person who did not fear Bras-Coupé was Mademoiselle. On oneof the giant's earliest visits to see Palmyre he obeyed the summonswhich she brought him, to appear before the lady. A more artificial manmight have objected on the score of dress, his attire being a singlegaudy garment tightly enveloping the waist and thighs. As his eyes fellupon the beautiful white lady he prostrated himself upon the ground, hisarms outstretched before him. He would not move till she was gone. Thenhe arose like a hermit who has seen a vision. "_Bras-Coupé n' pas ouléoir zombis_ (Bras-Coupé dares not look upon a spirit). " From that hourhe worshipped. He saw her often; every time, after one glance at hercountenance, he would prostrate his gigantic length with his face inthe dust. 

The third person who did not fear him was--Agricola? Nay, it was theSpaniard--a man whose capability to fear anything in nature or beyondhad never been discovered. 

Long before the end of his probation Bras-Coupé would have slipped theentanglements of bondage, though as yet he felt them only as one feels aspider's web across the face, had not the master, according to a littleaffectation of the times, promoted him to be his game-keeper. Many a daydid these two living magazines of wrath spend together in the dismalswamps and on the meagre intersecting ridges, making war upon deer andbear and wildcat; or on the Mississippi after wild goose and pelican;when even a word misplaced would have made either the slayer of theother. Yet the months ran smoothly round and the wedding night drewnigh[3]. A goodly company had assembled. All things were ready. Thebride was dressed, the bridegroom had come. On the great back piazza, which had been inclosed with sail-cloth and lighted with lanterns, wasPalmyre, full of a new and deep design and playing her deceit to thelast, robed in costly garments to whose beauty was added the charm oftheir having been worn once, and once only, by her beloved Mademoiselle. 

[Footnote 3: An over-zealous Franciscan once complained bitterly to thebishop of Havana, that people were being married in Louisiana in theirown houses after dark and thinking nothing of it. It is not certain thathe had reference to the Grandissime mansion; at any rate he was tittereddown by the whole community. ]

But where was Bras-Coupé?

The question was asked of Palmyre by Agricola with a gaze that meant inEnglish, "No tricks, girl!"

Among the servants who huddled at the windows and door to see the innermagnificence a frightened whisper was already going round. 

"We have made a sad discovery, Miché Fusilier, " said the overseer. "Bras-Coupé is here; we have him in a room just yonder. But--the truthis, sir, Bras-Coupé is a voudou. "

"Well, and suppose he is; what of it? Only hush; do not let his masterknow it. It is nothing; all the blacks are voudous, more or less. "

"But he declines to dress himself--has painted himself all rings andstripes, antelope fashion. "

"Tell him Agricola Fusilier says, 'dress immediately!'"

"Oh, Miché, we have said that five times already, and his answer--youwill pardon me--his answer is--spitting on the ground--that you are acontemptible _dotchian_ (white trash). "

There is nothing to do but privily to call the very bride--the ladyherself. She comes forth in all her glory, small, but oh, so beautiful!Slam! Bras-Coupé is upon his face, his finger-tips touching the tips ofher snowy slippers. She gently bids him go and dress, and at oncehe goes. 

Ah! now the question may be answered without whispering. There isBras-Coupé, towering above all heads, in ridiculous red and blueregimentals, but with a look of savage dignity upon him that keeps everyone from laughing. The murmur of admiration that passed along thethronged gallery leaped up into a shout in the bosom of Palmyre. Oh, Bras-Coupé--heroic soul! She would not falter. She would let the sillypriest say his say--then her cunning should help her _not to be_ hiswife, yet to show his mighty arm how and when to strike. 

"He is looking for Palmyre, " said some, and at that moment he saw her. 

"Ho-o-o-o-o!"

Agricola's best roar was a penny trumpet to Bras-Coupé's note of joy. The whole masculine half of the indoor company flocked out to see whatthe matter was. Bras-Coupé was taking her hand in one of his and layinghis other upon her head; and as some one made an unnecessary gesture forsilence, he sang, beating slow and solemn time with his naked foot andwith the hand that dropped hers to smite his breast:

 "'_En haut la montagne, zami, Mo pé coupé canne, zami, Pou' fé l'a'zen' zami, Pou' mo baille Palmyre. Ah! Palmyre, Palmyre mo c'ere, Mo l'aimé 'ou'--mo l'aimé 'ou'_. '"

"_Montagne?_" asked one slave of another, "_qui est çà, montagne? gniapas quiç 'ose comme çà dans la Louisiana?_ (What's a mountain?" Wehaven't such things in Louisiana. )"

"_Mein ye gagnein plein montagnes dans l'Afrique_, listen!"

 "'_Ah! Palmyre, Palmyre, mo' piti zozo, ' Mo l'aimé 'ou'--mo l'aimé, l'aimé 'ou'_. '"

"Bravissimo!--" but just then a counter-attraction drew the whitecompany back into the house. An old French priest with sandalled feetand a dirty face had arrived. There was a moment of handshaking with thegood father, then a moment of palpitation and holding of the breath, andthen--you would have known it by the turning away of two or threefeminine heads in tears--the lily hand became the don's, to have and tohold, by authority of the Church and the Spanish king. And all wasmerry, save that outside there was coming up as villanous a night asever cast black looks in through snug windows. 

It was just as the newly-wed Spaniard, with Agricola and all the guests, were concluding the byplay of marrying the darker couple, that thehurricane struck the dwelling. The holy and jovial father had made faintpretence of kissing this second bride; the ladies, colonels, dons, etc. , --though the joke struck them as a trifle coarse--were beginning tolaugh and clap hands again and the gowned jester to bow to right andleft, when Bras-Coupé, tardily realizing the consummation of his hopes, stepped forward to embrace his wife. 

"Bras-Coupé!"

The voice was that of Palmyre's mistress. She had not been able tocomprehend her maid's behavior, but now Palmyre had darted upon her anappealing look. 

The warrior stopped as if a javelin had flashed over his head and stuckin the wall. 

"Bras-Coupé must wait till I give him his wife. "

He sank, with hidden face, slowly to the floor. 

"Bras-Coupé hears the voice of zombis; the voice is sweet, but the wordsare very strong; from the same sugar-cane comes _sirop_ and _tafia_;Bras-Coupé says to zombis, 'Bras-Coupé will wait; but if the _dotchians_deceive Bras-Coupé--" he rose to his feet with his eyes closed and hisgreat black fist lifted over his head--"Bras-Coupé will callVoudou-Magnan!"

The crowd retreated and the storm fell like a burst of infernalapplause. A whiff like fifty witches flouted up the canvas curtain ofthe gallery and a fierce black cloud, drawing the moon under its cloak, belched forth a stream of fire that seemed to flood the ground; a pealof thunder followed as if the sky had fallen in, the house quivered, thegreat oaks groaned, and every lesser thing bowed down before the awfulblast. Every lip held its breath for a minute--or an hour, no oneknew--there was a sudden lull of the wind, and the floods came down. Have you heard it thunder and rain in those Louisiana lowlands? Everyclap seems to crack the world. It has rained a moment; you peer throughthe black pane--your house is an island, all the land is sea. 

However, the supper was spread in the hall and in due time the guestswere filled. Then a supper was spread in the big hall in the basement, below stairs, the sons and daughters of Ham came down like the fowls ofthe air upon a rice-field, and Bras-Coupé, throwing his heels about withthe joyous carelessness of a smutted Mercury, for the first time in hislife tasted the blood of the grape. A second, a fifth, a tenth time hetasted it, drinking more deeply each time, and would have taken it tentimes more had not his bride cunningly concealed it. It was likestealing a tiger's kittens. 

The moment quickly came when he wanted his eleventh bumper. As hepresented his request a silent shiver of consternation ran through thedark company; and when, in what the prince meant as a remonstrativetone, he repeated the petition--splitting the table with his fist by wayof punctuation--there ensued a hustling up staircases and a cramminginto dim corners that left him alone at the banquet. 

Leaving the table, he strode upstairs and into the chirruping anddancing of the grand salon. There was a halt in the cotillion and a hushof amazement like the shutting off of steam. Bras-Coupé strode straightto his master, laid his paw upon his fellow-bridegroom's shoulder and ina thunder-tone demanded:

"More!"

The master swore a Spanish oath, lifted his hand and--fell, beneath theterrific fist of his slave, with a bang that jingled the candelabra. Dolorous stroke!--for the dealer of it. Given, apparently to him--poor, tipsy savage--in self-defence, punishable, in a white offender, by asmall fine or a few days' imprisonment, it assured Bras-Coupé the deathof a felon; such was the old _Code Noir_. (We have a _Code Noir_ now, but the new one is a mental reservation, not an enactment. )

The guests stood for an instant as if frozen, smitten stiff with theinstant expectation of insurrection, conflagration and rapine (just aswe do to-day whenever some poor swaggering Pompey rolls up his fist andgets a ball through his body), while, single-handed and naked-fisted ina room full of swords, the giant stood over his master, making strangesigns and passes and rolling out in wrathful words of his mother tonguewhat it needed no interpreter to tell his swarming enemies was a voudoumalediction. 

"_Nous sommes grigis!_" screamed two or three ladies, "we arebewitched!"

"Look to your wives and daughters!" shouted a Brahmin-Mandarin. 

"Shoot the black devils without mercy!" cried a Mandarin-Fusilier, unconsciously putting into a single outflash of words the whole Creoletreatment of race troubles. 

With a single bound Bras-Coupé reached the drawing-room door; his gaudyregimentals made a red and blue streak down the hall; there was a rushof frilled and powdered gentlemen to the rear veranda, an avalanche oflightning with Bras-Coupé in the midst making for the swamp, and thenall without was blackness of darkness and all within was a wildcommingled chatter of Creole, French, and Spanish tongues, --in the midstof which the reluctant Agricola returned his dresssword to its scabbard. 

While the wet lanterns swung on crazily in the trees along the way bywhich the bridegroom was to have borne his bride; while MadameGrandissime prepared an impromptu bridalchamber; while the Spaniardbathed his eye and the blue gash on his cheek-bone; while Palmyre pacedher room in a fever and wild tremor of conflicting emotions throughoutthe night, and the guests splashed home after the storm as best theycould, Bras-Coupé was practically declaring his independence on a slightrise of ground hardly sixty feet in circumference and lifted scarceabove the water in the inmost depths of the swamp. 

And amid what surroundings! Endless colonnades of cypresses; long, motionless drapings of gray moss; broad sheets of noisome waters, pitchyblack, resting on bottomless ooze; cypress knees studding the surface;patches of floating green, gleaming brilliantly here and there; yonderwhere the sunbeams wedge themselves in, constellations of water-lilies, the many-hued iris, and a multitude of flowers that no man had named;here, too, serpents great and small, of wonderful colorings, and thedull and loathsome moccasin sliding warily off the dead tree; in dimmerrecesses the cow alligator, with her nest hard by; turtles a centuryold; owls and bats, raccoons, opossums, rats, centipedes and creaturesof like vileness; great vines of beautiful leaf and scarlet fruit indeadly clusters; maddening mosquitoes, parasitic insects, gorgeousdragon-flies and pretty water-lizards: the blue heron, the snowy crane, the red-bird, the moss-bird, the night-hawk and the chuckwill's-widow; asolemn stillness and stifled air only now and then disturbed by the callor whir of the summer duck, the dismal ventriloquous note of therain-crow, or the splash of a dead branch falling into the clear butlifeless bayou. 

The pack of Cuban hounds that howl from Don José's kennels cannot snuffthe trail of the stolen canoe that glides through the sombre blue vaporsof the African's fastnesses. His arrows send no telltale reverberationsto the distant clearing. Many a wretch in his native wilderness hasBras-Coupé himself, in palmier days, driven to just such an existence, to escape the chains and horrors of the barracoons; therefore not a whitbroods he over man's inhumanity, but, taking the affair as a matter ofcourse, casts about him for a future. 

CHAPTER XXIX

THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPÉ, CONTINUED

Bras-Coupé let the autumn pass, and wintered in his den. 

Don José, in a majestic way, endeavored to be happy. He took his señorato his hall, and under her rule it took on for a while a look andfeeling which turned it from a hunting-lodge into a home. Wherever thelady's steps turned--or it is as correct to say wherever the proud treadof Palmyre turned--the features of bachelor's-hall disappeared; guns, dogs, oars, saddles, nets, went their way into proper banishment, andthe broad halls and lofty chambers--the floors now muffled with mats ofpalmetto-leaf--no longer re-echoed the tread of a lonely master, butbreathed a redolence of flowers and a rippling murmur ofwell-contented song. 

But the song was not from the throat of Bras-Coupé's "_piti zozo_. "Silent and severe by day, she moaned away whole nights heapingreproaches upon herself for the impulse--now to her, because it hadfailed, inexplicable in its folly--which had permitted her hand to liein Bras-Coupé's and the priest to bind them together. 

For in the audacity of her pride, or, as Agricola would have said, inthe immensity of her impudence, she had held herself consecrate to ahopeless love. But now she was a black man's wife! and even he unableto sit at her feet and learn the lesson she had hoped to teach him. Shehad heard of San Domingo; for months the fierce heart within her silentbosom had been leaping and shouting and seeing visions of fire andblood, and when she brooded over the nearness of Agricola and theremoteness of Honoré these visions got from her a sort of mad consent. The lesson she would have taught the giant was Insurrection. But it wastoo late. Letting her dagger sleep in her bosom, and with an undefinedbelief in imaginary resources, she had consented to join hands with hergiant hero before the priest; and when the wedding had come and gonelike a white sail, she was seized with a lasting, fierce despair. A wildaggressiveness that had formerly characterized her glance in moments ofanger--moments which had grown more and more infrequent under thesoftening influence of her Mademoiselle's nature--now came backintensified, and blazed in her eye perpetually. Whatever her secret lovemay have been in kind, its sinking beyond hope below the horizon hadleft her fifty times the mutineer she had been before--the mutineer whohas nothing to lose. 

"She loves her _candio_" said the negroes. 

"Simple creatures!" said the overseer, who prided himself on hisdiscernment, "she loves nothing; she hates Agricola; it's a case of hateat first sight--the strongest kind. "

Both were partly right; her feelings were wonderfully knit to theAfrican; and she now dedicated herself to Agricola's ruin. 

The señor, it has been said, endeavored to be happy; but now his heartconceived and brought forth its first-born fear, sired bysuperstition--the fear that he was bewitched. The negroes said thatBras-Coupé had cursed the land. Morning after morning the master lookedout with apprehension toward the fields, until one night the worm cameupon the indigo, and between sunset and sunrise every green leaf hadbeen eaten up and there was nothing left for either insect orapprehension to feed upon. 

And then he said--and the echo came back from the Cannes Brulées--thatthe very bottom culpability of this thing rested on the Grandissimes, and specifically on their fugleman Agricola, through his putting thehellish African upon him. Moreover, fever and death, to a degree unknownbefore, fell upon his slaves. Those to whom life was spared--but to whomstrength did not return--wandered about the place like scarecrows, looking for shelter, and made the very air dismal with the reiteration, "_No' ouanga_ (we are bewitched), _Bras-Coupé fé moi des grigis_ (thevoudou's spells are on me). " The ripple of song was hushed and theflowers fell upon the floor. 

"I have heard an English maxim, " wrote Colonel De Grapion to hiskinsman, "which I would recommend you to put into practice--'Fight thedevil with fire. '"

No, he would not recognize devils as belligerents. 

But if Rome commissioned exorcists, could not he employ one?

No, he would not! If his hounds could not catch Bras-Coupé, why, let himgo. The overseer tried the hounds once more and came home with the bestone across his saddle-bow, an arrow run half through its side. 

Once the blacks attempted by certain familiar rum-pourings and nocturnalcharm-singing to lift the curse; but the moment the master heard thewild monotone of their infernal worship, he stopped it with a word. 

Early in February came the spring, and with it some resurrection of hopeand courage. It may have been--it certainly was, in part--because youngHonoré Grandissime had returned. He was like the sun's warmth whereverhe went; and the other Honoré was like his shadow. The fairer onequickly saw the meaning of these things, hastened to cheer the young donwith hopes of a better future, and to effect, if he could, therestoration of Bras-Coupé to his master's favor. But this latter effortwas an idle one. He had long sittings with his uncle Agricola to thesame end, but they always ended fruitless and often angrily. 

His dark half-brother had seen Palmyre and loved her. Honoré wouldgladly have solved one or two riddles by effecting their honorable unionin marriage. The previous ceremony on the Grandissime back piazza needbe no impediment; all slave-owners understood those things. FollowingHonoré's advice, the f. M. C. , who had come into possession of hispaternal portion, sent to Cannes Brulées a written offer, to buy Palmyreat any price that her master might name, stating his intention to freeher and make her his wife. Colonel De Grapion could hardly hope tosettle Palmyre's fate more satisfactorily, yet he could not forego anopportunity to indulge his pride by following up the threat he had hungover Agricola to kill whosoever should give Palmyre to a black man. Hereferred the subject and the would-be purchaser to him. It would open upto the old braggart a line of retreat, thought the planter of theCannes Brulées. 

But the idea of retreat had left Citizen Fusilier. 

"She is already married, " said he to M. Honoré Grandissime, f. M. C. "Sheis the lawful wife of Bras-Coupé; and what God has joined together letno man put asunder. You know it, sirrah. You did this for impudence, tomake a show of your wealth. You intended it as an insinuation ofequality. I overlook the impertinence for the sake of the man whosewhite blood you carry; but h-mark you, if ever you bring your Parisianairs and self-sufficient face on a level with mine again, h-I willslap it. "

The quadroon, three nights after, was so indiscreet as to give him theopportunity, and he did it--at that quadroon ball to which Dr. Keenealluded in talking to Frowenfeld. 

But Don José, we say, plucked up new spirit. . 

"Last year's disasters were but fortune's freaks, " he said. "See, others' crops have failed all about us. "

The overseer shook his head. 

"_C'est ce maudit cocodri' là bas_ (It is that accursed alligator, Bras-Coupé, down yonder in the swamp). "

And by and by the master was again smitten with the same belief. He andhis neighbors put in their crops afresh. The spring waned, summerpassed, the fevers returned, the year wore round, but no harvest smiled. "Alas!" cried the planters, "we are all poor men!" The worst among theworst were the fields of Bras-Coupé's master--parched and shrivelled. "He does not understand planting, " said his neighbors; "neither does hisoverseer. Maybe, too, it is true as he says, that he is voudoued. "

One day at high noon the master was taken sick with fever. 

The third noon after--the sad wife sitting by the bedside--suddenly, right in the centre of the room, with the door open behind him, stoodthe magnificent, half-nude form of Bras-Coupé. He did not fall down asthe mistress's eyes met his, though all his flesh quivered. The masterwas lying with his eyes closed. The fever had done a fearful threedays' work. 

"_Mioko-Koanga oulé so' femme_ (Bras-Coupé wants his wife). "

The master started wildly and stared upon his slave. 

"_Bras-Coupé oulé so' femme_!" repeated the black. 

"Seize him!" cried the sick man, trying to rise. 

But, though several servants had ventured in with frightened faces, nonedared molest the giant. The master turned his entreating eyes upon hiswife, but she seemed stunned, and only covered her face with her handsand sat as if paralyzed by a foreknowledge of what was coming. 

Bras-Coupé lifted his great black palm and commenced:

"_Mo cé voudrai que la maison ci là, et tout ça qui pas femme' ici, s'raient encore maudits_! (May this house, and all in it who are notwomen, be accursed). "

The master fell back upon his pillow with a groan of helpless wrath. 

The African pointed his finger through the open window. 

"May its fields not know the plough nor nourish the herds that overrunit. "

The domestics, who had thus far stood their ground, suddenly rushed fromthe room like stampeded cattle, and at that moment appeared Palmyre. 

"Speak to him, " faintly cried the panting invalid. 

She went firmly up to her husband and lifted her hand. With an easymotion, but quick as lightning, as a lion sets foot on a dog, he caughther by the arm. 

"_Bras-Coupé oulé so' femme_, " he said, and just then Palmyre would havegone with him to the equator. 

"You shall not have her!" gasped the master. 

The African seemed to rise in height, and still holding his wife atarm's length, resumed his malediction:

"May weeds cover the ground until the air is full of their odor and thewild beasts of the forest come and lie down under their cover. "

With a frantic effort the master lifted himself upon his elbow andextended his clenched fist in speechless defiance; but his brain reeled, his sight went out, and when again he saw, Palmyre and her mistress werebending over him, the overseer stood awkwardly by, and Bras-Coupéwas gone. 

The plantation became an invalid camp. The words of the voudou foundfulfilment on every side. The plough went not out; the herds wanderedthrough broken hedges from field to field and came up with staring bonesand shrunken sides; a frenzied mob of weeds and thorns wrestled andthrottled each other in a struggle for standing-room--rag-weed, smart-weed, sneeze-weed, bindweed, iron-weed--until the burning skies ofmidsummer checked their growth and crowned their unshorn tops with rankand dingy flowers. 

"Why in the name of--St. Francis, " asked the priest of the overseer, "didn't the señora use her power over the black scoundrel when he stoodand cursed, that day?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, father, " said the overseer, in a discreetwhisper, "I can only suppose she thought Bras-Coupé had half a rightto do it. "

"Ah, ah, I see; like her brother Honoré--looks at both sides of aquestion--a miserable practice; but why couldn't Palmyre use _her_ eyes?They would have stopped him. "

"Palmyre? Why Palmyre has become the best _monture_ (Plutonian medium)in the parish. Agricola Fusilier himself is afraid of her. Sir, I thinksometimes Bras-Coupé is dead and his spirit has gone into Palmyre. Shewould rather add to his curse than take from it. "

"Ah!" said the jovial divine, with a fat smile, "castigation would helpher case; the whip is a great sanctifier. I fancy it would even make aChristian of the inexpugnable Bras-Coupé. "

But Bras-Coupé kept beyond the reach alike of the lash and of the LatinBible. 

By and by came a man with a rumor, whom the overseer brought to themaster's sick-room, to tell that an enterprising Frenchman wasattempting to produce a new staple in Louisiana, one that worms wouldnot annihilate. It was that year of history when the despairing planterssaw ruin hovering so close over them that they cried to heaven forsuccor. Providence raised up Étienne de Boré. "And if Étienne issuccessful, " cried the news-bearer, "and gets the juice of thesugar-cane to crystallize, so shall all of us, after him, and shall yetsave our lands and homes. Oh, Señor, it will make you strong again tosee these fields all cane and the long rows of negroes and negressescutting it, while they sing their song of those droll African numerals, counting the canes they cut, " and the bearer of good tidings sang themfor very joy:

[Illustration: music]

 An-o-qué, An-o-bia, Bia-tail-la, Qué-re-qué, Nal-le-oua, Au-mon-dé, Au-tap-o-té, Au-pé-to-té, Au-qué-ré-qué, Bo. 

"And Honoré Grandissime is going to introduce it on his lands, " said DonJosé. 

"That is true, " said Agricola Fusilier, coming in. Honoré, theindefatigable peacemaker, had brought his uncle and his brother-in-lawfor the moment not only to speaking, but to friendly, terms. 

The señor smiled. 

"I have some good tidings, too, " he said; "my beloved lady has borne mea son. "

"Another scion of the house of Grand--I mean Martinez!" exclaimedAgricola. "And now, Don José, let me say that _I_ have an item of rareintelligence!"

The don lifted his feeble head and opened his inquiring eyes with asudden, savage light in them. 

"No, " said Agricola, "he is not exactly taken yet, but they are on histrack. "

"Who?"

"The police. We may say he is virtually in our grasp. "

 * * * * *

It was on a Sabbath afternoon that a band of Choctaws having just playeda game of racquette behind the city and a similar game being about toend between the white champions of two rival faubourgs, the beating oftom-toms, rattling of mules' jawbones and sounding of wooden horns drewthe populace across the fields to a spot whose present name of CongoSquare still preserves a reminder of its old barbaric pastimes. On agrassy plain under the ramparts, the performers of these hideousdiscords sat upon the ground facing each other, and in their midst thedancers danced. They gyrated in couples, a few at a time, throwing theirbodies into the most startling attitudes and the wildest contortions, while the whole company of black lookers-on, incited by the tones of theweird music and the violent posturing of the dancers, swayed and writhedin passionate sympathy, beating their breasts, palms and thighs in timewith the bones and drums, and at frequent intervals lifting, in thatwild African unison no more to be described than forgotten, theunutterable songs of the Babouille and Counjaille dances, with theirejaculatory burdens of "_Aie! Aie! Voudou Magnan!_" and "_Aie Calinda!Dancé Calinda!_" The volume of sound rose and fell with the augmentationor diminution of the dancers' extravagances. Now a fresh man, young andsupple, bounding into the ring, revived the flagging rattlers, drummersand trumpeters; now a wearied dancer, finding his strength going, gathered all his force at the cry of "_Dancé zisqu'a mort!_" rallied toa grand finale and with one magnificent antic fell, foaming atthe mouth. 

The amusement had reached its height. Many participants had been luggedout by the neck to avoid their being danced on, and the enthusiasm hadrisen to a frenzy, when there bounded into the ring the blackest ofblack men, an athlete of superb figure, in breeches of "Indienne"--thestuff used for slave women's best dresses--jingling with bells, his feetin moccasins, his tight, crisp hair decked out with feathers, a necklaceof alligator's teeth rattling on his breast and a living serpent twinedabout his neck. 

It chanced that but one couple was dancing. Whether they had been sentthere by advice of Agricola is not certain. Snatching a tambourine froma bystander as he entered, the stranger thrust the male dancer aside, faced the woman and began a series of saturnalian antics, compared withwhich all that had gone before was tame and sluggish; and as he finallyleaped, with tinkling heels, clean over his bewildered partner's head, the multitude howled with rapture. 

Ill-starred Bras-Coupé. He was in that extra-hazardous and irresponsiblecondition of mind and body known in the undignified present as"drunk again. "

By the strangest fortune, if not, as we have just hinted, by somedesign, the man whom he had once deposited in the willow bushes, and thewoman Clemence, were the very two dancers, and no other, whom he hadinterrupted. The man first stupidly regarded, next admiringly gazedupon, and then distinctly recognized, his whilom driver. Five minuteslater the Spanish police were putting their heads together to devise aquick and permanent capture; and in the midst of the sixth minute, asthe wonderful fellow was rising in a yet more astounding leap than hislast, a lasso fell about his neck and brought him, crashing like a burnttree, face upward upon the turf. 

"The runaway slave, " said the old French code, continued in force by theSpaniards, "the runaway slave who shall continue to be so for one monthfrom the day of his being denounced to the officers of justice shallhave his ears cut off and shall be branded with the flower de luce onthe shoulder; and on a second offence of the same nature, persisted induring one month of his being denounced, he shall be hamstrung, and bemarked with the flower de luce on the other shoulder. On the thirdoffence he shall die. " Bras-Coupé had run away only twice. "But, " saidAgricola, "these 'bossals' must be taught their place. Besides, there isArticle 27 of the same code: 'The slave who, having struck his master, shall have produced a bruise, shall suffer capital punishment'--a verynecessary law!" He concluded with a scowl upon Palmyre, who shot back aglance which he never forgot. 

The Spaniard showed himself very merciful--for a Spaniard; he spared thecaptive's life. He might have been more merciful still; but HonoréGrandissime said some indignant things in the African's favor, and asmuch to teach the Grandissimes a lesson as to punish the runaway, hewould have repented his clemency, as he repented the momentary trucewith Agricola, but for the tearful pleading of the señora and the hot, dry eyes of her maid. Because of these he overlooked the offence againsthis person and estate, and delivered Bras-Coupé to the law to sufferonly the penalties of the crime he had committed against society byattempting to be a free man. 

We repeat it for the credit of Palmyre, that she pleaded for Bras-Coupé. But what it cost her to make that intercession, knowing that his deathwould leave her free, and that if he lived she must be his wife, let usnot attempt to say. 

In the midst of the ancient town, in a part which is now crumbling away, stood the Calaboza, with its humid vaults and grated cells, its ironcages and its whips; and there, soon enough, they strapped Bras-Coupéface downward and laid on the lash. And yet not a sound came from themutilated but unconquered African to annoy the ear of the sleeping city. 

("And you suffered this thing to take place?" asked Joseph Frowenfeld ofHonoré Grandissime. 

"My-de'-seh!" exclaimed the Creole, "they lied to me--said they wouldnot harm him!")

He was brought at sunrise to the plantation. The air was sweet with thesmell of the weed-grown fields. The long-horned oxen that drew him andthe naked boy that drove the team stopped before his cabin. 

"You cannot put that creature in there, " said the thoughtful overseer. "He would suffocate under a roof--he has been too long out-of-doors forthat. Put him on my cottage porch. " There, at last, Palmyre burst intotears and sank down, while before her, on a soft bed of dry grass, rested the helpless form of the captive giant, a cloth thrown over hisgalled back, his ears shorn from his head, and the tendons behind hisknees severed. His eyes were dry, but there was in them that unspeakabledespair that fills the eye of the charger when, fallen in battle, hegazes with sidewise-bended neck on the ruin wrought upon him. His eyeturned sometimes slowly to his wife. He need not demand her now--she wasalways by him. 

There was much talk over him--much idle talk. He merely lay still underit with a fixed frown; but once some incautious tongue dropped the nameof Agricola. The black man's eyes came so quickly round to Palmyre thatshe thought he would speak; but no; his words were all in his eyes. Sheanswered their gleam with a fierce affirmative glance, whereupon heslowly bent his head and spat upon the floor. 

There was yet one more trial of his wild nature. The mandate came fromhis master's sick-bed that he must lift the curse. 

Bras-Coupé merely smiled. God keep thy enemy from such a smile!

The overseer, with a policy less Spanish than his master's, endeavoredto use persuasion. But the fallen prince would not so much as turn oneglance from his parted hamstrings. Palmyre was then besought tointercede. She made one poor attempt, but her husband was nearer doingher an unkindness than ever he had been before; he made a slow sign forsilence--with his fist; and every mouth was stopped. 

At midnight following, there came, on the breeze that blew from themansion, a sound of running here and there, of wailing andsobbing--another Bridegroom was coming, and the Spaniard, with much sucha lamp in hand as most of us shall be found with, neither burningbrightly nor wholly gone out, went forth to meet Him. 

"Bras-Coupé, " said Palmyre, next evening, speaking low in his mangledear, "the master is dead; he is just buried. As he was dying, Bras-Coupé, he asked that you would forgive him. "

The maimed man looked steadfastly at his wife. He had not spoken sincethe lash struck him, and he spoke not now; but in those large, cleareyes, where his remaining strength seemed to have taken refuge as in acitadel, the old fierceness flared up for a moment, and then, like anexpiring beacon, went out. 

"Is your mistress well enough by this time to venture here?" whisperedthe overseer to Palmyre. "Let her come. Tell her not to fear, but tobring the babe--in her own arms, tell her--quickly!"

The lady came, her infant boy in her arms, knelt down beside the bed ofsweet grass and set the child within the hollow of the African's arm. Bras-Coupé turned his gaze upon it; it smiled, its mother's smile, andput its hand upon the runaway's face, and the first tears ofBras-Coupé's life, the dying testimony of his humanity, gushed from hiseyes and rolled down his cheek upon the infant's hand. He laid his owntenderly upon the babe's forehead, then removing it, waved it abroad, inaudibly moved his lips, dropped his arm, and closed his eyes. Thecurse was lifted. 

"_Le pauv' dgiab'_!" said the overseer, wiping his eyes and lookingfieldward. "Palmyre, you must get the priest. "

The priest came, in the identical gown in which he had appeared thenight of the two weddings. To the good father's many tender questionsBras-Coupé turned a failing eye that gave no answers; until, at length:

"Do you know where you are going?" asked the holy man. 

"Yes, " answered his eyes, brightening. 

"Where?"

He did not reply; he was lost in contemplation, and seemed looking faraway. 

So the question was repeated. 

"Do you know where you are going?"

And again the answer of the eyes. He knew. 

"Where?"

The overseer at the edge of the porch, the widow with her babe, andPalmyre and the priest bending over the dying bed, turned an eager earto catch the answer. 

"To--" the voice failed a moment; the departing hero essayed again;again it failed; he tried once more, lifted his hand, and with anecstatic, upward smile, whispered, "To--Africa"--and was gone. 

CHAPTER XXX

PARALYSIS

As we have said, the story of Bras-Coupé was told that day three times:to the Grandissime beauties once, to Frowenfeld twice. The fairGrandissimes all agreed, at the close; that it was pitiful. Specially, that it was a great pity to have hamstrung Bras-Coupé, a man who even inhis cursing had made an exception in favor of the ladies. True, theycould suggest no alternative; it was undeniable that he had deserved hisfate; still, it seemed a pity. They dispersed, retired and went to sleepconfirmed in this sentiment. In Frowenfeld the story stirreddeeper feelings. 

On this same day, while it was still early morning, Honoré Grandissime, f. M. C. , with more than even his wonted slowness of step and propriety ofrich attire, had reappeared in the shop of the rue Royale. He did notneed to say he desired another private interview. Frowenfeld ushered himsilently and at once into his rear room, offered him a chair (which heaccepted), and sat down before him. 

In his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge that Frowenfeld hadbeen three times to the dwelling of Palmyre Philosophe. Why, he furtherintimated, he knew not, nor would he ask; but _he_--when _he_ hadapplied for admission--had been refused. He had laid open his heart tothe apothecary's eyes--"It may have been unwisely--"

Frowenfeld interrupted him; Palmyre had been ill for several days;Doctor Keene--who, Mr. Grandissime probably knew, was her physician--

The landlord bowed, and Frowenfeld went on to explain that Doctor Keene, while attending her, had also fallen sick and had asked him to take thecare of this one case until he could himself resume it. So there, in aword, was the reason why Joseph had, and others had not, been admittedto her presence. 

As obviously to the apothecary's eyes as anything intangible could be, aload of suffering was lifted from the quadroon's mind, as thisexplanation was concluded. Yet he only sat in meditation before histenant, who regarded him long and sadly. Then, seized with one of hisenergetic impulses, he suddenly said:

"Mr. Grandissime, you are a man of intelligence, accomplishments, leisure and wealth; why" (clenchings his fists and frowning), "why do you not give yourself--yourtime--wealth--attainments--energies--everything--to the cause of thedowntrodden race with which this community's scorn unjustly compels youto rank yourself?"

The quadroon did not meet Frowenfeld's kindled eyes for a moment, andwhen he did, it was slowly and dejectedly. 

"He canno' be, " he said, and then, seeing his words were not understood, he added: "He 'ave no Cause. Dad peop' 'ave no Cause. " He went on fromthis with many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to tell, witha plaintiveness that seemed to Frowenfeld almost unmanly, the reasonswhy the people, a little of whose blood had been enough to blast hislife, would never be free by the force of their own arm. Reduced to themeanings which he vainly tried to convey in words, his statement wasthis: that that people was not a people. Their cause--was in Africa. They upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here thestruggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war. 

"You speak of them in the third person, " said Frowenfeld. 

"Ah ham nod a slev. "

"Are you certain of that?" asked the tenant. 

His landlord looked at him. 

"It seems to me, " said Frowenfeld, "that you--your class--the freequadroons--are the saddest slaves of all. Your men, for a littleproperty, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselvesbe shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of shamfreedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattensthem into the dirt like grass under a slab. I would rather be a runawayin the swamps than content myself with such a freedom. As your classstands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--youare--I do not know but I was almost ready to say--a warning tophilanthropists!"

The free man of color slowly arose. 

"I trust you know, " said Frowenfeld, "that I say nothing in offence. "

"Havery word is tru', " replied the sad man. 

"Mr. Grandissime, " said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back againinto his seat, "I know you are a broken-hearted man. "

The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up. 

"And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work ofpatient and sustained self-sacrifice. You have only those things to losewhich grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display. Giveyourself to your people--to those, I mean, who groan, or should groan, under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common. "

The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment's silence, answered:

"Ah cannod be one Toussaint l'Ouverture. Ah cannod trah to be. Hiv Itrah, I h-only s'all soogceed to be one Bras-Coupé. "

"You entirely misunderstand me, " said Frowenfeld in quick response. "Ihave no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection. I believethat to every desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife andthe way of peace. I can imagine a man in your place, going about amonghis people, stirring up their minds to a noble discontent, laying outhis means, sparingly here and bountifully there, as in each case mightseem wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, theirtraining in skilled work; going, too, among the men of the proudercaste, among such as have a spirit of fairness, and seeking to prevailwith them for a public recognition of the rights of all; using all hiscunning to show them the double damage of all oppression, both great andpetty--"

The quadroon motioned "enough. " There was a heat in his eyes whichFrowenfeld had never seen before. 

"M'sieu', " he said, "waid till Agricola Fusilier ees keel. "

"Do you mean 'dies'?"

"No, " insisted the quadroon; "listen. " And with slow, painstaking phrasethis man of strong feeling and feeble will (the trait of his caste)told--as Frowenfeld felt he would do the moment he said "listen"--suchpart of the story of Bras-Coupé as showed how he came by his deadlyhatred of Agricola. 

"Tale me, " said the landlord, as he concluded the recital, "w'y deenBras Coupé mague dad curze on Agricola Fusilier? Becoze Agricola ees onesorcier! Elz 'e bin dade sinz long tamm. "

The speaker's gestures seemed to imply that his own hand, if need be, would have brought the event to pass. 

As he rose to say adieu, Frowenfeld, without previous intention, laid ahand upon his visitor's arm. 

"Is there no one who can make peace between you?"

The landlord shook his head. 

"'Tis impossib'. We don' wand. "

"I mean, " insisted Frowenfeld, "Is there no man who can stand betweenyou and those who wrong you, and effect a peaceful reparation?"

The landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his tenant speaking, buteach knowing that the one man in the minds of both, as a possiblepeacemaker, was Honoré Grandissime. 

"Should the opportunity offer, " continued Joseph, "may I speak a wordfor you myself?"

The quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely though bitterly, anddeparted repeating again:

"'Tis impossib'. We don' wand. "

"Palsied, " murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully, --"likeall of them. "

Frowenfeld's thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day havingpassed, the hour was approaching wherein Innerarity was exhorted to tellhis good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Grandissimemansion. As the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, thefairer Honoré called him out into the moonlight. 

"Withered, " the student was saying audibly to himself, "not in theshadow of the Ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man. "

"Who is withered?" pleasantly demanded Honoré. The apothecary startedslightly. 

"Did I speak? How do you do, sir? I meant the free quadroons. "

"Including the gentleman from whom you rent your store?"

"Yes, him especially; he told me this morning the story of Bras-Coupé. "

M. Grandissime laughed. Joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh soundentirely genuine. 

"Do not open the door, Mr Frowenfeld, " said the Creole, "Get yourgreatcoat and cane and come take a walk with me; I will tell you thesame story. "

It was two hours before they approached this door again on their return. Just before they reached it, Honoré stopped under the huge street-lamp, whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on theground in the narrow, moonlit street. There was a tall, unfinishedbuilding at his back. 

"Mr Frowenfeld, "--he struck the stone with his cane, --"this stone isBras-Coupé--we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools. "

He laughed. He had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a manof Frowenfeld's quiet mind. 

As the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hearhis companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it couldbe--for M. Grandissime had not disclosed it--that induced such a man ashe to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chilland dangerous hours. "What does he want with me?" The thought was sonatural that it was no miracle the Creole read it. 

"Well, " said he, smiling and taking an attitude, "you are a great manfor causes, Mr. Frowenfeld; but me, I am for results, ha, ha! You mayponder the philosophy of Bras-Coupé in your study, but _I_ have got toget rid of his results, me. You know them. "

"You tell me it revived a war where you had made a peace, " saidFrowenfeld. 

"Yes--yes--that is his results; but good night, Mr. Frowenfeld. "

"Good night, sir. "

CHAPTER XXXI

ANOTHER WOUND IN A NEW PLACE

Each day found Doctor Keene's strength increasing, and on the morningfollowing the incidents last recorded he was imprudently projecting anoutdoor promenade. An announcement from Honoré Grandissime, who hadpaid an early call, had, to that gentleman's no small surprise, produceda sudden and violent effect on the little man's temper. 

He was sitting alone by his window, looking out upon the levee, when theapothecary entered the apartment. 

"Frowenfeld, " he instantly began, with evident displeasure mostunaccountable to Joseph, "I hear you have been visiting the Nancanous. "

"Yes, I have been there. "

"Well, you had no business to go!"

Doctor Keene smote the arm of his chair with his fist. 

Frowenfeld reddened with indignation, but suppressed his retort. Hestood still in the middle of the floor, and Doctor Keene looked out ofthe window. 

"Doctor Keene, " said the visitor, when his attitude was no longertolerable, "have you anything more to say to me before I leave you?"

"No, sir. "

"It is necessary for me, then, to say that in fulfilment of my promise, I am going from here to the house of Palmyre, and that she will need nofurther attention after to-day. As to your present manner toward me, Ishall endeavor to suspend judgment until I have some knowledge ofits cause. "

The doctor made no reply, but went on looking out of the window, andFrowenfeld turned and left him. 

As he arrived in the philosophe's sick-chamber--where he found hersitting in a chair set well back from a small fire--she half-whispered"Miché" with a fine, greeting smile, as if to a brother after a week'sabsence. To a person forced to lie abed, shut away from occupation andevents, a day is ten, three are a month: not merely in the wear and tearupon the patience, but also in the amount of thinking and recollectingdone. It was to be expected, then, that on this, the apothecary's fourthvisit, Palmyre would have learned to take pleasure in his coming. 

But the smile was followed by a faint, momentary frown, as if Frowenfeldhad hardly returned it in kind. Likely enough, he had not. He was notdistinctively a man of smiles; and as he engaged in his appointed taskshe presently thought of this. 

"This wound is doing so well, " said Joseph, still engaged with thebandages, "that I shall not need to come again. " He was not looking ather as he spoke, but he felt her give a sudden start. "What is this?" hethought, but presently said very quietly: "With the assistance of yourslave woman, you can now attend to it yourself. "

She made no answer. 

When, with a bow, he would have bade her good morning, she held out herhand for his. After a barely perceptible hesitation, he gave it, whereupon she held it fast, in a way to indicate that there wassomething to be said which he must stay and hear. 

She looked up into his face. She may have been merely framing in hermind the word or two of English she was about to utter; but anexcitement shone through her eyes and reddened her lips, and somethingsent out from her countenance a look of wild distress. 

"You goin' tell 'im?" she asked. 

"Who? Agricola?"

"_Non_!"

He spoke the next name more softly. 

"Honoré?"

Her eyes looked deeply into his for a moment, then dropped, and she madea sign of assent. 

He was about to say that Honoré knew already, but saw no necessity fordoing so, and changed his answer. 

"I will never tell any one. "

"You know?" she asked, lifting her eyes for an instant. She meant to askif he knew the motive that had prompted her murderous intent. 

"I know your whole sad history. "

She looked at him for a moment, fixedly; then, still holding his handwith one of hers, she threw the other to her face and turned away herhead. He thought she moaned. 

Thus she remained for a few moments, then suddenly she turned, claspedboth hands about his, her face flamed up and she opened her lips tospeak, but speech failed. An expression of pain and supplication cameupon her countenance, and the cry burst from her:

"Meg 'im to love me!"

He tried to withdraw his hand, but she held it fast, and, looking upimploringly with her wide, electric eyes, cried:

"_Vous pouvez le faire, vous pouvez le faire_ (You can do it, you can doit); _vous êtes sorcier, mo conné bien vous êtes sorcier_ (you are asorcerer, I know). "

However harmless or healthful Joseph's touch might be to the philosophe, he felt now that hers, to him, was poisonous. He dared encounter hereyes, her touch, her voice, no longer. The better man in him wassuffocating. He scarce had power left to liberate his right hand withhis left, to seize his hat and go. 

Instantly she rose from her chair, threw herself on her knees in hispath, and found command of his language sufficient to cry as she liftedher arms, bared of their drapery:

"Oh, my God! don' rif-used me--don' rif-used me!"

There was no time to know whether Frowenfeld wavered or not. The thoughtflashed into his mind that in all probability all the care and skill hehad spent upon the wound was being brought to naught in this moment ofwild posturing and excitement; but before it could have effect upon hismovements, a stunning blow fell upon the back of his head, and Palmyre'sslave woman, the Congo dwarf, under the impression that it was the mosttimely of strokes, stood brandishing a billet of pine and preparing torepeat the blow. 

He hurled her, snarling and gnashing like an ape, against the fartherwall, cast the bar from the street door and plunged out, hatless, bleeding and stunned. 

CHAPTER XXXII

INTERRUPTED PRELIMINARIES

About the same time of day, three gentlemen (we use the term gentlemenin its petrified state) were walking down the rue Royale from thedirection of the Faubourg Ste. Marie. 

They were coming down toward Palmyre's corner. The middle one, tall andshapely, might have been mistaken at first glance for HonoréGrandissime, but was taller and broader, and wore a cocked hat, whichHonoré did not. It was Valentine. The short, black-bearded man inbuckskin breeches on his right was Jean-Baptiste Grandissime, and theslight one on the left, who, with the prettiest and most gracefulgestures and balancings, was leading the conversation, was HippolyteBrahmin-Mandarin, a cousin and counterpart of that sturdy-heartedchallenger of Agricola, Sylvestre. 

"But after all, " he was saying in Louisiana French, "there is no spotcomparable, for comfortable seclusion, to the old orange grove underthe levee on the Point; twenty minutes in a skiff, five minutes forpreliminaries--you would not want more, the ground has been measured offfive hundred times--'are you ready?'--"

"Ah, bah!" said Valentine, tossing his head, "the Yankees would be downon us before you could count one. "

"Well, then, behind the Jesuits' warehouses, if you insist. I don'tcare. Perdition take such a government! I am almost sorry I went to thegovernor's reception. "

"It was quiet, I hear; a sort of quiet ball, all promenading and nocontra-dances. One quadroon ball is worth five of such. "

This was the opinion of Jean-Baptiste. 

"No, it was fine, anyhow. There was a contra-dance. The musicwas--tárata joonc, tará, tará--tárata joonc, tarárata joonc, tará--oh!it was the finest thing--and composed here. They compose as fine thingshere as they do anywhere in the--look there! That man came out ofPalmyre's house; see how he staggered just then!"

"Drunk, " said Jean-Baptiste. 

"No, he seems to be hurt. He has been struck on the head. Oho, I tellyou, gentlemen, that same Palmyre is a wonderful animal! Do you see? Shenot only defends herself and ejects the wretch, but she puts her markupon him; she identifies him, ha, ha, ha! Look at the high art of thething; she keeps his hat as a small souvenir and gives him a receipt forit on the back of his head. Ah! but hasn't she taught him a lesson?Why, gentlemen, --it is--if it isn't that sorcerer of an apothecary!"

"What?" exclaimed the other two; "well, well, but this is too good!Caught at last, ha, ha, ha, the saintly villain! Ah, ha, ha! Will notHonoré be proud of him now? _Ah! voilà un joli Joseph!_ What did I tellyou? Didn't I _always_ tell you so?"

"But the beauty of it is, he is caught so cleverly. No escape--nopossible explanation. There he is, gentlemen, as plain as a rat in abarrel, and with as plain a case. Ha, ha, ha! Isn't it just glorious?"

And all three laughed in such an ecstasy of glee that Frowenfeld lookedback, saw them, and knew forthwith that his good name was gone. Thethree gentlemen, with tears of merriment still in their eyes, reached acorner and disappeared. 

"Mister, " said a child, trotting along under Frowenfeld's elbow, --theodd English of the New Orleans street-urchin was at that day justbeginning to be heard--"Mister, dey got some blood on de back ofyou' hade!"

But Frowenfeld hurried on groaning with mental anguish. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL

It was the year 1804. The world was trembling under the tread of thedread Corsican. It was but now that he had tossed away the whole Valleyof the Mississippi, dropping it overboard as a little sand from aballoon, and Christendom in a pale agony of suspense was watching theturn of his eye; yet when a gibbering black fool here on the edge ofcivilization merely swings a pine-knot, the swinging of that pine-knotbecomes to Joseph Frowenfeld, student of man, a matter of greater momentthan the destination of the Boulogne Flotilla. For it now became for themoment the foremost necessity of his life to show, to that minutefraction of the earth's population which our terror misnames "theworld, " that a man may leap forth hatless and bleeding from the house ofa New Orleans quadroon into the open street and yet be pure whitewithin. Would it answer to tell the truth? Parts of that truth he waspledged not to tell; and even if he could tell it all it wasincredible--bore all the features of a flimsy lie. 

"Mister, " repeated the same child who had spoken before, reinforced byanother under the other elbow, "dey got some _blood_ on de back ofyou' hade. "

And the other added the suggestion:

"Dey got one drug-sto', yondah. "

Frowenfeld groaned again. The knock had been a hard one, the ground andsky went round not a little, but he retained withal a white-hot processof thought that kept before him his hopeless inability to explain. Hewas coffined alive. The world (so-called) would bury him in utterloathing, and write on his headstone the one word--hypocrite. And heshould lie there and helplessly contemplate Honoré pushing forward thosepurposes which he had begun to hope he was to have had the honor offurthering. But instead of so doing he would now be the by-word ofthe street. 

"Mister, " interposed the child once more, spokesman this time for adozen blacks and whites of all sizes trailing along before and behind, "_dey got some blood_ on de back of you' _hade_. "

 * * * * *

That same morning Clotilde had given a music-scholar her appointedlesson, and at its conclusion had borrowed of her patroness (howpleasant it must have been to have such things to lend!) a little yellowmaid, in order that, with more propriety, she might make a businesscall. It was that matter of the rent--one that had of late occasionedher great secret distress. "It is plain, " she had begun to say toherself, unable to comprehend Aurora's peculiar trust in Providence, "that if the money is to be got I must get it. " A possibility hadflashed upon her mind; she had nurtured it into a project, had submittedit to her father-confessor in the cathedral, and received hisunqualified approval of it, and was ready this morning to put it intoexecution. A great merit of the plan was its simplicity. It was merelyto find for her heaviest bracelet a purchaser in time, and a pricesufficient, to pay to-morrow's "maturities. " See there again!--to her, her little secret was of greater import than the collision of almost anypine-knot with almost any head. 

It must not be accepted as evidence either of her unwillingness to sellor of the amount of gold in the bracelet, that it took the total ofClotilde's moral and physical strength to carry it to the shop where shehoped--against hope--to dispose of it. 

'Sieur Frowenfeld, M. Innerarity said, was out, but would certainly bein in a few minutes, and she was persuaded to take a chair against thehalf-hidden door at the bottom of the shop with the little borrowed maidcrouched at her feet. 

She had twice or thrice felt a regret that she had undertaken to wait, and was about to rise and go, when suddenly she saw before her JosephFrowenfeld, wiping the sweat of anguish from his brow and smeared withblood from his forehead down. She rose quickly and silently, turned sickand blind, and laid her hand upon the back of the chair for support. Frowenfeld stood an instant before her, groaned, and disappeared throughthe door. The little maid, retreating backward against her from thedirection of the street-door, drew to her attention a crowd ofsight-seers which had rushed up to the doors and against which Raoul washurriedly closing the shop. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

CLOTILDE AS A SURGEON

Was it worse to stay, or to fly? The decision must be instantaneous. ButRaoul made it easy by crying in their common tongue, as he slammed amassive shutter and shot its bolt:

"Go to him! he is down--I heard him fall. Go to him!"

At this rallying cry she seized her shield--that is to say, the littleyellow attendant--and hurried into the room. Joseph lay just beyond themiddle of the apartment, face downward. She found water and a basin, wether own handkerchief, and dropped to her knees beside his head; but themoment he felt the small feminine hands he stood up. She took him bythe arm. 

"_Asseyez-vous, Monsieu'_--pliz to give you'sev de pens to seet down, 'Sieu' Frowenfel'. "

She spoke with a nervous tenderness in contrast with her alarmed andentreating expression of face, and gently pushed him into a chair. 

The child ran behind the bed and burst into frightened sobs, but ceasedwhen Clotilde turned for an instant and glared at her. 

"Mague yo' 'ead back, " said Clotilde, and with tremulous tenderness shesoftly pressed back his brow and began wiping off the blood. "W'ere youis 'urted?"

But while she was asking her question she had found the gash and wasgrowing alarmed at its ugliness, when Raoul, having made everythingfast, came in with:

"Wat's de mattah, 'Sieur Frowenfel'? w'at's de mattah wid you? Oo donedat, 'Sieur Frowen fel'?"

Joseph lifted his head and drew away from it the small hand and wethandkerchief, and without letting go the hand, looked again intoClotilde's eyes, and said:

"Go home; oh, go home!"

"Oh! no, " protested Raoul, whereupon Clotilde turned upon him with aperfectly amiable, nurse's grimace for silence. 

"I goin' rad now, " she said. 

Raoul's silence was only momentary. 

"Were you lef you' hat, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" he asked, and stole anartist's glance at Clotilde, while Joseph straightened up, and nervinghimself to a tolerable calmness of speech, said:

"I have been struck with a stick of wood by a half-witted person under amisunderstanding of my intentions; but the circumstances are such as toblacken my character hopelessly; but I am innocent!" he cried, stretching forward both arms and quite losing his momentaryself-control. 

"'Sieu' Frowenfel'!" cried Clotilde, tears leaping to her eyes, "I amshoe of it!"

"I believe you! I believe you, 'Sieur Frowenfel'!" exclaimed Raoul withsincerity. 

"You will not believe me, " said Joseph. "You will not; it will beimpossible. "

"_Mais_" cried Clotilde, "id shall nod be impossib'!"

But the apothecary shook his head. 

"All I can be suspected of will seem probable; the truth only isincredible. "

His head began to sink and a pallor to overspread his face. 

"_Allez, Monsieur, allez_, " cried Clotilde to Raoul, a picture ofbeautiful terror which he tried afterward to paint from memory, "_appelez_ Doctah Kin!"

Raoul made a dash for his hat, and the next moment she heard, withunpleasant distinctness, his impetuous hand slam the shop door andlock her in. 

"_Baille ma do l'eau_" she called to the little mulattress, whoresponded by searching wildly for a cup and presently bringing ameasuring-glass full of water. 

Clotilde gave it to the wounded man, and he rose at once and stood onhis feet. 

"Raoul. "

"'E gone at Doctah Kin. "

"I do not need Doctor Keene; I am not badly hurt. Raoul should not haveleft you here in this manner. You must not stay. "

"Bud, 'Sieur Frowenfel', I am afred to paz dad gangue!"

A new distress seized Joseph in view of this additional complication. But, unmindful of this suggestion, the fair Creole suddenly exclaimed:

"'Sieu' Frowenfel', you har a hinnocen' man! Go, hopen yo' do's an' stanjuz as you har ub biffo dad crowd and sesso! My God! 'Sieu' Frowenfel', iv you cannod stan' ub by you'sev--"

She ceased suddenly with a wild look, as if another word would havebroken the levees of her eyes, and in that instant Frowenfeld recoveredthe full stature of a man. 

"God bless you!" he cried. "I will do it!" He started, then turned againtoward her, dumb for an instant, and said: "And God reward you! Youbelieve in me, and you do not even know me. "

Her eyes became wilder still as she looked up into his face with thewords:

"_Mais_, I does know you--betteh'n you know annyt'in' boud it!" andturned away, blushing violently. 

Frowenfeld gave a start. She had given him too much light. He recognizedher, and she knew it. For another instant he gazed at her averted face, and then with forced quietness said:

"Please go into the shop. "

The whole time that had elapsed since the shutting of the doors had notexceeded five minutes; a sixth sufficed for Clotilde and her attendantto resume their original position in the nook by the private door andfor Frowenfeld to wash his face and hands. Then the alert and numerousears without heard a drawing of bolts at the door next to that whichRaoul had issued, its leaves opened outward, and first the pale handsand then the white, weakened face and still bloody hair and apparel ofthe apothecary made their appearance. He opened a window and anotherdoor. The one locked by Raoul, when unbolted, yielded without a key, andthe shop stood open. 

"My friends, " said the trembling proprietor, "if any of you wishes tobuy anything, I am ready to serve him. The rest will please move away. "

The invitation, though probably understood, was responded to by only afew at the banquette's edge, where a respectable face or two worescrutinizing frowns. The remainder persisted in silently standing andgazing in at the bloody man. 

Frowenfeld bore the gaze. There was one element of emphatic satisfactionin it--it drew their observation from Clotilde at the other end of theshop. He stole a glance backward; she was not there. She had watched herchance, safely escaped through the side door, and was gone. 

Raoul returned. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', Doctor Keene is took worse ag'in. 'E is in bed; but'e say to tell you in dat lill troubl' of dis mawnin' it is himseff w'atis inti'lie wrong, an' 'e hass you poddon. 'E says sen' fo' DoctorConrotte, but I din go fo' him; dat ole scoun'rel--he believe in puttin'de niggas fre'. "

Frowenfeld said he would not consult professional advisers; with alittle assistance from Raoul, he could give the cut the slight attentionit needed. He went back into his room, while Raoul turned back to thedoor and addressed the public. 

"Pray, Messieurs, come in and be seated. " He spoke in the Creole Frenchof the gutters. "Come in. M. Frowenfeld is dressing, and desires thatyou will have a little patience. Come in. Take chairs. You will not comein? No? Nor you, Monsieur? No? I will set some chairs outside, eh? No?"

They moved by twos and threes away, and Raoul, retiring, gave hisemployer such momentary aid as was required. When Joseph, in changeddress, once more appeared, only a child or two lingered to see him, andhe had nothing to do but sit down and, as far as he felt at liberty todo so, answer his assistant's questions. 

During the recital, Raoul was obliged to exercise the severestself-restraint to avoid laughing, --a feeling which was modified by thedesire to assure his employer that he understood this sort of thingperfectly, had run the same risks himself, and thought no less of a man, _providing he was a gentleman_, because of an unlucky retributive knockon the head. But he feared laughter would overclimb speech; and, indeed, with all expression of sympathy stifled, he did not succeed socompletely in hiding the conflicting emotion but that Joseph did onceturn his pale, grave face surprisedly, hearing a snuffling sound, suddenly stifled in a drawer of corks. Said Raoul, with an unsteadyutterance, as he slammed the drawer:

"H-h-dat makes me dat I can't 'elp to laugh w'en I t'ink of dat foolyesse'dy w'at want to buy my pigshoe for honly one 'undred dolla'--ha, ha ha, ha!"

He laughed almost indecorously. 

"Raoul, " said Frowenfeld, rising and closing his eyes, "I am going backfor my hat. It would make matters worse for that person to send it tome, and it would be something like a vindication for me to go back tothe house and get it. "

Mr. Innerarity was about to make strenuous objection, when there came inone whom he recognized as an attaché of his cousin Honoré'scounting-room, and handed the apothecary a note. It contained Honoré'srequest that if Frowenfeld was in his shop he would have the goodness towait there until the writer could call and see him. 

"I will wait, " was the reply. 

CHAPTER XXXV

"FO' WAD YOU CRYNE?"

Clotilde, a step or two from home, dismissed her attendant, and asAurora, with anxious haste, opened to her familiar knock, appearedbefore her pale and trembling. 

"_Ah, ma fille_--"

The overwrought girl dropped her head and wept without restraint uponher mother's neck. She let herself be guided to a chair, and there, while Aurora nestled close to her side, yielded a few moments to reveriebefore she was called upon to speak. Then Aurora first quietly tookpossession of her hands, and after another tender pause asked inEnglish, which was equivalent to whispering:

"Were you was, _chérie?_"

"'Sieur Frowenfel'--"

Aurora straightened up with angry astonishment and drew in her breathfor an emphatic speech, but Clotilde, liberating her own hands, tookAurora's, and hurriedly said, turning still paler as she spoke:

"'E godd his 'ead strigue! 'Tis all knog in be'ine! 'E come inblidding--"

"In w'ere?" cried Aurora. 

"In 'is shob. "

"You was in dad shob of 'Sieur Frowenfel'?"

"I wend ad 'is shob to pay doze rend. "

"How--you wend ad 'is shob to pay--"

Clotilde produced the bracelet. The two looked at each other in silencefor a moment, while Aurora took in without further explanationClotilde's project and its failure. 

"An' 'Sieur Frowenfel'--dey kill 'im? Ah! _Ma chère_, fo' wad you magueme to hass all dose question?"

Clotilde gave a brief account of the matter, omitting only herconversation with Frowenfeld. 

"_Mais_, oo strigue 'im?" demanded Aurora, impatiently. 

"Addunno!" replied the other. "Bud I does know 'e is hinnocen'!"

A small scouting-party of tears reappeared on the edge of her eyes. 

"Innocen' from wad?"

Aurora betrayed a twinkle of amusement. 

"Hev'ryt'in', iv you pliz!" exclaimed Clotilde, with most uncalled-forwarmth. 

"An' you crah bic-ause 'e is nod guiltie?"

"Ah! foolish!"

"Ah, non, my chile, I know fo' wad you cryne: 't is h-only de sighd ofde blood. "

"Oh, sighd of blood!"

Clotilde let a little nervous laugh escape through her dejection. 

"Well, then, "--Aurora's eyes twinkled like stars, --"id muz be bic-ause'Sieur Frowenfel' bump 'is 'ead--ha, ha, ha!"

"'Tis nod tru'!" cried Clotilde; but, instead of laughing, as Aurora hadsupposed she would, she sent a double flash of light from her eyes, crimsoned, and retorted, as the tears again sprang from theirlurking-place, "You wand to mague ligue you don't kyah! But _I_ know! Iknow verrie well! You kyah fifty time' as mudge as me! I know you! Iknow you! I bin wadge you!"

Aurora was quite dumb for a moment, and gazed at Clotilde, wonderingwhat could have made her so unlike herself. Then she half rose up, and, as she reached forward an arm, and laid it tenderly about her daughter'sneck, said:

"Ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry? Iv you will tell me wad dadmague you cry, I will tell you--on ma _second word of honor_"--sherolled up her fist--"juz wad I thing about dad 'Sieur Frowenfel'!"

"I don't kyah wad de whole worl' thing aboud 'im!"

"_Mais_, anny'ow, tell me fo' wad you cryne!"

Clotilde gazed aside for a moment and then confronted her questionerconsentingly. 

"I tole 'im I knowed 'e was h-innocen'. "

"Eh, Men, dad was h-only de poli-i-idenez. Wad 'e said?"

"E said I din knowed 'im 'tall. "

"An' you, " exclaimed Aurora, "it is nod pozzyble dad you--"

"I tole 'im I know 'im bette'n 'e know annyt'in' 'boud id!"

The speaker dropped her face into her mother's lap. 

"Ha, ha!" laughed Aurora, "an' wad of dad? I would say dad, me, fo'time' a day. I gi'e you my word 'e don godd dad sens' to know waddad mean. "

"Ah! don godd sens'!" cried Clotilde, lifting her head up suddenly witha face of agony. "'E reg--'e reggo-ni-i-ize me!"

Aurora caught her daughter's cheeks between her hands and laughed allover them. 

"_Mais_, don you see 'ow dad was luggy? Now, you know?--'e goin' fallin love wid you an' you goin' 'ave dad sadizfagzion to rif-use debiggis' hand in Noo-'leans. An' you will be h-even, ha, ha! Bud me--youwand to know wad I thing aboud 'im? I thing 'e is one--egcellen'drug-cl--ah, ha, ha!"

Clotilde replied with a smile of grieved incredulity. 

"De bez in de ciddy!" insisted the other. She crossed the forefinger ofone hand upon that of the other and kissed them, reversed the cross andkissed them again. "_Mais_, ad de sem tam, " she added, giving herdaughter time to smile, "I thing 'e is one _noble gen'leman_. Nod tosood me, of coze, _mais, çà fait rien_--daz nott'n; me, I am now a h'olewoman, you know, eh? Noboddie can' nevva sood me no mo', nod ivven dadGovenno' Cleb-orne. "

She tried to look old and jaded. 

"Ah, Govenno' Cleb-orne!" exclaimed Clotilde. 

"Yass!--Ah, you!--you thing iv a man is nod a Creole 'e bown to be no'coun'! I assu' you dey don' godd no boddy wad I fine a so nizegen'leman lag Govenno' Cleb-orne! Ah! Clotilde, you godd no lib'ral'ty!"

The speaker rose, cast a discouraged parting look upon her narrow-mindedcompanion and went to investigate the slumbrous silence of the kitchen. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

AURORA'S LAST PICAYUNE

Not often in Aurora's life had joy and trembling so been mingled in onecup as on this day. Clotilde wept; and certainly the mother's heartcould but respond; yet Clotilde's tears filled her with a secretpleasure which fought its way up into the beams of her eyes and asserteditself in the frequency and heartiness of her laugh despite her sincereparticipation in her companion's distresses and a fearful lookingforward to to-morrow. 

Why these flashes of gladness? If we do not know, it is because we haveoverlooked one of her sources of trouble. From the night of the _balmasqué_ she had--we dare say no more than that she had been haunted; shecertainly would not at first have admitted even so much to herself. Yetthe fact was not thereby altered, and first the fact and later thefeeling had given her much distress of mind. Who he was whose imagewould not down, for a long time she did not know. This, alone, wastorture; not merely because it was mystery, but because it helped toforce upon her consciousness that her affections, spite of her, wereready and waiting for him and he did not come after them. That he lovedher, she knew; she had achieved at the ball an overwhelming victory, toher certain knowledge, or, depend upon it, she never would haveunmasked--never. 

But with this torture was mingled not only the ecstasy of loving, butthe fear of her daughter. This is a world that allows nothing withoutits obverse and reverse. Strange differences are often seen between thetwo sides; and one of the strangest and most inharmonious in this worldof human relations is that coinage which a mother sometimes findsherself offering to a daughter, and which reads on one side, Bridegroom, and on the other, Stepfather. 

Then, all this torture to be hidden under smiles! Worse still, when byand by Messieurs Agoussou, Assonquer, Danny and others had been appealedto and a Providence boundless in tender compassion had answered in theirstead, she and her lover had simultaneously discovered each other'sidentity only to find that he was a Montague to her Capulet. And thesource of her agony must be hidden, and falsely attributed to the rentdeficiency and their unprotected lives. Its true nature must beconcealed even from Clotilde. What a secret--for what a spirit--to keepfrom what a companion!--a secret yielding honey to her, but, it mightbe, gall to Clotilde. She felt like one locked in the Garden of Eden allalone--alone with all the ravishing flowers, alone with all the lionsand tigers. She wished she had told the secret when it was small and hadlet it increase by gradual accretions in Clotilde's knowledge day byday. At first it had been but a garland, then it had become a chain, nowit was a ball and chain; and it was oh! and oh! if Clotilde would onlyfall in love herself! How that would simplify matters! More than twiceor thrice she had tried to reveal her overstrained heart in brokensections; but on her approach to the very outer confines of the matter, Clotilde had always behaved so strangely, so nervously, in short, sobeyond Aurora's comprehension, that she invariably failed to make anyrevelation. 

And now, here in the very central darkness of this cloud of troubles, comes in Clotilde, throws herself upon the defiant little bosom so fullof hidden suffering, and weeps tears of innocent confession that in amoment lay the dust of half of Aurora's perplexities. Strange world! Thetears of the orphan making the widow weep for joy, if she only dared. 

The pair sat down opposite each other at their little dinner-table. Theyhad a fixed hour for dinner. It is well to have a fixed hour; it is inthe direction of system. Even if you have not the dinner, there is thehour. Alphonsina was not in perfect harmony with this fixed-hour idea. It was Aurora's belief, often expressed in hungry moments with the laughof a vexed Creole lady (a laugh worthy of study), that on the day whendinner should really be served at the appointed hour, the cook woulddrop dead of apoplexy and she of fright. She said it to-day, shuttingher arms down to her side, closing her eyes with her eyebrows raised, and dropping into her chair at the table like a dead bird from itsperch. Not that she felt particularly hungry; but there is a certaindesultoriness allowable at table more than elsewhere, and which suitedthe hither-thither movement of her conflicting feelings. This is why shehad wished for dinner. 

Boiled shrimps, rice, claret-and-water, bread--they were dining well theday before execution. Dining is hardly correct, either, for Clotilde, atleast, did not eat; they only sat. Clotilde had, too, if not herunknown, at least her unconfessed emotions. Aurora's were tossed by thewaves, hers were sunken beneath them. Aurora had a faith that the rentwould be paid--a faith which was only a vapor, but a vapor gilded by thesun--that is, by Apollo, or, to be still more explicit, by HonoréGrandissime. Clotilde, deprived of this confidence, had tried to raisemeans wherewith to meet the dread obligation, or, rather, had tried totry and had failed. To-day was the ninth, to-morrow, the street. JosephFrowenfeld was hurt; her dependence upon his good offices was gone. Whenshe thought of him suffering under public contumely, it seemed to her asif she could feel the big drops of blood dropping from her heart; andwhen she recalled her own actions, speeches, and demonstrations in hispresence, exaggerated by the groundless fear that he had guessed intothe deepest springs of her feelings, then she felt those drops of bloodcongeal. Even if the apothecary had been duller of discernment than shesupposed, here was Aurora on the opposite side of the table, readingevery thought of her inmost soul. But worst of all was 'SieurFrowenfel's indifference. It is true that, as he had directed upon herthat gaze of recognition, there was a look of mighty gladness, if shedared believe her eyes. But no, she dared not; there was nothing therefor her, she thought, --probably (when this anguish of public disgraceshould by any means be lifted) a benevolent smile at her and herbetrayal of interest. Clotilde felt as though she had been laid entireupon a slide of his microscope. 

Aurora at length broke her reverie. 

"Clotilde, "--she spoke in French--"the matter with you is that you haveno heart. You never did have any. Really and truly, you do not carewhether 'Sieur Frowenfel' lives or dies. You do not care how he is orwhere he is this minute. I wish you had some of my too large heart. Inot only have the heart, as I tell you, to think kindly of our enemies, those Grandissime, for example"--she waved her hand with the air ofselecting at random--"but I am burning up to know what is the conditionof that poor, sick, noble 'Sieur Frowenfel', and I am going to do it!"

The heart which Clotilde was accused of not having gave a stir of deepgratitude. Dear, pretty little mother! Not only knowing full well theexistence of this swelling heart and the significance, to-day, of itsevery warm pulsation, but kindly covering up the discovery withmake-believe reproaches. The tears started in her eyes; that washer reply. 

"Oh, now! it is the rent again, I suppose, " cried Aurora, "always therent. It is not the rent that worries _me_, it is 'Sieur Frowenfel', poor man. But very well, Mademoiselle Silence, I will match you formaking me do all the talking. " She was really beginning to sink underthe labor of carrying all the sprightliness for both. "Come, " she said, savagely, "propose something. "

"Would you think well to go and inquire?"

"Ah, listen! Go and what? No, Mademoiselle, I think not. "

"Well, send Alphonsina. "

"What? And let him know that I am anxious about him? Let me tell you, mylittle girl, I shall not drag upon myself the responsibility ofincreasing the self-conceit of any of that sex. "

"Well, then, send to buy a picayune's worth of something. "

"Ah, ha, ha! An emetic, for instance. Tell him we are poisoned onmushrooms, ha, ha, ha!"

Clotilde laughed too. 

"Ah, no, " she said. "Send for something he does not sell. "

Aurora was laughing while Clotilde spoke; but as she caught these wordsshe stopped with open-mouthed astonishment, and, as Clotilde blushed, laughed again. 

"Oh, Clotilde, Clotilde, Clotilde!"--she leaned forward over the table, her face beaming with love and laughter--"you rowdy! you rascal! Youare just as bad as your mother, whom you think so wicked! I accept youradvice. Alphonsina!"

"Momselle!"

The answer came from the kitchen. 

"Come go--or, rather, --_vini 'ci courri dans boutique de l'apothecaire_. Clotilde, " she continued, in better French, holding up the coin toview, "look!"

"What?"

"The last picayune we have in the world--ha, ha, ha!"

CHAPTER XXXVII

HONORÉ MAKES SOME CONFESSIONS

"Comment çà va, Raoul?" said Honoré Grandissime; he had come to the shopaccording to the proposal contained in his note. "Where is Mr. Frowenfeld?"

He found the apothecary in the rear room, dressed, but just rising fromthe bed at sound of his voice. He closed the door after him; they shookhands and took chairs. 

"You have fever, " said the merchant. "I have been troubled that waymyself, some, lately. " He rubbed his face all over, hard, with onehand, ' and looked at the ceiling. "Loss of sleep, I suppose, in both ofus; in your case voluntary--in pursuit of study, most likely; in mycase--effect of anxiety. " He smiled a moment and then suddenly soberedas after a pause he said:

"But I hear you are in trouble; may I ask--"

Frowenfeld had interrupted him with almost the same words:

"May I venture to ask, Mr. Grandissime, what--"

And both were silent for a moment. 

"Oh, " said Honoré, with a gesture. "My trouble--I did not mean tomention it; 't is an old matter--in part. You know, Mr. Frowenfeld, there is a kind of tree not dreamed of in botany, that lets fall itsfruit every day in the year--you know? We call it--with reverence--'ourdead father's mistakes. ' I have had to eat much of that fruit; a man whohas to do that must expect to have now and then a little fever. "

"I have heard, " replied Frowenfeld, "that some of the titles under whichyour relatives hold their lands are found to be of the kind which theState's authorities are pronouncing worthless. I hope this is notthe case. "

"I wish they had never been put into my custody, " said M. Grandissime. 

Some new thought moved him to draw his chair closer. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, those two ladies whom you went to see the otherevening--"

His listener started a little:

"Yes. "

"Did they ever tell you their history?"

"No, sir; but I have heard it. "

"And you think they have been deeply wronged, eh? Come, Mr. Frowenfeld, take right hold of the acacia-bush. " M. Grandissime did not smile. 

Frowenfeld winced. "I think they have. "

"And you think restitution should be made them, no doubt, eh?"

"I do. "

"At any cost?"

The questioner showed a faint, unpleasant smile, that stirred somethinglike opposition in the breast of the apothecary. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

The next question had a tincture even of fierceness:

"You think it right to sink fifty or a hundred people into poverty tolift one or two out?"

"Mr. Grandissime, " said Frowenfeld, slowly, "you bade me study thiscommunity. "

"I adv--yes; what is it you find?"

"I find--it may be the same with other communities, I suppose it is, more or less--that just upon the culmination of the moral issue it turnsand asks the question which is behind it, instead of the question whichis before it. "

"And what is the question before me?"

"I know it only in the abstract. "

"Well?"

The apothecary looked distressed. 

"You should not make me say it, " he objected. 

"Nevertheless, " said the Creole, "I take that liberty. "

"Well, then, " said Frowenfeld, "the question behind is Expediency andthe question in front, Divine Justice. You are asking yourself--"

He checked himself. 

"Which I ought to regard, " said M. Grandissime, quickly. "Expediency, ofcourse, and be like the rest of mankind. " He put on a look of bitterhumor. "It is all easy enough for you, Mr. Frowenfeld, my-de'-seh; youhave the easy part--the theorizing. "

He saw the ungenerousness of his speech as soon as it was uttered, yethe did not modify it. 

"True, Mr. Grandissime, " said Frowenfeld; and after a pause--"but youhave the noble part--the doing. "

"Ah, my-de'-seh!" exclaimed Honoré; "the noble part! There is thebitterness of the draught! The opportunity to act is pushed upon me, butthe opportunity to act nobly has passed by. "

He again drew his chair closer, glanced behind him and spoke low:

"Because for years I have had a kind of custody of all my kinsmen'sproperty interests, Agricola's among them, it is supposed that he hasalways kept the plantation of Aurore Nancanou (or rather ofClotilde--who, you know, by our laws is the real heir). That is amistake. Explain it as you please, call it remorse, pride, love--whatyou like--while I was in France and he was managing my mother'sbusiness, unknown to me he gave me that plantation. When I succeeded himI found it and all its revenues kept distinct--as was but proper--fromall other accounts, and belonging to me. 'Twas a fine, extensive place, had a good overseer on it and--I kept it. Why? Because I was a coward. Idid not want it or its revenues; but, like my father, I would not offendmy people. Peace first and justice afterwards--that was the principleon which I quietly made myself the trustee of a plantation and incomewhich you would have given back to their owners, eh?"

Frowenfeld was silent. 

"My-de'-seh, recollect that to us the Grandissime name is a treasure. And what has preserved it so long? Cherishing the unity of our family;that has done it; that is how my father did it. Just or unjust, good orbad, needful or not, done elsewhere or not, I do not say; but it is aCreole trait. See, even now" (the speaker smiled on one side of hismouth) "in a certain section of the territory certain men, Creoles" (hewhispered, gravely), "_some Grandissimes among them_, evading the UnitedStates revenue laws and even beating and killing some of the officials:well! Do the people at large repudiate those men? My-de'-seh, in nowise, seh! No; if they were _Américains_--but a Louisianian--is aLouisianian; touch him not; when you touch him you touch all Louisiana!So with us Grandissimes; we are legion, but we are one. Now, my-de'-seh, the thing you ask me to do is to cast overboard that oldtraditional principle which is the secret of our existence. "

"_I_ ask you?"

"Ah, bah! you know you expect it. Ah! but you do not know the uproarsuch an action would make. And no 'noble part' in it, my-de'-seh, either. A few months ago--when we met by those graves--ifI had acted then, my action would have been one of pure--evenviolent--_self_-sacrifice. Do you remember--on the levee, by the Placed'Armes--me asking you to send Agricola to me? I tried then to speak ofit. He would not let me. Then, my people felt safe in their land-titlesand public offices; this restitution would have hurt nothing but pride. Now, titles in doubt, government appointments uncertain, no readycapital in reach for any purpose, except that which would have to behanded over with the plantation (for to tell you the fact, my-de'-seh, no other account on my books has prospered), with matters changed inthis way, I become the destroyer of my own flesh and blood! Yes, seh!and lest I might still find some room to boast, another change moves meinto a position where it suits me, my-de'-seh, to make the restitutionso fatal to those of my name. When you and I first met, those ladieswere as much strangers to me as to you--as far as I _knew_. Then, if Ihad done this thing--but now--now, my-de'-seh, I find myself in lovewith one of them!"

M. Grandissime looked his friend straight in the eye with the frowningenergy of one who asserts an ugly fact. 

Frowenfeld, regarding the speaker with a gaze of respectful attention, did not falter; but his fevered blood, with an impulse that started himhalf from his seat, surged up into his head and face; and then--

M. Grandissime blushed. 

In the few silent seconds that followed, the glances of the two friendscontinued to pass into each other's eyes, while about Honoré's mouthhovered the smile of one who candidly surrenders his innermost secret, and the lips of the apothecary set themselves together as though he werewhispering to himself behind them, "Steady. "

"Mr. Frowenfeld, " said the Creole, taking a sudden breath and waving ahand, "I came to ask about _your_ trouble; but if you think you have anyreason to withhold your confidence--"

"No, sir; no! But can I be no help to you in this matter?"

The Creole leaned back smilingly in his chair and knit his fingers. 

"No, I did not intend to say all this; I came to offer my help to you;but my mind is full--what do you expect? My-de'-seh, the foam must comefirst out of the bottle. You see"--he leaned forward again, laid twofingers in his palm and deepened his tone--"I will tell you: thistree--'our dead father's mistakes'--is about to drop another rottenapple. I spoke just now of the uproar this restitution would make; why, my-de'-seh, just the mention of the lady's name at my house, when welately held the _fête de grandpère_, has given rise to a quarrel whichis likely to end in a duel. "

"Raoul was telling me, " said the apothecary. 

M. Grandissime made an affirmative gesture. 

"Mr. Frowenfeld, if you--if any one--could teach my people--I mean myfamily--the value of peace (I do not say the duty, my-de'-seh; amerchant talks of values); if you could teach them the value of peace, Iwould give you, if that was your price"--he ran the edge of his lefthand knife-wise around the wrist of his right--"that. And if you wouldteach it to the whole community--well--I think I would not give my head;maybe you would. " He laughed. 

"There is a peace which is bad, " said the contemplative apothecary. 

"Yes, " said the Creole, promptly, "the very kind that I have beenkeeping all this time--and my father before me!"

He spoke with much warmth. 

"Yes, " he said again, after a pause which was not a rest, "I often seethat we Grandissimes are a good example of the Creoles at large; we haveone element that makes for peace; that--pardon theself-consciousness--is myself; and another element that makes forstrife--led by my uncle Agricola; but, my-de'-seh, the peace element isthat which ought to make the strife, and the strife element is thatwhich ought to be made to keep the peace! Mr. Frowenfeld, I propose tobecome the strife-maker; how then, can I be a peacemaker at the sametime? There is my diffycultie. "

"Mr. Grandissime, " exclaimed Frowenfeld, "if you have any design in viewfounded on the high principles which I know to be the foundations of allyour feelings, and can make use of the aid of a disgraced man, use me. "

"You are very generous, " said the Creole, and both were silent. Honorédropped his eyes from Frowenfeld's to the floor, rubbed his knee withhis palm, and suddenly looked up. 

"You are innocent of wrong?"

"Before God. "

"I feel sure of it. Tell me in a few words all about it. I ought to beable to extricate you. Let me hear it. "

Frowenfeld again told as much as he thought he could, consistently withhis pledges to Palmyre, touching with extreme lightness upon the parttaken by Clotilde. 

"Turn around, " said M. Grandissime at the close; "let me see the back ofyour head. And it is that that is giving you this fever, eh?"

"Partly, " replied Frowenfeld; "but how shall I vindicate my innocence? Ithink I ought to go back openly to this woman's house and get my hat. Iwas about to do that when I got your note; yet it seems a feeble--evenif possible--expedient. "

"My friend, " said Honoré, "leave it to me. I see your whole case, bothwhat you tell and what you conceal. I guess it with ease. KnowingPalmyre so well, and knowing (what you do not) that all the voudous intown think you a sorcerer, I know just what she would drop down and begyou for--a _ouangan_, ha, ha! You see? Leave it all to me--and your hatwith Palmyre, take a febrifuge and a nap, and await word from me. "

"And may I offer you no help in your difficulty?" asked the apothecary, as the two rose and grasped hands. 

"Oh!" said the Creole, with a little shrug, "you may do anything youcan--which will be nothing. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII

TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP

Frowenfeld turned away from the closing door, caught his head betweenhis hands and tried to comprehend the new wildness of the tumult within. Honoré Grandissime avowedly in love with one of them--_which one_?Doctor Keene visibly in love with one of them--_which one_? And he! Whatmeant this bounding joy that, like one gorgeous moth among innumerablebats, flashed to and fro among the wild distresses and dismays swarmingin and out of his distempered imagination? He did not answer thequestion; he only knew the confusion in his brain was dreadful. Bothhands could not hold back the throbbing of his temples; the table didnot steady the trembling of his hands; his thoughts went hither andthither, heedless of his call. Sit down as he might, rise up, pace theroom, stand, lean his forehead against the wall--nothing could quiet thefearful disorder, until at length he recalled Honoré's neglected adviceand resolutely lay down and sought sleep; and, long before he had hopedto secure it, it came. 

In the distant Grandissime mansion, Agricola Fusilier was casting aboutfor ways and means to rid himself of the heaviest heart that ever hadthrobbed in his bosom. He had risen at sunrise from slumber worse thansleeplessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel of to-morrowwith Sylvestre. He was trying to get the unwonted quaking out of hishands and the memory of the night's heart-dissolving phantasms frombefore his inner vision. To do this he had resort to a very familiar, wemay say time-honored, prescription--rum. He did not use it after thevoudou fashion; the voudous pour it on the ground--Agricola was ananti-voudou. It finally had its effect. By eleven o'clock he seemed, outwardly at least, to be at peace with everything in Louisiana that heconsidered Louisianian, properly so-called; as to all else he was readyfor war, as in peace one should be. While in this mood, and performingat a sideboard the solemn rite of _las onze_, news incidentally reachedhim, by the mouth of his busy second, Hippolyte, of Frowenfeld'strouble, and despite 'Polyte's protestations against the principal in apending "affair" appearing on the street, he ordered the carriage andhurried to the apothecary's. 

 * * * * *

When Frowenfeld awoke, the fingers of his clock were passing themeridan. His fever was gone, his brain was calm, his strength in goodmeasure had returned. There had been dreams in his sleep, too; he hadseen Clotilde standing at the foot of his bed. He lay now, for a moment, lost in retrospection. 

"There can be no doubt about it, " said he, as he rose up, looking backmentally at something in the past. 

The sound of carriage-wheels attracted his attention by ceasing beforehis street door. A moment later the voice of Agricola was heard in theshop greeting Raoul. As the old man lifted the head of his staff to tapon the inner door, Frowenfeld opened it. 

"Fusilier to the rescue!" said the great Louisianian, with a grasp ofthe apothecary's hand and a gaze of brooding admiration. 

Joseph gave him a chair, but with magnificent humility he insisted onnot taking it until "Professor Frowenfeld" had himself sat down. 

The apothecary was very solemn. It seemed to him as if in this littleback room his dead good name was lying in state, and these visitors werecoming in to take their last look. From time to time he longed for morelight, wondering why the gravity of his misadventure should seemso great. 

"H-m-h-y dear Professor!" began the old man. Pages of print could notcomprise all the meanings of his smile and accent; benevolence, affection, assumed knowledge of the facts, disdain of results, remembrance of his own youth, charity for pranks, patronage--these werebut a few. He spoke very slowly and deeply and with this smile of ahundred meanings. "Why did you not send for me, Joseph? Sir, wheneveryou have occasion to make a list of the friends who will stand by you, _right or wrong_--h-write the name of Citizen Agricola Fusilier at thetop! Write it large and repeat it at the bottom! You understand me, Joseph?--and, mark me, --right or wrong!"

"Not wrong, " said Frowenfeld, "at least not in defence of wrong; I couldnot do that; but, I assure you, in this matter I have done--"

"No worse than any one else would have done under the circumstances, mydear boy!--Nay, nay, do not interrupt me; I understand you, I understandyou. H-do you imagine there is anything strange to me in this--atmy age?"

"But I am--"

"--all right, sir! that is _what_ you are. And you are under the wing ofAgricola Fusilier, the old eagle; that is _where_ you are. And you areone of my brood; that is _who_ you are. Professor, listen to your oldfather. _The--man--makes--the--crime!_ The wisdom of mankind neverbrought forth a maxim of more gigantic beauty. If the different gradesof race and society did not have corresponding moral and civilliberties, varying in degree as they vary--h-why! _this_ community, atleast, would go to pieces! See here! Professor Frowenfeld is chargedwith misdemeanor. Very well, who is he? Foreigner or native? Foreignerby sentiment and intention, or only by accident of birth? Of our mentalfibre--our aspirations--our delights--our indignations? I answer foryou, Joseph, yes!--yes! What then? H-why, then the decision! Reachedhow? By apologetic reasonings? By instinct, sir! h-h-that guide of thenobly proud! And what is the decision? Not guilty. Professor Frowenfeld, _absolvo te!_"

It was in vain that the apothecary repeatedly tried to interrupt thisspeech. "Citizen Fusilier, do you know me no better?"--"CitizenFusilier, if you will but listen!"--such were the fragments of hisefforts to explain. The old man was not so confident as he pretended tobe that Frowenfeld was that complete proselyte which alone satisfies aCreole; but he saw him in a predicament and cast to him this life-buoy, which if a man should refuse, he would deserve to drown. 

Frowenfeld tried again to begin. 

"Mr. Fusilier--"

"Citizen Fusilier!"

"Citizen, candor demands that I undeceive--"

"Candor demands--h-my dear Professor, let me tell you exactly what shedemands. She demands that in here--within this apartment--we understandeach other. That demand is met. "

"But--" Frowenfeld frowned impatiently. 

"That demand, Joseph, is fully met! I understand the whole matter likean eye-witness! Now there is another demand to be met, the demand offriendship! In here, candor; outside, friendship; in here, one of ourbrethren has been adventurous and unfortunate; outside"--the old mansmiled a smile of benevolent mendacity--"outside, nothing has happened. "

Frowenfeld insisted savagely on speaking; but Agricola raised his voice, and gray hairs prevailed. 

"At least, what _has_ happened? The most ordinary thing in the world;Professor Frowenfeld lost his footing on a slippery gunwale, fell, cuthis head upon a protruding spike, and went into the house of Palmyre tobathe his wound; but finding it worse than he had at first supposed it, immediately hurried out again and came to his store. He left his hatwhere it had fallen, too muddy to be worth recovery. HippolyteBrahmin-Mandarin and others, passing at the time, thought he had metwith violence in the house of the hair-dresser, and drew some naturalinferences, but have since been better informed; and the public willplease understand that Professor Frowenfeld is a white man, a gentleman, and a Louisianian, ready to vindicate his honor, and that CitizenAgricola Fusilier is his friend!"

The old man looked around with the air of a bull on a hill-top. 

Frowenfeld, vexed beyond degree, restrained himself only for the sakeof an object in view, and contented himself with repeating for thefourth or fifth time, --

"I cannot accept any such deliverance. "

"Professor Frowenfeld, friendship--society--demands it; our circle mustbe protected in all its members. You have nothing to do with it. Youwill leave it with me, Joseph. "

"No, no, " said Frowenfeld, "I thank you, but--"

"Ah! my dear boy, thank me not; I cannot help these impulses; I belongto a warm-hearted race. But"--he drew back in his chair sidewise andmade great pretence of frowning--"you decline the offices of thatprecious possession, a Creole friend?"

"I only decline to be shielded by a fiction. "

"Ah-h!" said Agricola, further nettling his victim by a gaze of stagyadmiration. "'_Sans peur et sans reproche_'--and yet you disappoint me. Is it for naught, that I have sallied forth from home, drawing thecurtains of my carriage to shield me from the gazing crowd? It was torescue my friend--my vicar--my coadjutor--my son--from the laughs andfinger-points of the vulgar mass. H-I might as well have stayed athome--or better, for my peculiar position to-day rather requires me tokeep in--"

"No, citizen, " said Frowenfeld, laying his hand upon Agricola's arm, "Itrust it is not in vain that you have come out. There _is_ a man introuble whom only you can deliver. "

The old man began to swell with complacency. 

"H-why, really--"

"_He_, Citizen, is truly of your kind--"

"He must be delivered, Professor Frowenfeld--"

"He is a native Louisianian, not only by accident of birth but bysentiment and intention, " said Frowenfeld. 

The old man smiled a benign delight, but the apothecary now had theupper hand, and would not hear him speak. 

"His aspirations, " continued the speaker, "his indignations--mount withhis people's. His pulse beats with yours, sir. He is a part of yourcircle. He is one of your caste. "

Agricola could not be silent. 

"Ha-a-a-ah! Joseph, h-h-you make my blood tingle! Speak to the point;who--"

"I believe him, moreover, Citizen Fusilier, innocent of the chargelaid--"

"H-innocent? H-of course he is innocent, sir! We will _make_ him inno--"

"Ah! Citizen, he is already under sentence of death!"

"_What?_ A Creole under sentence!" Agricola swore a heathen oath, sethis knees apart and grasped his staff by the middle. "Sir, we willliberate him if we have to overturn the government!"

Frowenfeld shook his head. 

"You have got to overturn something stronger than government. "

"And pray what--"

"A conventionality, " said Frowenfeld, holding the old man's eye. 

"Ha, ha! my b-hoy, h-you are right. But we will overturn--eh?"

"I say I fear your engagements will prevent. I hear you take partto-morrow morning in--"

Agricola suddenly stiffened. 

"Professor Frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are taking something of aliberty. "

"For which I ask pardon, " exclaimed Frowenfeld. "Then I may notexpect--"

The old man melted again. 

"But who is this person in mortal peril?"

Frowenfeld hesitated. 

"Citizen Fusilier, " he said, looking first down at the floor and then upinto the inquirer's face, "on my assurance that he is not only a nativeCreole, but a Grandissime--"

"It is not possible!" exclaimed Agricola. 

"--a Grandissime of the purest blood, will you pledge me your aid toliberate him from his danger, 'right or wrong'?"

"_Will_ I? H-why, certainly! Who is he?"

"Citizen--it is Sylves--"

Agricola sprang up with a thundering oath. 

The apothecary put out a pacifying hand, but it was spurned. 

"Let me go! How dare you, sir? How dare you, sir?" bellowed Agricola. 

He started toward the door, cursing furiously and keeping his eye fixedon Frowenfeld with a look of rage not unmixed with terror. 

"Citizen Fusilier, " said the apothecary, following him with one palmuplifted, as if that would ward off his abuse, "don't go! I adjure you, don't go! Remember your pledge, Citizen Fusilier!"

Agricola did not pause a moment; but when he had swung the doorviolently open the way was still obstructed. The painter of "Louisianarefusing to enter the Union" stood before him, his head elevatedloftily, one foot set forward and his arm extended like a tragedian's. 

"Stan' bag-sah!"

"Let me pass! Let me pass, or I will kill you!"

Mr. Innerarity smote his bosom and tossed his hand aloft. 

"Kill me-firse an' pass aftah!"

"Citizen Fusilier, " said Frowenfeld, "I beg you to hear me. "

"Go away! Go away!"

The old man drew back from the door and stood in the corner against thebook-shelves as if all the horrors of the last night's dreams had takenbodily shape in the person of the apothecary. He trembled and stammered:

"Ke--keep off! Keep off! My God! Raoul, he has insulted me!" He made amiserable show of drawing a weapon. "No man may insult me and live! Ifyou are a man, Professor Frowenfeld, you will defend yourself!"

Frowenfeld lost his temper, but his hasty reply was drowned by Raoul'svehement speech. 

"'Tis not de trute!" cried Raoul. "He try to save you fromhell-'n'-damnation w'en 'e h-ought to give you a good cuss'n!"--and inthe ecstasy of his anger burst into tears. 

Frowenfeld, in an agony of annoyance, waved him away and he disappeared, shutting the door. 

Agricola, moved far more from within than from without, had sunk into achair under the shelves. His head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock felldown upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of hisstaff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently. As Frowenfeld, with every demonstration of beseeching kindness, began to speak, helifted his eyes and said, piteously:

"Stop! Stop!"

"Citizen Fusilier, it is you who must stop. Stop before God Almightystops you, I beg you. I do not presume to rebuke you. I _know_ you wanta clear record. I know it better to-day than I ever did before. CitizenFusilier, I honor your intentions--"

Agricola roused a little and looked up with a miserable attempt at hishabitual patronizing smile. 

"H-my dear boy, I overlook"--but he met in

Frowenfeld's eyes a spirit so superior to his dissimulation that thesmile quite broke down and gave way to another of deprecatory andapologetic distress. He reached up an arm. 

"I could easily convince you, Professor, of your error"--his eyesquailed and dropped to the floor--"but I--your arm, my dear Joseph; ageis creeping upon me. " He rose to his feet. "I am feeling reallyindisposed to-day--not at all bright; my solicitude for you, mydear b--"

He took two or three steps forward, tottered, clung to the apothecary, moved another step or two, and grasping the edge of the table stumbledinto a chair which Frowenfeld thrust under him. He folded his arms onthe edge of the board and rested his forehead on them, while Frowenfeldsat down quickly on the opposite side, drew paper and pen across thetable and wrote. 

"Are you writing something, Professor?" asked the old man, withoutstirring. His staff tumbled to the floor. The apothecary's answer was alow, preoccupied one. Two or three times over he wrote and rejected whathe had written. 

Presently he pushed back his chair, came around the table, laid thewriting he had made before the bowed head, sat down again and waited. 

After a long time the old man looked up, trying in vain to conceal hisanguish under a smile. 

"I have a sad headache. "

He cast his eyes over the table and took mechanically the pen whichFrowenfeld extended toward him. 

"What can I do for you, Professor? Sign something? There is nothing Iwould not do for Professor Frowenfeld. What have you written, eh?"

He felt helplessly for his spectacles. 

Frowenfeld read:

"_Mr. Sylvestre Grandissime: I spoke in haste_. "

He felt himself tremble as he read. Agricola fumbled with the pen, lifted his eyes with one more effort at the old look, said, "My dearboy, I do this purely to please you, " and to Frowenfeld's delight andastonishment wrote:

"_Your affectionate uncle, Agricola Fusilier_. "

CHAPTER XXXIX

LOUISIANA STATES HER WANTS

"'Sieur Frowenfel', " said Raoul as that person turned in the front doorof the shop after watching Agricola's carriage roll away--he hadintended to unburden his mind to the apothecary with all his naturalimpetuosity; but Frowenfeld's gravity as he turned, with the paper inhis hand, induced a different manner. Raoul had learned, despite all theimpulses of his nature, to look upon Frowenfeld with a sort ofenthusiastic awe. He dropped his voice and said--asking like a child aquestion he was perfectly able to answer--

"What de matta wid Agricole?"

Frowenfeld, for the moment well-nigh oblivious of his own trouble, turned upon his assistant a look in which elation was oddly blendedwith solemnity, and replied as he walked by:

"Rush of truth to the heart. "

Raoul followed a step. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel'--"

The apothecary turned once more. Raoul's face bore an expression ofearnest practicability that invited confidence. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', Agricola writ'n' to Sylvestre to stop dat dool?"

"Yes. "

"You goin' take dat lett' to Sylvestre?"

"Yes. "

"'Sieur Frowenfel', dat de wrong g-way. You got to take it to 'PolyteBrahmin-Mandarin, an' 'e got to take it to Valentine Grandissime, an''_e_ got to take it to Sylvestre. You see, you got to know de manner tomake. Once 'pon a time I had a diffycultie wid--"

"I see, " said Frowenfeld; "where may I find Hippolyte Brahmin-Mandarinat this time of day?"

Raoul shrugged. 

"If the pre-parish-ions are not complitted, you will not find 'im; butif they har complitted--you know 'im?"

"By sight. "

"Well, you may fine him at Maspero's, or helse in de front of deVeau-qui-tête, or helse at de Café Louis Quatorze--mos' likely in frontof de Veau-qui-tête. You know, dat diffycultie I had, dat arise itsefffrom de discush'n of one of de mil-littery mov'ments of ca-valry; youknow, I--"

"Yes, " said the apothecary; "here, Raoul, is some money; please go andbuy me a good, plain hat. "

"All right. " Raoul darted behind the counter and got his hat out of adrawer. "Were at you buy your hats?"

"Anywhere. "

"I will go at _my_ hatter. "

As the apothecary moved about his shop awaiting Raoul's return, his owndisaster became once more the subject of his anxiety. He noticed thatalmost every person who passed looked in. "This is the place, "--"That isthe man, "--how plainly the glances of passers sometimes speak! Thepeople seemed, moreover, a little nervous. Could even so little a citybe stirred about such a petty, private trouble as this of his? No; thecity was having tribulations of its own. 

New Orleans was in that state of suppressed excitement which, in laterdays, a frequent need of reassuring the outer world has caused to bedescribed by the phrase "never more peaceable. " Raoul perceived itbefore he had left the shop twenty paces behind. By the time he reachedthe first corner he was in the swirl of the popular current. He enjoyedit like a strong swimmer. He even drank of it. It was better than wineand music mingled. 

"Twelve weeks next Thursday, and no sign of re-cession!" said one oftwo rapid walkers just in front of him. Their talk was in the French ofthe province. 

"Oh, re-cession!" exclaimed the other angrily. "The cession is areality. That, at least, we have got to swallow. Incredulity is dead. "

The first speaker's feelings could find expression only in profanity. 

"The cession--we wash our hands of it!" He turned partly around upon hiscompanion, as they hurried along, and gave his hands a vehement drywashing. "If Incredulity is dead, Non-participation reigns in its stead, and Discontent is prime minister!" He brandished his fist as theyturned a corner. 

"If we must change, let us be subjects of the First Consul!" said one ofanother pair whom Raoul met on a crossing. 

There was a gathering of boys and vagabonds at the door of a gun-shop. Aman inside was buying a gun. That was all. 

A group came out of a "coffee-house. " The leader turned about upon therest:

"_Ah, bah! cette_ Amayrican libetty!"

"See! see! it is this way!" said another of the number, taking twoothers by their elbows, to secure an audience, "we shall do nothingourselves; we are just watching that vile Congress. It is going to tearthe country all to bits!"

"Ah, my friend, you haven't got the _inside_ news, " said stillanother--Raoul lingered to hear him--"Louisiana is going to state herwants! We have the liberty of free speech and are going to use it!"

His information was correct; Louisiana, no longer incredulous of herAmericanization, had laid hold of her new liberties and was beginning torun with them, like a boy dragging his kite over the clods. She wasabout to state her wants, he said. 

"And her don't-wants, " volunteered one whose hand Raoul shook heartily. "We warn the world. If Congress doesn't take heed, we will not beresponsible for the consequences!"

Raoul's hatter was full of the subject. As Mr. Innerarity entered, hewas saying good-day to a customer in his native tongue, English, and socontinued:

"Yes, under Spain we had a solid, quiet government--Ah! Mr. Innerarity, overjoyed to see you! We were speaking of these political troubles. Iwish we might see the last of them. It's a terrible bad mess; corruptionto-day--I tell you what--it will be disruption to-morrow. Well, it is nowork of ours; we shall merely stand off and see it. "

"Mi-frien', " said Raoul, with mingled pity and superiority, "you haven'tgot doze _inside_ nooz; Louisiana is goin' to state w'at she want. "

On his way back toward the shop Mr. Innerarity easily learnedLouisiana's wants and don't-wants by heart. She wanted a Creolegovernor; she did not want Casa Calvo invited to leave the country; shewanted the provisions of the Treaty of Cession hurried up; "as soon aspossible, " that instrument said; she had waited long enough; she did notwant "dat trile bi-ju'y"--execrable trash! she wanted an _unwatchedimport trade!_ she did not want a single additional Américain appointedto office; she wanted the slave trade. 

Just in sight of the bareheaded and anxious Frowenfeld, Raoul lethimself be stopped by a friend. 

The remark was exchanged that the times were exciting. 

"And yet, " said the friend, "the city was never more peaceable. It isexasperating to see that coward governor looking so diligently after hispolice and hurrying on the organization of the Américain volunteermilitia!" He pointed savagely here and there. "M. Innerarity, I am lostin admiration at the all but craven patience with which our peopleendure their wrongs! Do my pistols show _too_ much through my coat?Well, good-day; I must go home and clean my gun; my dear friend, onedon't know how soon he may have to encounter the Recorder and Registerof Land-titles. "

Raoul finished his errand. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', excuse me--I take dat lett' to 'Polyte for you ifyou want. " There are times when mere shopkeeping--any peacefulroutine--is torture. 

But the apothecary felt so himself; he declined his assistant's offerand went out toward the Veau-qui-tête. 

CHAPTER XL

FROWENFELD FINDS SYLVESTRE

The Veau-qui-tête restaurant occupied the whole ground floor of a small, low, two-story, tile-roofed, brick-and-stucco building which stillstands on the corner of Chartres and St. Peter streets, in company withthe well-preserved old Cabildo and the young Cathedral, reminding one ofthe shabby and swarthy Creoles whom we sometimes see helping better-keptkinsmen to murder time on the banquettes of the old French Quarter. Itwas a favorite rendezvous of the higher classes, convenient to thecourt-rooms and municipal bureaus. There you found the choicest legaland political gossips, with the best the market afforded of meatand drink. 

Frowenfeld found a considerable number of persons there. He had to moveabout among them to some extent, to make sure he was not overlooking theobject of his search. 

As he entered the door, a man sitting near it stopped talking, gazedrudely as he passed, and then leaned across the table and smiled andmurmured to his companion. The subject of his jest felt their four eyeson his back. 

There was a loud buzz of conversation throughout the room, but whereverhe went a wake of momentary silence followed him, and once or twice hesaw elbows nudged. He perceived that there was something in the stateof mind of these good citizens that made the present sight of himparticularly discordant. 

Four men, leaning or standing at a small bar, were talking excitedly inthe Creole patois. They made frequent anxious, yet amusedly defiant, mention of a certain _Pointe Canadienne_. It was a portion of theMississippi River "coast" not far above New Orleans, where the merchantsof the city met the smugglers who came up from the Gulf by way ofBarrataria Bay and Bayou. These four men did not call it by the propertitle just given; there were commercial gentlemen in the Creole city, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Yankees, as well as French and Spanish Creoles, who in public indignantly denied, and in private tittered over, theircomplicity with the pirates of Grand Isle, and who knew their tradingrendezvous by the sly nickname of "Little Manchac. " As Frowenfeld passedthese four men they, too, ceased speaking and looked after him, threewith offensive smiles and one with a stare of contempt. 

Farther on, some Creoles were talking rapidly to an Américain, inEnglish. 

"And why?" one was demanding. "Because money is scarce. Under othergovernments we had any quantity!"

"Yes, " said the venturesome Américain in retort, "such as it was;_assignats, liberanzas, bons_--Claiborne will give us better money thanthat when he starts his bank. "

"Hah! his bank, yes! John Law once had a bank, too; ask my old father. What do we want with a bank? Down with banks!" The speaker ceased; hehad not finished, but he saw the apothecary. Frowenfeld heard a mutteredcurse, an inarticulate murmur, and then a loud burst of laughter. 

A tall, slender young Creole whom he knew, and who had always beengreatly pleased to exchange salutations, brushed against him withoutturning his eyes. 

"You know, " he was saying to a companion, "everybody in Louisiana is tobe a citizen, except the negroes and mules; that is the kind of libertythey give us--all eat out of one trough. "

"What we want, " said a dark, ill-looking, but finely-dressed man, setting his claret down, "and what we have got to have, is"--he wasspeaking in French, but gave the want in English--"Representesh'n wizoutTaxa--" There his eye fell upon Frowenfeld and followed him witha scowl. 

"Mah frang, " he said to his table companion, "wass you sink of a manew'at hask-a one neegrow to 'ave-a one shair wiz 'im, eh?--in zesem room?"

The apothecary found that his fame was far wider and more general thanhe had supposed. He turned to go out, bowing as he did so, to anAméricain merchant with whom he had some acquaintance. 

"Sir?" asked the merchant, with severe politeness, "wish to see me? Ithought you--As I was saying, gentlemen, what, after all, does itsum up?"

A Creole interrupted him with an answer:

"Leetegash'n, Spoleeash'n, Pahtitsh'n, Disintegrhash'n!"

The voice was like Honoré's. Frowenfeld looked; it was AgamemnonGrandissime. 

"I must go to Maspero's, " thought the apothecary, and he started up therue Chartres. As he turned into the rue St. Louis, he suddenly foundhimself one of a crowd standing before a newly-posted placard, and at aglance saw it to be one of the inflammatory publications which were afeature of the times, appearing both daily and nightly on wallsand fences. 

"One Amerry-can pull' it down, an' Camille Brahmin 'e pas'e it back, "said a boy at Frowenfeld's side. 

Exchange Alley was once _Passage de la Bourse_, and led down (as it nowdoes to the State House--late St. Louis Hotel) to an establishment whichseems to have served for a long term of years as a sort of merchants'and auctioneers' coffee-house, with a minimum of china and a maximum ofglass: Maspero's--certainly Maspero's as far back as 1810, and, webelieve, Maspero's the day the apothecary entered it, March 9, 1804. Itwas a livelier spot than the Veau-qui-tête; it was to that what commerceis to litigation, what standing and quaffing is to sitting and sipping. Whenever the public mind approached that sad state of public sentimentin which sanctity signs politicians' memorials and chivalry breaks intothe gun-shops, a good place to feel the thump of the machinery was inMaspero's. 

The first man Frowenfeld saw as he entered was M. Valentine Grandissime. There was a double semicircle of gazers and listeners in front of him;he was talking, with much show of unconcern, in Creole French. 

"Policy? I care little about policy. " He waved his hand. "I know myrights--and Louisiana's. We have a right to our opinions. We have"--witha quiet smile and an upward turn of his extended palm--"a right toprotect them from the attack of interlopers, even if we have to usegunpowder. I do not propose to abridge the liberties of even this armyof fortune-hunters. _Let_ them think. " He half laughed. "Who careswhether they share our opinions or not? Let them have their own. I hadrather they would. But let them hold their tongues. Let them rememberthey are Yankees. Let them remember they are unbidden guests. " All thiswithout the least warmth. 

But the answer came aglow with passion, from one of the semicircle, whomtwo or three seemed disposed to hold in check. It also was in French, but the apothecary was astonished to hear his own name uttered. 

"But this fellow Frowenfeld"--the speaker did not see Joseph--"has neverheld his tongue. He has given us good reason half a dozen times, withhis too free speech and his high moral whine, to hang him with thelamppost rope! And now, when we have borne and borne and borne and bornewith him, and he shows up, all at once, in all his rottenness, you saylet him alone! One would think you were defending Honoré Grandissime!"The back of one of the speaker's hands fluttered in the palm ofthe other. 

Valentine smiled. 

"Honoré Grandissime? Boy, you do not know what you are talking about. Not Honoré, ha, ha! A man who, upon his own avowal, is guilty ofaffiliating with the Yankees. A man whom we have good reason to suspectof meditating his family's dishonor and embarrassment!" Somebody saw theapothecary and laid a cautionary touch on Valentine's arm, but hebrushed it off. "As for Professor Frowenfeld, he must defend himself. "

"Ha-a-a-ah!"--a general cry of derision from the listeners. 

"Defend himself!" exclaimed their spokesman; "shall I tell you againwhat he is?" In his vehemence, the speaker wagged his chin and held hisclenched fists stiffly toward the floor. "He is--he is--he is--"

He paused, breathing like a fighting dog. Frowenfeld, large, white, andimmovable, stood close before him. 

"Dey 'ad no bizniz led 'im come oud to-day, " said a bystander, edgingtoward a pillar. 

The Creole, a small young man not unknown to us, glared upon theapothecary; but Frowenfeld was far above his blushing mood, and was notdisconcerted. This exasperated the Creole beyond bound; he made asudden, angry change of attitude, and demanded:

"Do you interrup' two gen'lemen in dey conve'sition, you Yankee clown?Do you igno' dad you 'ave insult me, off-scow'ing?"

Frowenfeld's first response was a stern gaze. When he spoke, he said:

"Sir, I am not aware that I have ever offered you the slightest injuryor affront; if you wish to finish your conversation with this gentleman, I will wait till you are through. "

The Creole bowed, as a knight who takes up the gage. He turned toValentine. 

"Valentine, I was sayin' to you dad diz pusson is a cowa'd and a sneak;I repead thad! I repead id! I spurn you! Go f'om yeh!"

The apothecary stood like a cliff. 

It was too much for Creole forbearance. His adversary, with a long snarlof oaths, sprang forward and with a great sweep of his arm slapped theapothecary on the cheek. And then--

What a silence!

Frowenfeld had advanced one step; his opponent stood half turned away, but with his face toward the face he had just struck and his eyesglaring up into the eyes of the apothecary. The semicircle wasdissolved, and each man stood in neutral isolation, motionless andsilent. For one instant objects lost all natural proportion, and to theexpectant on-lookers the largest thing in the room was the big, upraised, white fist of Frowenfeld. But in the next--how was this? Couldit be that that fist had not descended?

The imperturbable Valentine, with one preventing arm laid across thebreast of the expected victim and an open hand held restrainingly up fortruce, stood between the two men and said:

"Professor Frowenfeld--one moment--"

Frowenfeld's face was ashen. 

"Don't speak, sir!" he exclaimed. "If I attempt to parley I shall breakevery bone in his body. Don't speak! I can guess your explanation--he isdrunk. But take him away. "

Valentine, as sensible as cool, assisted by the kinsman who had laid ahand on his arm, shuffled his enraged companion out. Frowenfeld's stillswelling anger was so near getting the better of him that heunconsciously followed a quick step or two; but as Valentine looked backand waved him to stop, he again stood still. 

"_Professeur_--you know, --" said a stranger, "daz SylvestreGrandissime. "

Frowenfeld rather spoke to himself than answered:

"If I had not known that, I should have--" He checked himself and leftthe place. 

 * * * * *

While the apothecary was gathering these experiences, the free spirit ofRaoul Innerarity was chafing in the shop like an eagle in a hen-coop. One moment after another brought him straggling evidences, now of onesort, now of another, of the "never more peaceable" state of affairswithout. If only some pretext could be conjured up, plausible or flimsy, no matter; if only some man would pass with a gun on his shoulder, wereit only a blow-gun; or if his employer were any one but his belovedFrowenfeld, he would clap up the shutters as quickly as he had alreadydone once to-day, and be off to the wars. He was just trying to hearimaginary pistol-shots down toward the Place d'Armes, when theapothecary returned. 

"D' you fin' him?"

"I found Sylvestre. "

"'E took de lett'?"

"I did not offer it. " Frowenfeld, in a few compact sentences, told hisadventure. 

Raoul was ablaze with indignation. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', gimmy dat lett'!" He extended his pretty hand. 

Frowenfeld pondered. 

"Gimmy 'er!" persisted the artist; "befo' I lose de sight from dat lett'she goin' to be hanswer by Sylvestre Grandissime, an' 'e goin' to wratyou one appo-logie! Oh! I goin' mek 'im crah fo' shem!"

"If I could know you would do only as I--"

"I do it!" cried Raoul, and sprang for his hat; and in the endFrowenfeld let him have his way. 

"I had intended seeing him--" the apothecary said. 

"Nevvamine to see; I goin' tell him!" cried Raoul, as he crowded hishat fiercely down over his curls and plunged out. 

CHAPTER XLI

TO COME TO THE POINT

It was equally a part of Honoré Grandissime's nature and of his art as amerchant to wear a look of serene leisure. With this look on his face hereëntered his counting-room after his morning visit to Frowenfeld'sshop. He paused a moment outside the rail, gave the weak-eyed gentlemanwho presided there a quiet glance equivalent to a beckon, and, as thatperson came near, communicated two or three items of intelligence orinstruction concerning office details, by which that invaluable divinerof business meanings understood that he wished to be let alone for anhour. Then M. Grandissime passed on into his private office, and, shutting the door behind him, walked briskly to his desk and sat down. 

He dropped his elbows upon a broad paper containing some recentlywritten, unfinished memoranda that included figures in column, cast hiseyes quite around the apartment, and then covered his face with hispalms--a gesture common enough for a tired man of business in a momentof seclusion; but just as the face disappeared in the hands, the lookof serene leisure gave place to one of great mental distress. The paperunder his elbows, to the consideration of which he seemed about toreturn, was in the handwriting of his manager, with additions by his ownpen. Earlier in the day he had come to a pause in the making of theseadditions, and, after one or two vain efforts to proceed, had laid downhis pen, taken his hat, and gone to see the unlucky apothecary. Now hetook up the broken thread. To come to a decision; that was the taskwhich forced from him his look of distress. He drew his face slowlythrough his palms, set his lips, cast up his eyes, knit his knuckles, and then opened and struck his palms together, as if to say: "Now, come;let me make up my mind. "

There may be men who take every moral height at a dash; but to the mostof us there must come moments when our wills can but just rise and walkin their sleep. Those who in such moments wait for clear views find, when the issue is past, that they were only yielding to the devil'schloroform. 

Honoré Grandissme bent his eyes upon the paper. But he saw neither itsfigures nor its words. The interrogation, "Surrender Fausse Rivière?"appeared to hang between his eyes and the paper, and when his resolutiontried to answer "Yes, " he saw red flags; he heard the auctioneer's drum;he saw his kinsmen handing house-keys to strangers; he saw the oldservants of the great family standing in the marketplace; he sawkinswomen pawning their plate; he saw his clerks (Brahmins, Mandarins, Grandissimes) standing idle and shabby in the arcade of the Cabildo andon the banquettes of Maspero's and the Veau-qui-tête; he saw red-eyedyoung men in the Exchange denouncing a man who, they said, had, ostensibly for conscience's sake, but really for love, forced upon thewoman he had hoped to marry a fortune filched from his own kindred. Hesaw the junto of doctors in Frowenfeld's door charitably deciding himinsane; he saw the more vengeful of his family seeking him withhalf-concealed weapons; he saw himself shot at in the rue Royale, in therue Toulouse, and in the Place d'Armes: and, worst of all, missed. 

But he wiped his forehead, and the writing on the paper became, in ameasure, visible. He read:

Total mortgages on the lands of all the Grandissimes $--Total present value of same, titles at buyers' risk --Cash, goods, and accounts --Fausse Rivière Plantation account --

There were other items, but he took up the edge of the papermechanically, pushed it slowly away from him, leaned back in his chairand again laid his hands upon his face. 

"Suppose I retain Fausse Rivière, " he said to himself, as if he had notsaid it many times before. 

Then he saw memoranda that were not on any paper before him--such amortgage to be met on such a date; so much from Fausse RivièrePlantation account retained to protect that mortgage from foreclosure;such another to be met on such a date--so much more of same account toprotect it. He saw Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, with anguished faces, offering woman's pleadings to deaf constables. He saw the remainder ofAurora's plantation account thrown to the lawyers to keep the questionof the Grandissime titles languishing in the courts. He saw the fortunesof his clan rallied meanwhile and coming to the rescue, himself andkindred growing independent of questionable titles, and even FausseRivière Plantation account restored, but Aurora and Clotilde nowhere tobe found. And then he saw the grave, pale face of Joseph Frowenfeld. 

He threw himself forward, drew the paper nervously toward him, andstared at the figures. He began at the first item and went over thewhole paper, line by line, testing every extension, proving everyaddition, noting if possibly any transposition of figures had been madeand overlooked, if something was added that should have been subtracted, or subtracted that should have been added. It was like a prisoner tryingthe bars of his cell. 

Was there no way to make things happen differently? Had he notoverlooked some expedient? Was not some financial manoeuvre possiblewhich might compass both desired ends? He left his chair and walked upand down, as Joseph at that very moment was doing in the room where hehad left him, came back, looked at the paper, and again walked up anddown. He murmured now and then to himself: "_Self_-denial--that is notthe hard work. Penniless myself--_that_ is play, " and so on. He turnedby and by and stood looking up at that picture of the man in the cuirasswhich Aurora had once noticed. He looked at it, but he did not see it. He was thinking--"Her rent is due to-morrow. She will never believe I amnot her landlord. She will never go to my half-brother. " He turned oncemore and mentally beat his breast as he muttered: "Why do I not decide?"

Somebody touched the doorknob. Honoré stepped forward and opened it. Itwas a mortgager. 

"_Ah! entrez, Monsieur_. "

He retained the visitor's hand, leading him in and talking pleasantly inFrench until both had found chairs. The conversation continued in thattongue through such pointless commercial gossip as this:

"So the brig _Equinox_ is aground at the head of the Passes, " said M. Grandissime. 

"I have just heard she is off again. "

"Aha?"

"Yes; the Fort Plaquemine canoe is just up from below. I understand JohnMcDonough has bought the entire cargo of the schooner _Freedom_. "

"No, not all; Blanque et Fils bought some twenty boys and women out ofthe lot. Where is she lying?"

"Right at the head of the Basin. "

And much more like this; but by and by the mortgager came to the pointwith the casual remark:

"The excitement concerning land titles seems to increase rather thansubside. "

"They must have _something_ to be excited about, I suppose, " said M. Grandissime, crossing his legs and smiling. It was tradesman's talk. 

"Yes, " replied the other; "there seems to be an idea current to-day thatall holders under Spanish titles are to be immediately dispossessed, without even process of court. I believe a very slight indiscretion onthe part of the Governor-General would precipitate a riot. "

"He will not commit any, " said M. Grandissime with a quiet gravity, changing his manner to that of one who draws upon a reserve of privateinformation. "There will be no outbreak. "

"I suppose not. We do not know, really, that the American Congress willthrow any question upon titles; but still--"

"What are some of the shrewdest Americans among us doing?" asked M. Grandissime. 

"Yes, " replied the mortgager, "it is true they are buying these verytitles; but they may be making a mistake?"

Unfortunately for the speaker, he allowed his face an expression ofargumentative shrewdness as he completed this sentence, and M. Grandissime, the merchant, caught an instantaneous full view of hismotive; he wanted to buy. He was a man whose known speculative policywas to "go in" in moments of panic. 

M. Grandissime was again face to face with the question of the morning. To commence selling must be to go on selling. This, as a plan, includedrestitution to Aurora; but it meant also dissolution to theGrandissimes, for should their _sold_ titles be pronounced bad, then thetitles of other lands would be bad; many an asset among M. Grandissime'smemoranda would shrink into nothing, and the meagre proceeds of theGrandissime estates, left to meet the strain without the aid of Aurora'saccumulated fortune, would founder in a sea of liabilities; while shouldthese titles, after being parted with, turn out good, his incensedkindred, shutting their eyes to his memoranda and despising hisexhibits, would see in him only the family traitor, and he would goabout the streets of his town the subject of their implacabledenunciation, the community's obloquy, and Aurora's cold evasion. Somuch, should he sell. On the other hand, to decline to sell was to enterupon that disingenuous scheme of delays which would enable him to availhimself and his people of that favorable wind and tide of fortune whichthe Cession had brought. Thus the estates would be lost, if lost at all, only when the family could afford to lose them, and Honoré Grandissimewould continue to be Honoré the Magnificent, the admiration of the cityand the idol of his clan. But Aurora--and Clotilde--would have to eatthe crust of poverty, while their fortunes, even in his hands, must bearall the jeopardy of the scheme. That was all. Retain Fausse Rivière andits wealth, and save the Grandissimes; surrender Fausse Rivière, letthe Grandissime estates go, and save the Nancanous. That was thewhole dilemma. 

"Let me see, " said M. Grandissime. "You have a mortgage on one of ourGolden Coast plantations. Well, to be frank with you, I was thinking ofthat when you came in. You know I am partial to prompt transactions--Ithought of offering you either to take up that mortgage or to sell youthe plantation, as you may prefer. I have ventured to guess that itwould suit you to own it. "

And the speaker felt within him a secret exultation in the idea that hehad succeeded in throwing the issue off upon a Providence that couldcontrol this mortgager's choice. 

"I would prefer to leave that choice with you, " said the coy would-bepurchaser; and then the two went coquetting again for another moment. 

"I understand that Nicholas Girod is proposing to erect a four-storybrick building on the corner of Royale and St. Pierre. Do you think itpracticable? Do you think our soil will support such a structure?"

"Pitot thinks it will. Boré says it is perfectly feasible. "

So they dallied. 

"Well, " said the mortgager, presently rising, "you will make up yourmind and let me know, will you?"

The chance repetition of those words "make up your mind" touched HonoréGrandissime like a hot iron. He rose with the visitor. 

"Well, sir, what would you give us for our title in case we shoulddecide to part with it?"

The two men moved slowly, side by side, toward the door, and in thehalf-open doorway, after a little further trifling, the title was sold. 

"Well, good-day, " said M. Grandissime. "M. De Brahmin will arrange thepapers for us to-morrow. "

He turned back toward his private desk. 

"And now, " thought he, "I am acting without resolving. No merit; nostrength of will; no clearness of purpose; no emphatic decision; nothingbut a yielding to temptation. "

And M. Grandissime spoke truly; but it is only whole men who soyield--yielding to the temptation to do right. 

He passed into the counting-room, to M. De Brahmin, and standing theretalked in an inaudible tone, leaning over the upturned spectacles of hismanager, for nearly an hour. Then, saying he would go to dinner, he wentout. He did not dine at home nor at the Veau-qui-tête, nor at any of theclubs; so much is known; he merely disappeared for two or three hoursand was not seen again until late in the afternoon, when two or threeBrahmins and Grandissimes, wandering about in search of him, met him onthe levee near the head of the rue Bienville, and with an exclamation ofwonder and a look of surprise at his dusty shoes, demanded to knowwhere he had hid himself while they had been ransacking the town insearch of him. 

"We want you to tell us what you will do about our titles. "

He smiled pleasantly, the picture of serenity, and replied:

"I have not fully made up my mind yet; as soon as I do so I will let youknow. "

There was a word or two more exchanged, and then, after a moment ofsilence, with a gentle "Eh, bien, " and a gesture to which they wereaccustomed, he stepped away backward, they resumed their hurried walkand talk, and he turned into the rue Bienville. 

CHAPTER XLII

AN INHERITANCE OF WRONG

"I tell you, " Doctor Keene used to say, "that old woman's a thinker. "His allusion was to Clemence, the _marchande des calas_. Her mentalactivity was evinced not more in the cunning aptness of her songs thanin the droll wisdom of her sayings. Not the melody only, but the oftenaudacious, epigrammatic philosophy of her tongue as well, sold her_calas_ and gingercakes. 

But in one direction her wisdom proved scant. She presumed too much onher insignificance. She was a "study, " the gossiping circle atFrowenfeld's used to say; and any observant hearer of her odd aphorismscould see that she herself had made a life-study of herself and herconditions; but she little thought that others--some with wits and somewith none--young hare-brained Grandissimes, Mandarins and the like--weresilently, and for her most unluckily, charging their memories with herknowing speeches; and that of every one of those speeches she wouldultimately have to give account. 

Doctor Keene, in the old days of his health, used to enjoy an occasionalskirmish with her. Once, in the course of chaffering over the price of_calas_, he enounced an old current conviction which is not withoutholders even to this day; for we may still hear it said by those whowill not be decoyed down from the mountain fastnesses of the oldSouthern doctrines, that their slaves were "the happiest people underthe sun. " Clemence had made bold to deny this with argumentativeindignation, and was courteously informed in retort that she hadpromulgated a falsehood of magnitude. 

"W'y, Mawse Chawlie, " she replied, "does you s'pose one po' nigga kintell a big lie? No, sah! But w'en de whole people tell w'at ain' so--ifdey know it, aw if dey don' know it--den dat _is_ a big lie!" And shelaughed to contortion. 

"What is that you say?" he demanded, with mock ferocity. "You chargewhite people with lying?"

"Oh, sakes, Mawse Chawlie, no! De people don't mek up dat ah; de debblepass it on 'em. Don' you know de debble ah de grett cyount'-feiteh?Ev'y piece o' money he mek he tek an' put some debblemen' on de underside, an' one o' his pootiess lies on top; an' 'e gilt dat lie, and 'erub dat lie on 'is elbow, an' 'e shine dat lie, an' 'e put 'is besslicks on dat lie; entel ev'ybody say: 'Oh, how pooty!' An' dey tek itfo' good money, yass--and pass it! Dey b'lieb it!"

"Oh, " said some one at Doctor Keene's side, disposed to quiz, "youniggers don't know when you are happy. "

"Dass so, Mawse--_c'est vrai, oui_!" she answered quickly: "we donno nomo'n white folks!"

The laugh was against him. 

"Mawse Chawlie, " she said again, "w'a's dis I yeh 'bout dat Eu'opecountry? 's dat true de niggas is all free in Eu'ope!"

Doctor Keene replied that something like that was true. 

"Well, now, Mawse Chawlie, I gwan t' ass you a riddle. If dat is _so_, den fo' w'y I yeh folks bragg'n 'bout de 'stayt o' s'iety in Eu'ope'?"

The mincing drollery with which she used this fine phrase broughtanother peal of laughter. Nobody tried to guess. 

"I gwan tell you, " said the _marchande_; "'t is becyaze dey got a 'fixedwuckin' class. '" She sputtered and giggled with the general ha, ha. "Oh, ole Clemence kin talk proctah, yass!"

She made a gesture for attention. 

"D' y' ebber yeh w'at de cya'ge-hoss say w'en 'e see de cyaht-hoss tu'nloose in de sem pawstu'e wid he, an' knowed dat some'ow de cyaht gottehbe haul'? W'y 'e jiz snawt an' kick up 'is heel'"--she suited the actionto the word--"an' tah' roun' de fiel' an' prance up to de fence an' say:'Whoopy! shoo! shoo! dis yeh country gittin' _too_ free!'"

"Oh, " she resumed, as soon as she could be heard, "white folks is werrykine. Dey wants us to b'lieb we happy--dey _wants to b'lieb_ we is. W'y, you know, dey 'bleeged to b'lieb it--fo' dey own cyumfut. 'Tis de semweh wid de preache's; dey buil' we ow own sep'ate meet'n-houses; deyb'liebs us lak it de bess, an' dey _knows_ dey lak it de bess. "

The laugh at this was mostly her own. It is not a laughable sight to seethe comfortable fractions of Christian communities everywhere striving, with sincere, pious, well-meant, criminal benevolence, to make theirpoor brethren contented with the ditch. Nor does it become so to seethese efforts meet, or seem to meet, some degree of success. Happily mancannot so place his brother that his misery will continue unmitigated. You may dwarf a man to the mere stump of what he ought to be, and yet hewill put out green leaves. "Free from care, " we benignly observe of thedwarfed classes of society; but we forget, or have never thought, what acrime we commit when we rob men and women of their cares. 

To Clemence the order of society was nothing. No upheaval could reach tothe depth to which she was sunk. It is true, she was one of thepopulation. She had certain affections toward people and places; butthey were not of a consuming sort. 

As for us, our feelings, our sentiments, affections, etc. , are fine andkeen, delicate and many; what we call refined. Why? Because we get themas we get our old swords and gems and laces--from our grandsires, mothers, and all. Refined they are--after centuries of refining. But thefeelings handed down to Clemence had come through ages of Africansavagery; through fires that do not refine, but that blunt and blast andblacken and char; starvation, gluttony, drunkenness, thirst, drowning, nakedness, dirt, fetichism, debauchery, slaughter, pestilence and therest--she was their heiress; they left her the cinders of humanfeelings. She remembered her mother. They had been separated in herchildhood, in Virginia when it was a province. She remembered, withpride, the price her mother had brought at auction, and remarked, as anadditional interesting item, that she had never seen or heard of hersince. She had had children, assorted colors--had one with her now, theblack boy that brought the basil to Joseph; the others were here andthere, some in the Grandissime households or field-gangs, some elsewherewithin occasional sight, some dead, some not accounted for. Husbands--like the Samaritan woman's. We know she was a constant singerand laugher. 

And so on that day, when Honoré Grandissime had advised theGovernor-General of Louisiana to be very careful to avoid demonstrationof any sort if he wished to avert a street war in his little capital, Clemence went up one street and down another, singing her song andlaughing her professional merry laugh. How could it be otherwise? Letevents take any possible turn, how could it make any difference toClemence? What could she hope to gain? What could she fear to lose? Shesold some of her goods to Casa Calvo's Spanish guard and sang them aSpanish song; some to Claiborne's soldiers and sang them Yankee Doodlewith unclean words of her own inspiration, which evoked true soldiers'laughter; some to a priest at his window, exchanging with him a piouscomment or two upon the wickedness of the times generally and theirAméricain Protestant-poisoned community in particular; and (after goinghome to dinner and coming out newly furnished) she sold some more of herwares to the excited groups of Creoles to which we have had occasion toallude, and from whom, insensible as she was to ribaldry, she was gladto escape. The day now drawing to a close, she turned her steps towardher wonted crouching-place, the willow avenue on the levee, near thePlace d'Armes. But she had hardly defined this decision clearly in hermind, and had but just turned out of the rue St. Louis, when her songattracted an ear in a second-story room under whose window she waspassing. As usual, it was fitted to the passing event:

 "_Apportez moi mo' sabre, Ba boum, ba boum, boum, boum_. "

"Run, fetch that girl here, " said Dr. Keene to the slave woman who hadjust entered his room with a pitcher of water. 

"Well, old eavesdropper, " he said, as Clemence came, "what is thescandal to-day?"

Clemence laughed. 

"You know, Mawse Chawlie, I dunno noth'n' 'tall 'bout nobody. I'se anigga w'at mine my own business. "

"Sit down there on that stool, and tell me what is going on outside. "

"I d' no noth'n' 'bout no goin's on; got no time fo' sit down, me; gotsell my cakes. I don't goin' git mix' in wid no white folks's doin's. "

"Hush, you old hypocrite; I will buy all your cakes. Put them out thereon the table. "

The invalid, sitting up in bed, drew a purse from behind his pillow andtossed her a large price. She tittered, courtesied and receivedthe money. 

"Well, well, Mawse Chawlie, 'f you ain' de funni'st gen'leman I knows, to be sho!"

"Have you seen Joseph Frowenfeld to-day?" he asked. 

"He, he, he! W'at I got do wid Mawse Frowenfel'? I goes on de off sideo' sich folks--folks w'at cann' 'have deyself no bette'n dat--he, he, he! At de same time I did happen, jis chancin' by accident, to see 'im. "

"How is he?"

Dr. Keene made plain by his manner that any sensational account wouldreceive his instantaneous contempt, and she answered within bounds. 

"Well, now, tellin' the simple trufe, he ain' much hurt. "

The doctor turned slowly and cautiously in bed. 

"Have you seen Honoré Grandissime?"

"W'y--das funny you ass me dat. I jis now see 'im dis werry minnit. "

"Where?"

"Jis gwine into de house wah dat laydy live w'at 'e runned over dat ahtime. "

"Now, you old hag, " cried the sick man, his weak, husky voice tremblingwith passion, "you know you're telling me a lie. "

"No, Mawse Chawlie, " she protested with a coward's frown, "I swah Itellin' you de God's trufe!"

"Hand me my clothes off that chair. "

"Oh! but, Mawse Chawlie--"

The little doctor cursed her. She did as she was bid, and made as if toleave the room. 

"Don't you go away. "

"But Mawse Chawlie, you' undress'--he, he!"

She was really abashed and half frightened. 

"I know that; and you have got to help me put my clothes on. "

"You gwan kill yo'se'f, Mawse Chawlie, " she said, handling a garment. 

"Hold your black tongue. "

She dressed him hastily, and he went down the stairs of hislodging-house and out into the street. Clemence went in search ofher master. 

CHAPTER XLIII

THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES IN THEIR NEST

Alphonsina--only living property of Aurora and Clotilde--was called uponto light a fire in the little parlor. Elsewhere, although the day wasdeclining, few persons felt such a need; but in No. 19 rue Bienvillethere were two chilling influences combined requiring an artificialoffset. One was the ground under the floor, which was only three inchesdistant, and permanently saturated with water; the other was despair. 

Before this fire the two ladies sat down together like watchers, in thatsilence and vacuity of mind which come after an exhaustive struggleending in the recognition of the inevitable; a torpor of thought, astupefaction of feeling, a purely negative state of joylessness sequentto the positive state of anguish. They were now both hungry, but in wantof some present friend acquainted with the motions of mental distresswho could guess this fact and press them to eat. By their eyes it wasplain they had been weeping much; by the subdued tone, too, of theirshort and infrequent speeches. 

Alphonsina, having made the fire, went out with a bundle. It wasAurora's last good dress. She was going to try to sell it. 

"It ought not to be so hard, " began Clotilde, in a quiet manner ofcontemplating some one else's difficulty, but paused with the sayinguncompleted, and sighed under her breath. 

"But it _is_ so hard, " responded Aurora. 

"No, it ought not to be so hard--"

"How, not so hard?"

"It is not so hard to live, " said Clotilde; "but it is hard to beladies. You understand--" she knit her fingers, dropped them into herlap and turned her eyes toward Aurora, who responded with the samemotions, adding the crossing of her silk-stockinged ankles beforethe fire. 

"No, " said Aurora, with a scintillation of irrepressible mischief in hereyes. 

"After all, " pursued Clotilde, "what troubles us is not how to make aliving, but how to get a living without making it. "

"Ah! that would be magnificent!" said Aurora, and then added, moresoberly; "but we are compelled to make a living. "

"No. "

"No-o? Ah! what do you mean with your 'no'?"

"I mean it is just the contrary; we are compelled not to make a living. Look at me: I can cook, but I must not cook; I am skillful with theneedle, but I must not take in sewing; I could keep accounts; I couldnurse the sick; but I must not. I could be a confectioner, a milliner, a dressmaker, a vest-maker, a cleaner of gloves and laces, a dyer, abird-seller, a mattress-maker, an upholsterer, a dancing-teacher, aflorist--"

"Oh!" softly exclaimed Aurora, in English, "you could be--you knoww'ad?--an egcellen' drug-cl'--ah, ha, ha!"

"Now--"

But the threatened irruption was averted by a look of tender apologyfrom Aurora, in reply to one of martyrdom from Clotilde. 

"My angel daughter, " said Aurora, "if society has decreed that ladiesmust be ladies, then that is our first duty; our second is to live. Doyou not see why it is that this practical world does not permit ladiesto make a living? Because if they could, none of them would ever consentto be married. Ha! women talk about marrying for love; but society istoo sharp to trust them, yet! It makes it _necessary_ to marry. I willtell you the honest truth; some days when I get very, very hungry, andwe have nothing but rice--all because we are ladies without maleprotectors--I think society could drive even me to marriage!--for yoursake, though, darling; of course, only for your sake!"

"Never!" replied Clotilde; "for my sake, never; for your own sake if youchoose. I should not care. I should be glad to see you do so if it wouldmake you happy; but never for my sake and never for hunger's sake; butfor love's sake, yes; and God bless thee, pretty maman. "

"Clotilde, dear, " said the unconscionable widow, "let me assure you, once for all, --starvation is preferable. I mean for me, you understand, simply for me; that is my feeling on the subject. "

Clotilde turned her saddened eyes with a steady scrutiny upon herdeceiver, who gazed upward in apparently unconscious reverie, and sighedsoftly as she laid her head upon the high chair-back and stretchedout her feet. 

"I wish Alphonsina would come back, " she said. "Ah!" she added, hearinga footfall on the step outside the street door, "there she is. "

She arose and drew the bolt. Unseen to her, the person whose footstepsshe had heard stood upon the doorstep with a hand lifted to knock, butpausing to "makeup his mind. " He heard the bolt shoot back, recognizedthe nature of the mistake, and, feeling that here again he was robbed ofvolition, rapped. 

"That is not Alphonsina!"

The two ladies looked at each other and turned pale. 

"But you must open it, " whispered Clotilde, half rising. 

Aurora opened the door, and changed from white to crimson. Clotilde roseup quickly. The gentleman lifted his hat. 

"Madame Nancanou. "

"M. Grandissime?"

"Oui, Madame. "

For once, Aurora was in an uncontrollable flutter. She stammered, losther breath, and even spoke worse French than she needed to have done. 

"Be pl--pleased, sir--to enter. Clotilde, my daughter--MonsieurGrandissime. P-please be seated, sir. Monsieur Grandissime, "--shedropped into a chair with an air of vivacity pitiful to behold, --"Isuppose you have come for the rent. " She blushed even more violentlythan before, and her hand stole upward upon her heart to stay itsviolent beating. "Clotilde, dear, I should be glad if you would put thefire before the screen; it is so much too warm. " She pushed her chairback and shaded her face with her hand. "I think the warmer is growingweather outside, is it--is it not?"

The struggles of a wounded bird could not have been more piteous. Monsieur Grandissime sought to speak. Clotilde, too, nerved by the sightof her mother's embarrassment, came to her support, and she and thevisitor spoke in one breath. 

"Maman, if Monsieur--pardon--"

"Madame Nancanou, the--pardon, Mademoiselle--"

"I have presumed to call upon you, " resumed M. Grandissime, addressinghimself now to both ladies at once, "to see if I may enlist you in apurely benevolent undertaking in the interest of one who has beenunfortunate--a common acquaintance--"

"Common acquaint--" interrupted Aurora, with a hostile lighting of hereyes. 

"I believe so--Professor Frowenfeld. " M. Grandissme saw Clotilde start, and in her turn falsely accuse the fire by shading her face: but it wasno time to stop. "Ladies, " he continued, "please allow me, for the sakeof the good it may effect, to speak plainly and to the point. "

The ladies expressed acquiescence by settling themselves to hear. 

"Professor Frowenfeld had the extraordinary misfortune this morning toincur the suspicion of having entered a house for the purpose of--atleast, for a bad design--"

"He is innocent!" came from Clotilde, against her intention; Auroracovertly put out a hand, and Clotilde clutched it nervously. 

"As, for example, robbery, " said the self-recovered Aurora, ignoringClotilde's look of protestation. 

"Call it so, " responded M. Grandissime. "Have you heard at whose housethis was?"

"No, sir. "

"It was at the house of Palmyre Philosophe. "

"Palmyre Philosophe!" exclaimed Aurora, in low astonishment. Clotildelet slip, in a tone of indignant incredulity, a soft "Ah!" Auroraturned, and with some hope that M. Grandissime would not understand, ventured to say in Spanish, quietly:

"Come, come, this will never do. "

And Clotilde replied in the same tongue:

"I know it, but he is innocent. "

"Let us understand each other, " said their visitor. "There is not thefaintest idea in the mind of one of us that Professor Frowenfeld isguilty of even an intention of wrong; otherwise I should not be here. Heis a man simply incapable of anything ignoble. "

Clotilde was silent. Aurora answered promptly, with the air of one notto be excelled in generosity:

"Certainly, he is very incapabl'. "

"Still, " resumed the visitor, turning especially to Clotilde, "the knownfacts are these, according to his own statement: he was in the house ofPalmyre on some legitimate business which, unhappily, he considershimself on some account bound not to disclose, and by some mistake ofPalmyre's old Congo woman, was set upon by her and wounded, barelyescaping with a whole skull into the street, an object of publicscandal. Laying aside the consideration of his feelings, his reputationis at stake and likely to be ruined unless the affair can be explainedclearly and satisfactorily, and at once, by his friends. "

"And you undertake--" began Aurora. 

"Madame Nancanou, " said Honoré Grandissime, leaning toward herearnestly, "you know--I must beg leave to appeal to your candor andconfidence--you know everything concerning Palmyre that I know. You knowme, and who I am; you know it is not for me to undertake to confer withPalmyre. I know, too, her old affection for you; she lives but a littleway down this street upon which you live; there is still daylightenough at your disposal; if you will, you can go to see her, and getfrom her a full and complete exoneration of this young man. She cannotcome to you; she is not fit to leave her room. "

"Cannot leave her room?"

"I am, possibly, violating confidence in this disclosure, but it isunavoidable--you have to know: she is not fully recovered from apistol-shot wound received between two and three weeks ago. "

"Pistol-shot wound!"

Both ladies started forward with open lips and exclamations ofamazement. 

"Received from a third person--not myself and not ProfessorFrowenfeld--in a desperate attempt made by her to avenge the wrongswhich she has suffered, as you, Madam, as well as I, are aware, at thehands of--"

Aurora rose up with a majestic motion for the speaker to desist. 

"If it is to mention the person of whom your allusion reminds me, thatyou have honored us with a call this evening, Monsieur--"

Her eyes were flashing as he had seen them flash in front of the Placed'Armes. 

"I beg you not to suspect me of meanness, " he answered, gently, and witha remonstrative smile. "I have been trying all day, in a way unnecessaryto explain, to be generous. "

"I suppose you are incapabl', " said Aurora, following her doublemeaning with that combination of mischievous eyes and unsmiling face ofwhich she was master. She resumed her seat, adding: "It is generous foryou to admit that Palmyre has suffered wrongs. "

"It _would_ be, " he replied, "to attempt to repair them, seeing that Iam not responsible for them, but this I cannot claim yet to have done. Ihave asked of you, Madam, a generous act. I might ask another of youboth jointly. It is to permit me to say without offence, that there isone man, at least, of the name of Grandissime who views with regret andmortification the yet deeper wrongs which you are even now suffering. "

"Oh!" exclaimed Aurora, inwardly ready for fierce tears, but with nooutward betrayal save a trifle too much grace and an over-bright smile, "Monsieur is much mistaken; we are quite comfortable and happy, wantingnothing, eh, Clotilde?--not even our rights, ha, ha!"

She rose and let Alphonsina in. The bundle was still in the negress'sarms. She passed through the room and disappeared in the direction ofthe kitchen. 

"Oh! no, sir, not at all, " repeated Aurora, as she once more sat down. 

"You ought to want your rights, " said M. Grandissime. "You ought to havethem. "

"You think so?"

Aurora was really finding it hard to conceal her growing excitement, and turned, with a faint hope of relief, toward Clotilde. 

Clotilde, looking only at their visitor, but feeling her mother'sglance, with a tremulous and half-choked voice, said eagerly:

"Then why do you not give them to us?"

"Ah!" interposed Aurora, "we shall get them to-morrow, when the sheriffcomes. "

And, thereupon what did Clotilde do but sit bolt upright, with her handsin her lap, and let the tears roll, tear after tear, down her cheeks. 

"Yes, Monsieur, " said Aurora, smiling still, "those that you see arereally tears. Ha, ha, ha! excuse me, I really have to laugh; for I justhappened to remember our meeting at the masked ball last September. Wehad such a pleasant evening and were so much indebted to you for ourenjoyment, --particularly myself, --little thinking, you know, that youwere one of that great family which believes we ought to have ourrights, you know. There are many people who ought to have their rights. There was Bras-Coupé; indeed, he got them--found them in the swamp. Maybe Clotilde and I shall find ours in the street. When we unmasked inthe theatre, you know, I did not know you were my landlord, and you didnot know that I could not pay a few picayunes of rent. But you mustexcuse those tears; Clotilde is generally a brave little woman, andwould not be so rude as to weep before a stranger; but she is weakto-day--we are both weak to-day, from the fact that we have eatennothing since early morning, although we have abundance of food--forwant of appetite, you understand. You must sometimes be affected thesame way, having the care of so much wealth _of all sorts_. "

Honoré Grandissime had risen to his feet and was standing with one handon the edge of the lofty mantel, his hat in the other dropped at hisside and his eye fixed upon Aurora's beautiful face, whence her smallnervous hand kept dashing aside the tears through which she defiantlytalked and smiled. Clotilde sat with clenched hands buried in her lap, looking at Aurora and still weeping. 

And M. Grandissime was saying to himself:

"If I do this thing now--if I do it here--I do it on an impulse; I do itunder constraint of woman's tears; I do it because I love this woman; Ido it to get out of a corner; I do it in weakness, not in strength; I doit without having made up my mind whether or not it is the best thingto do. "

And then, without intention, with scarcely more consciousness ofmovement than belongs to the undermined tree which settles, roots andall, into the swollen stream, he turned and moved toward the door. 

Clotilde rose. 

"Monsieur Grandissime. "

He stopped and looked back. 

"We will see Palmyre at once, according to your request. "

He turned his eyes toward Aurora. 

"Yes, " said she, and she buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbedaloud. 

She heard his footstep again; it reached the door; the dooropened--closed; she heard his footstep again; was he gone?

He was gone. 

The two women threw themselves into each other's arms and wept. Presently Clotilde left the room. She came back in a moment from therear apartment, with a bonnet and veil in her hands. 

"No, " said Aurora, rising quickly, "I must do it. "

"There is no time to lose, " said Clotilde. "It will soon be dark. "

It was hardly a minute before Aurora was ready to start. A kiss, asorrowful look of love exchanged, the veil dropped over the swolleneyes, and Aurora was gone. 

A minute passed, hardly more, and--what was this?--the soft patter ofAurora's knuckles on the door. 

"Just here at the corner I saw Palmyre leaving her house and walkingdown the rue Royale. We must wait until morn--"

Again a footfall on the doorstep, and the door, which was standing ajar, was pushed slightly by the force of the masculine knock which followed. 

"Allow me, " said the voice of Honoré Grandissime, as Aurora bowed at thedoor. "I should have handed you this; good-day. "

She received a missive. It was long, like an official document; it boreevidence of having been carried for some hours in a coat-pocket, and wasfolded in one of those old, troublesome ways in use before the days ofenvelopes. Aurora pulled it open. 

"It is all figures; light a candle. "

The candle was lighted by Clotilde and held over Aurora's shoulder; theysaw a heading and footing more conspicuous than the rest of the writing. 

The heading read:

 "_Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, owners of Fausse Rivière Plantation, in account with Honoré Grandissime_. "

The footing read:

 _ "Balance at credit, subject to order of Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, $105, 000. 00_. "

The date followed:

 "_March_ 9, 1804. "

and the signature:

 "_H. Grandissime_. "

A small piece of torn white paper slipped from the account to the floor. Clotilde's eye followed it, but Aurora, without acknowledgement ofhaving seen it, covered it with her foot. 

In the morning Aurora awoke first. She drew from under her pillow thisslip of paper. She had not dared look at it until now. The writing onit had been roughly scratched down with a pencil. It read:

 "_Not for love of woman, but in the name of justice and the fear of God_. "

"And I was so cruel, " she whispered. 

Ah! Honoré Grandissime, she was kind to that little writing! She did notput it back under her pillow; she _kept it warm_, Honoré Grandissime, from that time forth. 

CHAPTER XLIV

BAD FOR CHARLIE KEENE

On the same evening of which we have been telling, about the time thatAurora and Clotilde were dropping their last tear of joy over thedocument of restitution, a noticeable figure stood alone at the cornerof the rue du Canal and the rue Chartres. He had reached there andpaused, just as the brighter glare of the set sun was growing dim abovethe tops of the cypresses. After walking with some rapidity of step, hehad stopped aimlessly, and laid his hand with an air of weariness upon arotting China-tree that leaned over the ditch at the edge of theunpaved walk. 

"Setting in cypress, " he murmured. We need not concern ourselves as tohis meaning. 

One could think aloud there with impunity. In 1804, Canal street wasthe upper boundary of New Orleans. Beyond it, to southward, the openplain was dotted with country-houses, brick-kilns, clumps of live-oakand groves of pecan. At the hour mentioned the outlines of these objectswere already darkening. At one or two points the sky was reflected frommarshy ponds. Out to westward rose conspicuously the old house andwillow-copse of Jean Poquelin. Down the empty street or road, whichstretched with arrow-like straightness toward the northwest, thedraining-canal that gave it its name tapered away between occasionaloverhanging willows and beside broken ranks of rotting palisades, itsfoul, crawling waters blushing, gilding and purpling under the swiftlywaning light, and ending suddenly in the black shadow of the swamp. Theobserver of this dismal prospect leaned heavily on his arm, and cast hisglance out along the beautified corruption of the canal. His eye seemedquickened to detect the smallest repellant details of the scene; everycypress stump that stood in, or overhung, the slimy water; every ruinedindigo-vat or blasted tree, every broken thing, every bleached bone ofox or horse--and they were many--for roods around. As his eye passedthem slowly over and swept back again around the dreary view, he sighedheavily and said: "Dissolution, " and then again--"Dissolution! order ofthe day--"

A secret overhearer might have followed, by these occasionalexclamatory utterances, the course of a devouring trouble prowling upand down through his thoughts, as one's eye tracks the shark by theoccasional cutting of his fin above the water. 

He spoke again:

"It is in such moods as this that fools drown themselves. "

His speech was French. He straightened up, smote the tree softly withhis palm, and breathed a long, deep sigh--such a sigh, if the very truthbe told, as belongs by right to a lover. And yet his mind did notdwell on love. 

He turned and left the place; but the trouble that was plowing hitherand thither through the deep of his meditations went with him. As heturned into the rue Chartres it showed itself thus:

"Right; it is but right;" he shook his head slowly--"it is but right. "

In the rue Douane he spoke again:

"Ah! Frowenfeld"--and smiled unpleasantly, with his head down. 

And as he made yet another turn, and took his meditative way down thecity's front, along the blacksmith's shops in the street afterwardcalled Old Levee, he resumed, in English, and with a distinctness thatmade a staggering sailor halt and look after him:

"There are but two steps to civilization, the first easy, the seconddifficult; to construct--to reconstruct--ah! there it is! the tearingdown! The tear'--"

He was still, but repeated the thought by a gesture of distress turnedinto a slow stroke of the forehead. 

"Monsieur Honoré Grandissime, " said a voice just ahead. 

"_Eh, bien_?"

At the mouth of an alley, in the dim light of the streep lamp, stood thedark figure of Honoré Grandissime, f. M. C. , holding up the looselyhanging form of a small man, the whole front of whose clothing wassaturated with blood. 

"Why, Charlie Keene! Let him down again, quickly--quickly; do not holdhim so!"

"Hands off, " came in a ghastly whisper from the shape. 

"Oh, Chahlie, my boy--"

"Go and finish your courtship, " whispered the doctor. 

"Oh Charlie, I have just made it forever impossible!"

"Then help me back to my bed; I don't care to die in the street. "

CHAPTER XLV

MORE REPARATION

"That is all, " said the fairer Honoré, outside Doctor Keene's sick-roomabout ten o'clock at night. He was speaking to the black son ofClemence, who had been serving as errand-boy for some hours. He spokein a low tone just without the half-open door, folding again a paperwhich the lad had lately borne to the apothecary of the rue Royale, andhad now brought back with Joseph's answer written underHonoré's inquiry. 

"That is all, " said the other Honoré, standing partly behind the first, as the eyes of his little menial turned upon him that deprecatory glanceof inquiry so common to slave children. The lad went a little way downthe corridor, curled up upon the floor against the wall, and was soonasleep. The fairer Honoré handed the darker the slip of paper; it wasreceived and returned in silence. The question was:

 "_Can you state anything positive concerning the duel_?"

And the reply:

 "_Positively there will be none. Sylvestre my sworn friend for life_. "

The half-brothers sat down under a dim hanging lamp in the corridor, andexcept that every now and then one or the other stepped noiselessly tothe door to look in upon the sleeping sick man, or in the oppositedirection to moderate by a push with the foot the snoring of Clemence's"boy, " they sat the whole night through in whispered counsel. 

The one, at the request of the other, explained how he had come to bewith the little doctor in such extremity. 

It seems that Clemence, seeing and understanding the doctor'simprudence, had sallied out with the resolve to set some person on histrack. We have said that she went in search of her master. Him she met, and though she could not really count him one of the doctor's friends, yet, rightly believing in his humanity, she told him the matter. He setoff in what was for him a quick pace in search of the rash invalid, wasmisdirected by a too confident child and had given up the hope offinding him, when a faint sound of distress just at hand drew him intoan alley, where, close down against a wall, with his face to the earth, lay Doctor Keene. The f. M. C. Had just raised him and borne him out ofthe alley when Honoré came up. 

"And you say that, when you would have inquired for him at Frowenfeld's, you saw Palmyre there, standing and talking with Frowenfeld? Tell memore exactly. "

And the other, with that grave and gentle economy of words which madehis speech so unique, recounted what we amplify:

Palmyre had needed no pleading to induce her to exonerate Joseph. Thedoctors were present at Frowenfeld's in more than usual number. Therewas unusualness, too, in their manner and their talk. They were notentirely free from the excitement of the day, and as they talked--withan air of superiority, of Creole inflammability, and with somecontempt--concerning Camille Brahmin's and Charlie Mandarin's efforts toprecipitate a war, they were yet visibly in a state of expectation. Frowenfeld, they softly said, had in his odd way been indiscreet amongthese inflammables at Maspero's just when he could least afford to beso, and there was no telling what they might take the notion to do tohim before bedtime. All that over and above the independent, unexplainedscandal of the early morning. So Joseph and his friends this evening, like Aurora and Clotilde in the morning, were, as we nowadays say ofbuyers and sellers, "apart, " when suddenly and unannounced, Palmyrepresented herself among them. When the f. M. C. Saw her, she had alreadyhanded Joseph his hat and with much sober grace was apologizing for herslave's mistake. All evidence of her being wounded was concealed. Theextraordinary excitement of the morning had not hurt her, and she seemedin perfect health. The doctors sat or stood around and gave raptattention to her patois, one or two translating it for Joseph, and heblushing to the hair, but standing erect and receiving it at second handwith silent bows. The f. M. C. Had gazed on her for a moment, and thenforced himself away. He was among the few who had not heard the morningscandal, and he did not comprehend the evening scene. He now askedHonoré concerning it, and quietly showed great relief when it wasexplained. 

Then Honoré, breaking a silence, called the attention of the f. M. C. Tothe fact that the latter had two tenants at Number 19 rue Bienville. Honoré became the narrator now and told all, finally stating that thedie was cast--restitution made. 

And then the darker Honoré made a proposition to the other, which, itis little to say, was startling. They discussed it for hours. 

"So just a condition, " said the merchant, raising his whisper so muchthat the rentier laid a hand in his elbow, --"such mere justice, " hesaid, more softly, "ought to be an easy condition. God knows"--he liftedhis glance reverently--"my very right to exist comes after yours. Youare the elder. "

The solemn man offered no disclaimer. 

What could the proposition be which involved so grave an issue, and towhich M. Grandissime's final answer was "I will do it"?

It was that Honoré f. M. C. Should become a member of the mercantile houseof H. Grandissime, enlisting in its capital all his wealth. And the onecondition was that the new style should be _Grandissime Brothers_. 

CHAPTER XLVI

THE PIQUE-EN-TERRE LOSES ONE OF HER CREW

Ask the average resident of New Orleans if his town is on an island, andhe will tell you no. He will also wonder how any one could have got thatnotion, --so completely has Orleans Island, whose name at the beginningof the present century was in everybody's mouth, been forgotten. It wasonce a question of national policy, a point of difference betweenRepublican and Federalist, whether the United States ought to buy thislittle strip of semi-submerged land, or whether it would not be morerighteous to steal it. The Kentuckians kept the question at a red heatby threatening to become an empire by themselves if one course or theother was not taken; but when the First Consul offered to sell allLouisiana, our commissioners were quite robbed of breath. They hadapproached to ask a hair from the elephant's tail, and were offeredthe elephant. 

For Orleans Island--island it certainly was until General Jackson closedBayou Manchac--is a narrow, irregular, flat tract of forest, swamp, city, prairie and sea-marsh, lying east and west, with the Mississippi, trending southeastward, for its southern boundary, and for its northern, a parallel and contiguous chain of alternate lakes and bayous, openinginto the river through Bayou Manchac, and into the Gulf through thepasses of the Malheureuse Islands. On the narrowest part of it standsNew Orleans. Turning and looking back over the rear of the town, one mayeasily see from her steeples Lake Pontchartrain glistening away to thenorthern horizon, and in his fancy extend the picture to right and lefttill Pontchartrain is linked in the west by Pass Manchac to LakeMaurepas, and in the east by the Rigolets and Chef Menteur toLake Borgne. 

An oddity of the Mississippi Delta is the habit the little streams haveof running away from the big ones. The river makes its own bed and itsown banks, and continuing season after season, through ages ofalternate overflow and subsidence, to elevate those banks, creates aridge which thus becomes a natural elevated aqueduct. Other slightlyelevated ridges mark the present or former courses of minor outlets, bywhich the waters of the Mississippi have found the sea. Between theseridges lie the cypress swamps, through whose profound shades the clear, dark, deep bayous creep noiselessly away into the tall grasses of theshaking prairies. The original New Orleans was built on the Mississippiridge, with one of these forest-and-water-covered basins stretching backbehind her to westward and northward, closed in by Metairie Ridge andLake Pontchartrain. Local engineers preserve the tradition that theBayou Sauvage once had its rise, so to speak, in Toulouse street. Thoughdepleted by the city's present drainage system and most likely poisonedby it as well, its waters still move seaward in a course almost dueeasterly, and empty into Chef Menteur, one of the watery threadsof a tangled skein of "passes" between the lakes and the openGulf. Three-quarters of a century ago this Bayou Sauvage (orGentilly--corruption of Chantilly) was a navigable stream of wild andsombre beauty. 

On a certain morning in August, 1804, and consequently some five monthsafter the events last mentioned, there emerged from the darkness ofBayou Sauvage into the prairie-bordered waters of Chef Menteur, whilethe morning star was still luminous in the sky above and in the waterbelow, and only the practised eye could detect the first glimmer of day, a small, stanch, single-masted, broad and very light-draught boat, whoseinnocent character, primarily indicated in its coat of many colors, --thehull being yellow below the water line and white above, with tastefulstripings of blue and red, --was further accentuated by the peaceful nameof _Pique-en-terre_ (the Sandpiper). 

She seemed, too, as she entered the Chef Menteur, as if she would haveliked to turn southward; but the wind did not permit this, and in amoment more the water was rippling after her swift rudder, as she glidedaway in the direction of Pointe Aux Herbes. But when she had left behindher the mouth of the passage, she changed her course and, leaving thePointe on her left, bore down toward Petites Coquilles, obviously bentupon passing through the Rigolets. 

We know not how to describe the joyousness of the effect when at lengthone leaves behind him the shadow and gloom of the swamp, and therebursts upon his sight the widespread, flower-decked, bird-hauntedprairies of Lake Catharine. The inside and outside of a prison scarcelyfurnish a greater contrast; and on this fair August morning the contrastwas at its strongest. The day broke across a glad expanse of cool andfragrant green, silver-laced with a network of crisp salt pools andpasses, lakes, bayous and lagoons, that gave a good smell, the inspiringodor of interclasped sea and shore, and both beautified and perfumedthe happy earth, laid bare to the rising sun. Waving marshes of wildoats, drooping like sated youth from too much pleasure; watery acres hidunder crisp-growing greenth starred with pond-lilies and rippled bywater-fowl; broad stretches of high grass, with thousands of ecstaticwings palpitating above them; hundreds of thousands of white and pinkmallows clapping their hands in voiceless rapture, and that amazon queenof the wild flowers, the morning-glory, stretching her myriad lines, lifting up the trumpet and waving her colors, white, azure and pink, with lacings of spider's web, heavy with pearls and diamonds--the giftsof the summer night. The crew of the _Pique-en-terre_ saw all these andfelt them; for, whatever they may have been or failed to be, they weremen whose heartstrings responded to the touches of nature. One alone oftheir company, and he the one who should have felt them most, showedinsensibility, sighed laughingly and then laughed sighingly, in the faceof his fellows and of all this beauty, and profanely confessed that hisheart's desire was to get back to his wife. He had been absent from hernow for nine hours!

But the sun is getting high; Petites Coquilles has been passed and leftastern, the eastern end of Las Conchas is on the after-larboard-quarter, the briny waters of Lake Borgne flash far and wide their dazzling whiteand blue, and, as the little boat issues from the deep channel of theRigolets, the white-armed waves catch her and toss her like a merrybabe. A triumph for the helmsman--he it is who sighs, at intervals oftiresome frequency, for his wife. He had, from the very starting-placein the upper waters of Bayou Sauvage, declared in favor of the Rigoletsas--wind and tide considered--the most practicable of all the passes. Now that they were out, he forgot for a moment the self-amusing plaintof conjugal separation to flaunt his triumph. Would any one hereafterdispute with him on the subject of Louisiana sea-coast navigation? Heknew every pass and piece of water like A, B, C, and could tell, faster, much faster than he could repeat the multiplication table (upon which hewas a little slow and doubtful), the amount of water in each at ebbtide--Pass Jean or Petit Pass, Unknown Pass, Petit Rigolet, ChefMenteur, --

Out on the far southern horizon, in the Gulf--the Gulf of Mexico--thereappears a speck of white. It is known to those on board the_Pique-en-terre_, the moment it is descried, as the canvas of a largeschooner. The opinion, first expressed by the youthful husband, whostill reclines with the tiller held firmly under his arm, and then byanother member of the company who sits on the centreboard-well, isunanimously adopted, that she is making for the Rigolets, will passPetites Coquilles by eleven o'clock, and will tie up at the little portof St. Jean, on the bayou of the same name, before sundown, if the windholds anywise as it is. 

On the other hand, the master of the distant schooner shuts his glass, and says to the single passenger whom he has aboard that the little sailjust visible toward the Rigolets is a sloop with a half-deck, wellfilled with men, in all probability a pleasure party bound to theChandeleurs on a fishing and gunning excursion, and passes into commentson the superior skill of landsmen over seamen in the handling of smallsailing craft. 

By and by the two vessels near each other. They approach within hailingdistance, and are announcing each to each their identity, when the youngman at the tiller jerks himself to a squatting posture, and, from undera broad-brimmed and slouched straw hat, cries to the schooner's onepassenger:

"Hello, Challie Keene. "

And the passenger more quietly answers back:

"Hello, Raoul, is that you?"

M. Innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that it was he. 

"You kin hask Sylvestre!" he concluded. 

The doctor's eye passed around a semicircle of some eight men, the mostof whom were quite young, but one or two of whom were gray, sitting withtheir arms thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark négligé ofamateur fishermen and with that exultant look of expectant deviltry intheir handsome faces which characterizes the Creole with his collar off. 

The mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him in the exchangeof greetings. 

"Ola, Dawctah!"

"_Hé_, Doctah, _que-ce qui t'après fé?_"

"_Ho, ho, compère Noyo!_"

"_Comment va_, Docta?"

A light peppering of profanity accompanied each salute. 

The doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority to the juniors andof courtesy to the others, and responsively spoke their names:

"'Polyte--Sylvestre--Achille--Émile--ah! Agamemnon. "

The Doctor and Agamemnon raised their hats. 

As Agamemnon was about to speak, a general expostulatory outcry drownedhis voice. The _Pique-en-terre_ was going about close abreast of theschooner, and angry questions and orders were flying at Raoul's headlike a volley of eggs. 

"Messieurs, " said Raoul, partially rising but still stooping over thetiller, and taking his hat off his bright curls with mock courtesy, "Iam going back to New Orleans. I would not give _that_ for all the fishin the sea; I want to see my wife. I am going back to New Orleans to seemy wife--and to congratulate the city upon your absence. " Incredulity, expostulation, reproach, taunt, malediction--he smiled unmoved uponthem all. 

"Messieurs, I _must_ go and see my wife. "

Amid redoubled outcries he gave the helm to Camille Brahmin, andfighting his way with his pretty feet against half-real efforts to throwhim overboard, clambered forward to the mast, whence a moment later, with the help of the schooner-master's hand, he reached the deck of thelarger vessel. The _Pique-en-terre_ turned, and with a little flutterspread her smooth wing and skimmed away. 

"Doctah Keene, look yeh!" M. Innerarity held up a hand whose thirdfinger wore the conventional ring of the Creole bridegroom. "W'at yougot to say to dat?"

The little doctor felt a faintness run through his veins, and a thrillof anger follow it. The poor man could not imagine a love affair thatdid not include Clotilde Nancanou. 

"Whom have you married?"

"De pritties' gal in de citty. "

The questioner controlled himself. 

"M-hum, " he responded, with a contraction of the eyes. 

Raoul waited an instant for some kindlier comment, and finding the hopevain, suddenly assumed a look of delighted admiration. 

"Hi, yi, yi! Doctah, 'ow you har lookingue fine. "

The true look of the doctor was that he had not much longer to live. Asmile of bitter humor passed over his face, and he looked for a nearseat, saying:

"How's Frowenfeld?"

Raoul struck an ecstatic attitude and stretched forth his hand as if thedoctor could not fail to grasp it. The invalid's heart sank like lead. 

"Frowenfeld has got her, " he thought. 

"Well?" said he with a frown of impatience and restraint; and Raoulcried:

"I sole my pigshoe!"

The doctor could not help but laugh. 

"Shades of the masters!"

"No; 'Louizyanna rif-using to hantre de h-Union. '"

The doctor stood corrected. 

The two walked across the deck, following the shadow of the swingingsail. The doctor lay down in a low-swung hammock, and Raoul sat upon thedeck _à la Turque_. 

"Come, come, Raoul, tell me, what is the news?"

"News? Oh, I donno. You 'eard concernin' the dool?"

"You don't mean to say--"

"Yesseh!"

"Agricola and Sylvestre?"

"W'at de dev'! No! Burr an' 'Ammiltong; in Noo-Juzzy-las-June. CollonnelBurr, 'e--"

"Oh, fudge! yes. How is Frowenfeld?"

"'E's well. Guess 'ow much I sole my pigshoe. "

"Well, how much?"

"Two 'ondred fifty. " He laid himself out at length, his elbow on thedeck, his head in his hand. "I believe I'm sorry I sole 'er. "

"I don't wonder. How's Honoré? Tell me what has happened. Remember, I'vebeen away five months. "

"No; I am verrie glad dat I sole 'er. What? Ha! I should think so! Ifit have not had been fo' dat I would not be married to-day. You think Iwould get married on dat sal'rie w'at Proffis-or Frowenfel' was payin'me? Twenty-five dolla' de mont'? Docta Keene, no gen'leman h-ought togit married if 'e 'ave not anny'ow fifty dolla' de mont'! If I wasn' ah-artiz I wouldn' git married; I gie you my word!"

"Yes, " said the little doctor, "you are right. Now tell me the news. "

"Well, dat Cong-ress gone an' make--"

"Raoul, stop. I know that Congress has divided the province into twoterritories; I know you Creoles think all your liberties are lost; Iknow the people are in a great stew because they are not allowed toelect their own officers and legislatures, and that in Opelousas andAttakapas they are as wild as their cattle about it--"

"We 'ad two big mitting' about it, " interrupted Raoul; "my bro'r-in-lawspeak at both of them!"

"Who?"

"Chahlie Mandarin. "

"Glad to hear it, " said Doctor Keene, --which was the truth. "Besidesthat, I know Laussat has gone to Martinique; that the Américains have anewspaper, and that cotton is two-bits a pound. Now what I want to knowis, how are my friends? What has Honoré done? What has Frowenfeld done?And Palmyre, --and Agricole? They hustled me away from here as if I hadbeen caught trying to cut my throat. Tell me everything. "

And Raoul sank the artist and bridegroom in the historian, and told him. 

CHAPTER XLVII

THE NEWS

"My cousin Honoré, --well, you kin jus' say 'e bitray' 'is 'ole fam'ly. "

"How so?" asked Doctor Keene, with a handkerchief over his face toshield his eyes from the sun. 

"Well, --ce't'nly 'e did! Di'n' 'e gave dat money to Aurora DeGrapion?--one 'undred five t'ousan' dolla'? Jis' as if to say, 'Yeh's demoney my h-uncle stole from you' 'usban'. ' Hah! w'en I will swear on astack of Bible' as 'igh as yo' head, dat Agricole win dat 'abitationfair!--If I see it? No, sir; I don't 'ave to see it! I'll swear toit! Hah!"

"And have she and her daughter actually got the money?"

"She--an'--heh--daughtah--ac--shilly--got-'at-money-sir! W'at? Deylivin' in de rue Royale in mag-_niff_ycen' style on top de drug-sto' ofProffis-or Frowenfel'. "

"But how, over Frowenfeld's, when Frowenfeld's is a one-story--"

"My dear frien'! Proffis-or Frowenfel' is _moove!_ You rickleck dat bignew t'ree-story buildin' w'at jus' finished in de rue Royale, a lill mo'farther up town from his old shop? Well, we open dare _a big sto'!_ An'listen! You think Honoré di'n' bitrayed' 'is family? Madame Nancanou an'heh daughtah livin' upstair an' rissy-ving de finess soci'ty in deProvince!--an' _me?_--downstair' meckin' pill! You call dat justice?"

But Doctor Keene, without waiting for this question, had asked one:

"Does Frowenfeld board with them?"

"Psh-sh-sh! Board! Dey woon board de Marquis of Casa Calvo! I don'tb'lieve dey would board Honoré Grandissime! All de king' an' queen' inde worl' couldn' board dare! No, sir!--'Owever, you know, I think deyare splendid ladies. Me an' my wife, we know them well. An' Honoré--Ithink my cousin Honoré's a splendid gen'leman, too. " After a moment'spause he resumed, with a happy sigh, "Well, I don' care, I'm married. Aman w'at's married, 'e don' care. 

"But I di'n' t'ink Honoré could ever do lak dat odder t'ing. "

"Do he and Joe Frowenfeld visit there?"

"Doctah Keene, " demanded Raoul, ignoring the question, "I hask you now, plain, don' you find dat mighty disgressful to do dat way, lak Honoré?"

"What way?"

"W'at? You dunno? You don' yeh 'ow 'e gone partner' wid a nigga?"

"What do you mean?"

Doctor Keene drew the handkerchief off his face and half lifted hisfeeble head. 

"Yesseh! 'e gone partner' wid dat quadroon w'at call 'imself HonoréGrandissime, seh!"

The doctor dropped his head again and laid the handkerchief back on hisface. 

"What do the family say to that?"

"But w'at _can_ dey say? It save dem from ruin! At de sem time, me, Ithink it is a disgress. Not dat he h-use de money, but it is dat namew'at 'e give de h-establishmen'--Grandissime Frères! H-only for 'ismoney we would 'ave catch' dat quadroon gen'leman an' put some tar andfedder. Grandissime Frères! Agricole don' spik to my cousin Honoré nomo'. But I t'ink dass wrong. W'at you t'ink, Doctah?"

That evening, at candle-light, Raoul got the right arm of his slender, laughing wife about his neck; but Doctor Keene tarried all night insuburb St. Jean. He hardly felt the moral courage to face the results ofthe last five months. Let us understand them better ourselves. 

CHAPTER XLVIII

AN INDIGNANT FAMILY AND A SMASHED SHOP

It was indeed a fierce storm that had passed over the head of HonoréGrandissime. Taken up and carried by it, as it seemed to him, withoutvolition, he had felt himself thrown here and there, wrenched, torn, gasping for moral breath, speaking the right word as if in delirium, doing the right deed as if by helpless instinct, and seeing himself inevery case, at every turn, tricked by circumstance out of every vestigeof merit. So it seemed to him. The long contemplated restitution wasaccomplished. On the morning when Aurora and Clotilde had expected to beturned shelterless into the open air, they had called upon him in hisprivate office and presented the account of which he had put them inpossession the evening before. He had honored it on the spot. To the twoladies who felt their own hearts stirred almost to tears of gratitude, he was--as he sat before them calm, unmoved, handling keen-edged factswith the easy rapidity of one accustomed to use them, smilingcourteously and collectedly, parrying their expressions ofappreciation--to them, we say, at least to one of them, he was "theprince of gentlemen. " But, at the same time, there was within him, unseen, a surge of emotions, leaping, lashing, whirling, yet everhurrying onward along the hidden, rugged bed of his honest intention. 

The other restitution, which even twenty-four hours earlier might haveseemed a pure self-sacrifice, became a self-rescue. The f. M. C. Was theelder brother. A remark of Honoré made the night they watched in thecorridor by Doctor Keene's door, about the younger's "right to exist, "was but the echo of a conversation they had once had together inEurope. There they had practised a familiarity of intercourse whichLouisiana would not have endured, and once, when speaking upon thesubject of their common fatherhood, the f. M. C. , prone to melancholyspeech, had said:

"You are the lawful son of Numa Grandissime; I had no right to be born. "

But Honoré quickly answered:

"By the laws of men, it may be; but by the law of God's justice, you arethe lawful son, and it is I who should not have been born. "

But, returned to Louisiana, accepting with the amiable, old-fashionedphilosophy of conservatism the sins of the community, he had forgottenthe unchampioned rights of his passive half-brother. Contact withFrowenfeld had robbed him of his pleasant mental drowsiness, and theoft-encountered apparition of the dark sharer of his name had become aslow-stepping, silent embodiment of reproach. The turn of events hadbrought him face to face with the problem of restitution, and he hadsolved it. But where had he come out? He had come out the beneficiary ofthis restitution, extricated from bankruptcy by an agreement which gavethe f. M. C. Only a public recognition of kinship which had always beenhis due. Bitter cup of humiliation!

Such was the stress within. Then there was the storm without. TheGrandissimes were in a high state of excitement. The news had reachedthem all that Honoré had met the question of titles by selling one oftheir largest estates. It was received with wincing frowns, indrawnbreath, and lifted feet, but without protest, and presently with a smileof returning confidence. 

"Honoré knew; Honoré was informed; they had all authorized Honoré; andHonoré, though he might have his odd ways and notions, picked up duringthat unfortunate stay abroad, might safely be trusted to stand by theinterests of his people. "

After the first shock some of them even raised a laugh:

"Ha, ha, ha! Honoré would show those Yankees!"

They went to his counting-room and elsewhere, in search of him, to smitetheir hands into the hands of their far-seeing young champion. But, aswe have seen, they did not find him; none dreamed of looking for him inan enemy's camp (19 Bienville) or on the lonely suburban commons, talking to himself in the ghostly twilight; and the next morning, whileAurora and Clotilde were seated before him in his private office, looking first at the face and then at the back of two mighty drafts ofequal amount on Philadelphia, the cry of treason flew forth to theseastounded Grandissimes, followed by the word that the sacred fire wasgone out in the Grandissime temple (counting-room), that Delilahs induplicate were carrying off the holy treasures, and that theuncircumcised and unclean--even an f. M. C. --was about to be inducted intothe Grandissime priesthood. 

Aurora and Clotilde were still there, when the various members of thefamily began to arrive and display their outlines in impatientshadow-play upon the glass door of the private office; now one, and nowanother, dallied with the doorknob and by and by obtruded their liftedhats and urgent, anxious faces half into the apartment; but Honoré wouldonly glance toward them, and with a smile equally courteous, authoritative and fleeting, say:

"Good-morning, Camille" (or Charlie--or Agamemnon, as the case mightbe); "I will see you later; let me trouble you to close the door. "

To add yet another strain, the two ladies, like frightened, rescuedchildren, would cling to their deliverer. They wished him to become thecustodian and investor of their wealth. Ah, woman! who is a tempter likethee? But Honoré said no, and showed them the danger of such a course. 

"Suppose I should die suddenly. You might have trouble with myexecutors. "

The two beauties assented pensively; but in Aurora's bosom a great throbsecretly responded that as for her, in that case, she should have no usefor money--in a nunnery. 

"Would not Monsieur at least consent to be their financial adviser?"

He hemmed, commenced a sentence twice, and finally said:

"You will need an agent; some one to take full charge of your affairs;some person on whose sagacity and integrity you can place the fullestdependence. "

"Who, for instance?" asked Aurora. 

"I should say, without hesitation, Professor Frowenfeld, the apothecary. You know his trouble of yesterday is quite cleared up. You had notheard? Yes. He is not what we call an enterprising man, but--so much thebetter. Take him all in all, I would choose him above all others;if you--"

Aurora interrupted him. There was an ill-concealed wildness in her eyeand a slight tremor in her voice, as she spoke, which she had notexpected to betray. The quick, though quiet eye of Honoré Grandissimesaw it, and it thrilled him through. 

"'Sieur Grandissime, I take the risk; I wish you to take care of mymoney. "

"But, Maman, " said Clotilde, turning with a timid look to her mother, "If Monsieur Grandissime would rather not--"

Aurora, feeling alarmed at what she had said, rose up. Clotilde andHonoré did the same, and he said:

"With Professor Frowenfeld in charge of your affairs, I shall feel themnot entirely removed from my care also. We are very good friends. "

Clotilde looked at her mother. The three exchanged glances. The ladiessignified their assent and turned to go, but M. Grandissimestopped them. 

"By your leave, I will send for him. If you will be seated again--"

They thanked him and resumed their seats; he excused himself, passedinto the counting-room, and sent a messenger for the apothecary. 

M. Grandissime's meeting with his kinsmen was a stormy one. Aurora andClotilde heard the strife begin, increase, subside, rise again anddecrease. They heard men stride heavily to and fro, they heard handssmite together, palms fall upon tables and fists upon desks, heardhalf-understood statement and unintelligible counter-statement andderisive laughter; and, in the midst of all, like the voice of a man whorules himself, the clear-noted, unimpassioned speech of Honoré, soundingso loftily beautiful in the ear of Aurora that when Clotilde looked ather, sitting motionless with her rapt eyes lifted up, those eyes camedown to her own with a sparkle of enthusiasm, and she softly said:

"It sounds like St. Gabriel!" and then blushed. 

Clotilde answered with a happy, meaning look, which intensified theblush, and then leaning affectionately forward and holding the maman'seyes with her own, she said:

"You have my consent. "

"Saucy!" said Aurora. "Wait till I get my own. "

Some of his kinsmen Honoré pacified; some he silenced. He invited all towithdraw their lands and moneys from his charge, and some accepted theinvitation. They spurned his parting advice to sell, and the policy theythen adopted, and never afterward modified, was that "all or nothing"attitude which, as years rolled by, bled them to penury in those famouscupping-leeching-and-bleeding establishments, the courts of Louisiana. You may see their grandchildren, to-day, anywhere within the angle ofthe old rues Esplanade and Rampart, holding up their heads inunspeakable poverty, their nobility kept green by unflinchingself-respect, and their poetic and pathetic pride revelling inancestral, perennial rebellion against common sense. 

"That is Agricola, " whispered Aurora, with lifted head and eyes dilatedand askance, as one deep-chested voice roared above all others. 

Agricola stormed. 

"Uncle, " Aurora by and by heard Honoré say, "shall I leave my owncounting-room?"

At that moment Joseph Frowenfeld entered, pausing with one hand on theouter rail. No one noticed him but Honoré, who was watching for him, andwho, by a silent motion, directed him into the private office. 

"H-whe shake its dust from our feet!" said Agricola, gathering someyoung retainers by a sweep of his glance and going out down the stair inthe arched way, unmoved by the fragrance of warm bread. On the banquettehe harangued his followers. 

He said that in such times as these every lover of liberty should goarmed; that the age of trickery had come; that by trickery Louisianianshad been sold, like cattle, to a nation of parvenues, to be draggedbefore juries for asserting the human right of free trade or ridding theearth of sneaks in the pay of the government; that laws, so-called, hadbeen forged into thumbscrews, and a Congress which had bound itself togive them all the rights of American citizens--sorry boon!--waspreparing to slip their birthright acres from under their feet, andleave them hanging, a bait to the vultures of the Américain immigration. Yes; the age of trickery! Its apostles, he said, were even then at workamong their fellow-citizens, warping, distorting, blasting, corrupting, poisoning the noble, unsuspecting, confiding Creole mind. For months thedevilish work had been allowed, by a patient, peace-loving people, to goon. But shall it go on forever? (Cries of "No!" "No!") The smell ofwhite blood comes on the south breeze. Dessalines and Christophe hadrecommenced their hellish work. Virginia, too, trembles for the safetyof her fair mothers and daughters. We know not what is being plotted inthe canebrakes of Louisiana. But we know that in the face of thesethings the prelates of trickery are sitting in Washington allowingthroats to go unthrottled that talked tenderly about the "negro slave;"we know worse: we know that mixed blood has asked for equal rights froma son of the Louisiana noblesse, and that those sacred rights have beentreacherously, pusillanimously surrendered into its possession. Why didwe not rise yesterday, when the public heart was stirred? Theforbearance of this people would be absurd if it were not saintly. Butthe time has, come when Louisiana must protect herself! If there is onehere who will not strike for his lands, his rights and the purity of hisrace, let him speak! (Cries of "We will rise now!" "Give us a leader!""Lead the way!")

"Kinsmen, friends, " continued Agricola, "meet me at nightfall before thehouse of this too-long-spared mulatto. Come armed. Bring a few feet ofstout rope. By morning the gentlemen of color will know their placesbetter than they do to-day; h-whe shall understand each other! H-wheshall set the negrophiles to meditating. "

He waved them away. 

With a huzza the accumulated crowd moved off. Chance carried them up therue Royale; they sang a song; they came to Frowenfeld's. It was anAméricain establishment; that was against it. It was a gossiping placeof Américain evening loungers; that was against it. It was a sorcerer'sden--(we are on an ascending scale); its proprietor had refusedemployment to some there present, had refused credit to others, was animpudent condemner of the most approved Creole sins, had been beatenover the head only the day before; all these were against it. But, worsestill, the building was owned by the f. M. C. , and unluckiest of all, Raoul stood in the door and some of his kinsmen in the crowd stopped tohave a word with him. The crowd stopped. A nameless fellow in thethrong--he was still singing--said: "Here's the place, " and dropped twobricks through the glass of the show-window. Raoul, with a cry ofretaliative rage, drew and lifted a pistol; but a kinsman jerked itfrom him and three others quickly pinioned him and bore him offstruggling, pleased to get him away unhurt. In ten minutes, Frowenfeld'swas a broken-windowed, open-doored house, full of unrecognizable rubbishthat had escaped the torch only through a chance rumor that theGovernor's police were coming, and the consequent stampede of the mob. 

Joseph was sitting in M. Grandissime's private office, in council withhim and the ladies, and Aurora was just saying:

"Well, anny'ow, 'Sieur Frowenfel', ad laz you consen'!" and gatheringher veil from her lap, when Raoul burst in, all sweat and rage. 

"'Sieur Frowenfel', we ruin'! Ow pharmacie knock all in pieces! Mypigshoe is los'!"

He dropped into a chair and burst into tears. 

Shall we never learn to withhold our tears until we are sure of ourtrouble? Raoul little knew the joy in store for him. 'Polyte, ittranspired the next day, had rushed in after the first volley ofmissiles, and while others were gleefully making off with jars ofasafoetida and decanters of distilled water, lifted in his arms and boreaway unharmed "Louisiana" firmly refusing to the last to enter theUnion. It may not be premature to add that about four weeks later HonoréGrandissime, upon Raoul's announcement that he was "betrothed, "purchased this painting and presented it to a club of _naturalconnoisseurs_. 

CHAPTER XLIX

OVER THE NEW STORE

The accident of the ladies Nancanou making their new home overFrowenfeld's drug-store occurred in the following rather amusing way. Itchanced that the building was about completed at the time that theapothecary's stock in trade was destroyed; Frowenfeld leased the lowerfloor. Honoré Grandissime f. M. C. Was the owner. He being concealed fromhis enemies, Joseph treated with that person's inadequately remuneratedemployé. In those days, as still in the old French Quarter, it was notuncommon for persons, even of wealth, to make their homes over stores, and buildings were constructed with a view to their partition in thisway. Hence, in Chartres and Decatur streets, to-day--and in thecross-streets between--so many store-buildings with balconies, dormerwindows, and sometimes even belvideres. This new building caught the eyeand fancy of Aurora and Clotilde. The apartments for the store wereentirely isolated. Through a large _porte-cochère_, opening upon thebanquette immediately beside and abreast of the store-front, one entereda high, covered carriage-way with a tessellated pavement and greenplastered walls, and reached, --just where this way (corridor, theCreoles always called it) opened into a sunny court surrounded withnarrow parterres, --a broad stairway leading to a hall over the"corridor" and to the drawing-rooms over the store. They liked it!Aurora would find out at once what sort of an establishment was likelyto be opened below, and if that proved unexceptionable she would leasethe upper part without more ado. 

Next day she said:

"Clotilde, thou beautiful, I have signed the lease!"

"Then the store below is to be occupied by a--what?"

"Guess!"

"Ah!"

"Guess a pharmacien!"

Clotilde's lips parted, she was going to smile, when her thought changedand she blushed offendedly. 

"Not--"

"'Sieur Frowenf--ah, ha, ha, ha!--_ha, ha, ha_!"

Clotilde burst into tears. 

Still they moved in--it was written in the bond; and so did theapothecary; and probably two sensible young lovers never before norsince behaved with such abject fear of each other--for a time. Later, and after much oft-repeated good advice given to each separately and toboth together, Honoré Grandissime persuaded them that Clotilde couldmake excellent use of a portion of her means by reenforcing Frowenfeld'svery slender stock and well filling his rather empty-looking store, andso they signed regular articles of copartnership, blushing frightfully. 

Frowenfeld became a visitor, Honoré not; once Honoré had seen theladies' moneys satisfactorily invested, he kept aloof. It is pleasanthere to remark that neither Aurora nor Clotilde made any waste of theirsudden acquisitions; they furnished their rooms with much beauty atmoderate cost, and their _salon_ with artistic, not extravagant, elegance, and, for the sake of greater propriety, employed a decayedlady as housekeeper; but, being discreet in all other directions, theyagreed upon one bold outlay--a volante. 

Almost any afternoon you might have seen this vehicle on the Terre auxBoeuf, or Bayou, or Tchoupitoulas Road; and because of the brilliantbeauty of its occupants it became known from all other volantes asthe "meteor. "

Frowenfeld's visits were not infrequent; he insisted on Clotdlde'sknowing just what was being done with her money. Without indulgingourselves in the pleasure of contemplating his continued mentalunfolding, we may say that his growth became more rapid in this seasonof universal expansion; love had entered into his still compacted soullike a cupid into a rose, and was crowding it wide open. However, asyet, it had not made him brave. Aurora used to slip out of thedrawing-room, and in some secluded nook of the hall throw up her claspedhands and go through all the motions of screaming merriment. 

"The little fool!"--it was of her own daughter she whispered thiscomplimentary remark--"the little fool is afraid of the fish!"

"You!" she said to Clotilde, one evening after Joseph had gone, "youcall yourself a Creole girl!"

But she expected too much. Nothing so terrorizes a blushing girl as ablushing man. And then--though they did sometimes digress--Clotilde andher partner met to talk "business" in a purely literal sense. 

Aurora, after a time, had taken her money into her own keeping. 

"You mighd gid robb' ag'in, you know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', " she said. 

But when he mentioned Clotilde's fortune as subject to the samecontingency, Aurora replied:

"Ah! bud Clotilde mighd gid robb'!"

But for all the exuberance of Aurora's spirits, there was a cloud in hersky. Indeed, we know it is only when clouds are in the sky that we getthe rosiest tints; and so it was with Aurora. One night, when she hadheard the wicket in the _porte-cochère_ shut behind three eveningcallers, one of whom she had rejected a week before, another of whom sheexpected to dispose of similarly, and the last of whom was JosephFrowenfeld, she began such a merry raillery at Clotilde and such ahilarious ridicule of the "Professor" that Clotilde would have weptagain had not Aurora, all at once, in the midst of a laugh, dropped herface in her hands and run from the room in tears. It is one of thepenalties we pay for being joyous, that nobody thinks us capable of careor the victim of trouble until, in some moment of extraordinaryexpansion, our bubble of gayety bursts. Aurora had been crying ofnights. Even that same night, Clotilde awoke, opened her eyes and beheldher mother risen from the pillow and sitting upright in the bed besideher; the moon, shining brightly through the mosquito-bar revealed withdistinctness her head slightly drooped, her face again in her hands andthe dark folds of her hair falling about her shoulders, half-concealingthe richly embroidered bosom of her snowy gown, and coiling incontinuous abundance about her waist and on the slight summer coveringof the bed. Before her on the sheet lay a white paper. Clotilde did nottry to decipher the writing on it; she knew, at sight, the slip that hadfallen from the statement of account on the evening of the ninth ofMarch. Aurora withdrew her hands from her face--Clotilde shut her eyes;she heard Aurora put the paper in her bosom. 

"Clotilde, " she said, very softly. 

"Maman, " the daughter replied, opening her eyes, reached up her arms anddrew the dear head down. 

"Clotilde, once upon a time I woke this way, and, while you were asleep, left the bed and made a vow to Monsieur Danny. Oh! it was a sin! but Icannot do those things now; I have been frightened ever since. I shallnever do so any more. I shall never commit another sin as long asI live!"

Their lips met fervently. 

"My sweet sweet, " whispered Clotilde, "you looked so beautiful sittingup with the moonlight all around you!"

"Clotilde, my beautiful daughter, " said Aurora, pushing her bedmate fromher and pretending to repress a smile, "I tell you now, because youdon't know, and it is my duty as your mother to tell you--the meanestwickedness a woman can do in all this bad, bad world is to look uglyin bed!"

Clotilde answered nothing, and Aurora dropped her outstretched arms, turned away with an involuntary, tremulous sigh, and after two or threehours of patient wakefulness, fell asleep. 

But at daybreak next morning, he that wrote the paper had not closed hiseyes. 

CHAPTER L

A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE

There was always some flutter among Frowenfeld's employés when he wasasked for, and this time it was the more pronounced because he wassought by a housemaid from the upper floor. It was hard for these two orthree young Ariels to keep their Creole feet to the ground when it waspresently revealed to their sharp ears that the "prof-fis-or" wasrequested to come upstairs. 

The new store was an extremely neat, bright, and well-orderedestablishment; yet to ascend into the drawing-rooms seemed to theapothecary like going from the hold of one of those smart oldpacket-ships of his day into the cabin. Aurora came forward, with theslippers of a Cinderella twinkling at the edge of her robe. It seemedunfit that the floor under them should not be clouds. 

"Proffis-or Frowenfel', good-day! Teg a cha'. " She laughed. It was thepure joy of existence. "You's well? You lookin' verrie well! Halwaysbizzie? You fine dad agriz wid you' healt', 'Sieur Frowenfel'? Yes? Ha, ha, ha!" She suddenly leaned toward him across the arm of her chair, with an earnest face. "'Sieur Frowenfel', Palmyre wand see you. You don'wan' come ad 'er 'ouse, eh?--an' you don' wan' her to come ad yo'bureau. You know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she drez the hair of Clotilde an'mieself. So w'en she tell me dad, I juz say, 'Palmyre, I will sen' forProffis-or Frowenfel' to come yeh; but I don' thing 'e comin'. ' Youknow, I din' wan' you to 'ave dad troub'; but Clotilde--ha, ha, ha!Clotilde is sudge a foolish--she nevva thing of dad troub' to you--shesay she thing you was too kine-'arted to call dad troub'--ha, ha, ha! Soanny'ow we sen' for you, eh!"

Frowenfeld said he was glad they had done so, whereupon Aurora roselightly, saying:

"I go an' sen' her. " She started away, but turned back to add: "Youknow, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she say she cann' truz nobody bud y'u. " Sheended with a low, melodious laugh, bending her joyous eyes upon theapothecary with her head dropped to one side in a way to move a heartof flint. 

She turned and passed through a door, and by the same way Palmyreentered. The philosophe came forward noiselessly and with a subduedexpression, different from any Frowenfeld had ever before seen. At thefirst sight of her a thrill of disrelish ran through him of which he wasinstantly ashamed; as she came nearer he met her with a deferential bowand the silent tender of a chair. She sat down, and, after a moment'spause, handed him a sealed letter. 

He turned it over twice, recognized the handwriting, felt the disrelishreturn, and said:

"This is addressed to yourself. "

She bowed. 

"Do you know who wrote it?" he asked. 

She bowed again. 

"_Oui, Miché_. "

"You wish me to open it? I cannot read French. "

She seemed to have some explanation to offer, but could not command thenecessary English; however, with the aid of Frowenfeld's limitedguessing powers, she made him understand that the bearer of the letterto her had brought word from the writer that it was written in Englishpurposely that M. Frowenfeld--the only person he was willing should seeit--might read it. Frowenfeld broke the seal and ran his eye over thewriting, but remained silent. 

The woman stirred, as if to say "Well?" But he hesitated. 

"Palmyre, " he suddenly said, with a slight, dissuasive smile, "it wouldbe a profanation for me to read this. "

She bowed to signify that she caught his meaning, then raised her elbowswith an expression of dubiety, and said:

"'E hask you--"

"Yes, " murmured the apothecary. He shook his head as if to protest tohimself, and read in a low but audible voice:

 "Star of my soul, I approach to die. It is not for me possible to live without Palmyre. Long time have I so done, but now, cut off from to see thee, by imprisonment, as it may be called, love is starving to death. Oh, have pity on the faithful heart which, since ten years, change not, but forget heaven and earth for you. Now in the peril of the life, hidden away, that absence from the sight of you make his seclusion the more worse than death. Halas! I pine! Not other ten years of despair can I commence. Accept this love. If so I will live for you, but if to the contraire, I must die for you. Is there anything at all what I will not give or even do if Palmyre will be my wife? Ah, no, far otherwise, there is nothing!" . . . 

Frowenfeld looked over the top of the letter. Palmyre sat with her eyescast down, slowly shaking her head. He returned his glance to the page, coloring somewhat with annoyance at being made a proposing medium. 

"The English is very faulty here, " he said, without looking up. "Hementions Bras-Coupé. " Palmyre started and turned toward him; but he wenton without lifting his eyes. "He speaks of your old pride and affectiontoward him as one who with your aid might have been a leader anddeliverer of his people. " Frowenfeld looked up. "Do you under--"

"_Allez, Miché_" said she, leaning forward, her great eyes fixed on theapothecary and her face full of distress. "_Mo comprend bien_. "

"He asks you to let him be to you in the place of Bras-Coupé. "

The eyes of the philosophe, probably for the first time since the deathof the giant, lost their pride. They gazed upon Frowenfeld almost withpiteousness; but she compressed her lips and again slowly shookher head. 

"You see, " said Frowenfeld, suddenly feeling a new interest, "heunderstands their wants. He knows their wrongs. He is acquainted withlaws and men. He could speak for them. It would not be insurrection--itwould be advocacy. He would give his time, his pen, his speech, hismeans, to get them justice--to get them their rights. "

She hushed the over-zealous advocate with a sad and bitter smile andessayed to speak, studied as if for English words, and, suddenlyabandoning that attempt, said, with ill-concealed scorn and in theCreole patois:

"What is all that? What I want is vengeance!"

"I will finish reading, " said Frowenfeld, quickly, not caring tounderstand the passionate speech. 

 "Ah, Palmyre! Palmyre! What you love and hope to love you because his heart keep itself free, he is loving another!"

_"Qui ci ça, Miché?"_

Frowenfeld was loth to repeat. She had understood, as her face showed;but she dared not believe. He made it shorter:

"He means that Honoré Grandissime loves another woman. "

"'Tis a lie!" she exclaimed, a better command of English coming with themomentary loss of restraint. 

The apothecary thought a moment and then decided to speak. 

"I do not think so, " he quietly said. 

"'Ow you know dat?"

She, too, spoke quietly, but under a fearful strain. She had thrownherself forward, but, as she spoke, forced herself back into her seat. 

"He told me so himself. "

The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, hereyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lostall knowledge of place or of human presence. She walked down thedrawing-room quite to its curtained windows and there stopped, her faceturned away and her hand laid with a visible tension on the back of achair. She remained so long that Frowenfeld had begun to think ofleaving her so, when she turned and came back. Her form was erect, herstep firm and nerved, her lips set together and her hands dropped easilyat her side; but when she came close up before the apothecary she wastrembling. For a moment she seemed speechless, and then, while her eyesgleamed with passion, she said, in a cold, clear tone, and in hernative patois:

"Very well: if I cannot love I can have my revenge. " She took the letterfrom him and bowed her thanks, still adding, in the same tongue, "Thereis now no longer anything to prevent. "

The apothecary understood the dark speech. She meant that, with no hopeof Honoré's love, there was no restraining motive to withhold her fromwreaking what vengeance she could upon Agricola. But he saw the follyof a debate. 

"That is all I can do?" asked he. 

"_Oui, merci, Miché_" she said; then she added, in perfect English, "butthat is not all _I_ can do, " and then--laughed. 

The apothecary had already turned to go, and the laugh was a low one;but it chilled his blood. He was glad to get back to his employments. 

CHAPTER LI

BUSINESS CHANGES

We have now recorded some of the events which characterized the fivemonths during which Doctor Keene had been vainly seeking to recover hishealth in the West Indies. 

"Is Mr. Frowenfeld in?" he asked, walking very slowly, and with a cane, into the new drug-store on the morning of his return to the city. 

"If Professo' Frowenfel' 's in?" replied a young man in shirt-sleeves, speaking rapidly, slapping a paper package which he had just tied, andsliding it smartly down the counter. "No, seh. "

A quick step behind the doctor caused him to turn; Raoul was justentering, with a bright look of business on his face, taking his coatoff as he came. 

"Docta Keene! _Teck_ a chair. 'Ow you like de noo sto'? See? Fo'counters! T'ree clerk'! De whole interieure paint undre mie h-owndirection! If dat is not a beautiful! eh? Look at dat sign. "

He pointed to some lettering in harmonious colors near the ceiling atthe farther end of the house. The doctor looked and read:

 MANDARIN, AG'T, APOTHECARY. 

"Why not Frowenfeld?" he asked. 

Raoul shrugged. 

"'Tis better dis way. "

That was his explanation. 

"Not the De Brahmin Mandarin who was Honoré's manager?"

"Yes. Honoré was n' able to kip 'im no long-er. Honoré is n' so rich lakbefo'. "

"And Mandarin is really in charge here?"

"Oh, yes. Profess-or Frowenfel' all de time at de ole corner, w'ere 'e_con_tinue to keep 'is private room and h-use de ole shop fo' ware'ouse. 'E h-only come yeh w'en Mandarin cann' git 'long widout 'im. "

"What does he do there? _He's_ not rich. "

Raoul bent down toward the doctor's chair and whispered the dark secret:

"Studyin'!"

Doctor Keene went out. 

Everything seemed changed to the returned wanderer. Poor man! Thechanges were very slight save in their altered relation to him. To onebroken in health, and still more to one with a broken heart, old scenesfall upon the sight in broken rays. A sort of vague alienation seemed tothe little doctor to come like a film over the long-familiar vistas ofthe town where he had once walked in the vigor and complacency ofstrength and distinction. This was not the same New Orleans. The peoplehe met on the street were more or less familiar to his memory, but manythat should have recognized him failed to do so, and others were made tonotice him rather by his cough than by his face. Some did not know hehad been away. It made him cross. 

He had walked slowly down beyond the old Frowenfeld corner and had justcrossed the street to avoid the dust of a building which was being torndown to make place for a new one, when he saw coming toward him, unconscious of his proximity, Joseph Frowenfeld. 

"Doctor Keene!" said Frowenfeld, with almost the enthusiasm of Raoul. 

The doctor was very much quieter. 

"Hello, Joe. "

They went back to the new drug-store, sat down in a pleasant little rearcorner enclosed by a railing and curtains, and talked. 

"And did the trip prove of no advantage to you?"

"You see. But never mind me; tell me about Honoré; how does that rowwith his family progress?"

"It still continues; the most of his people hold ideas of justice andprerogative that run parallel with family and party lines, lines ofcaste, of custom and the like they have imparted their bad feelingagainst him to the community at large; very easy to do just now, for theelection for President of the States comes on in the fall, and though wein Louisiana have little or nothing to do with it, the people arefeverish. "

"The country's chill-day, " said Doctor Keene; "dumb chill, hot fever. "

"The excitement is intense, " said Frowenfeld. "It seems we are not tobe granted suffrage yet; but the Creoles have a way of casting votes intheir mind. For example, they have voted Honoré Grandissime a traitor;they have voted me an encumbrance; I hear one of them casting thatvote now. "

Some one near the front of the store was talking excitedly with Raoul:

"An'--an'--an' w'at are the consequence? The consequence are that wesmash his shop for him an' 'e 'ave to make a noo-start with a Creolepartner's money an' put 'is sto' in charge of Creole'! If I know he isyo' frien'? Yesseh! Valuable citizen? An' w'at we care for valuablecitizen? Let him be valuable if he want; it keep' him from gettin' theneck broke; but--he mus'-tek-kyeh--'ow--he--talk'! He-mus'-tek-kyeh 'owhe stir the 'ot blood of Louisyanna!"

"He is perfectly right, " said the little doctor, in his husky undertone;"neither you nor Honoré is a bit sound, and I shouldn't wonder if theywould hang you both, yet; and as for that darkey who has had theimpudence to try to make a commercial white gentleman of himself--it maynot be I that ought to say it, but--he will get his deserts--sure!"

"There are a great many Americans that think as you do, " saidFrowenfeld, quietly. 

"But, " said the little doctor, "what did that fellow mean by your Creolepartner? Mandarin is in charge of your store, but he is not yourpartner, is he? Have you one?"

"A silent one, " said the apothecary

"So silent as to be none of my business?"

"No. "

"Well, who is it, then?"

"It is Mademoiselle Nancanou. "

"Your partner in business?"

"Yes. "

"Well, Joseph Frowenfeld, --"

The insinuation conveyed in the doctor's manner was very trying, butJoseph merely reddened. 

"Purely business, I suppose, " presently said the doctor, with a ghastlyironical smile. "Does the arrangem'--" his utterance failed him--"doesit end there?"

"It ends there. "

"And you don't see that it ought either not to have begun, or else oughtnot to have ended there?"

Frowenfeld blushed angrily. The doctor asked:

"And who takes care of Aurora's money?"

"Herself. "

"Exclusively?"

They both smiled more good-naturedly. 

"Exclusively. "

"She's a coon;" and the little doctor rose up and crawled away, ostensibly to see another friend, but really to drag himself into hisbedchamber and lock himself in. The next day--the yellow fever was badagain--he resumed the practice of his profession. 

"'Twill be a sort of decent suicide without the element ofpusillanimity, " he thought to himself. 

CHAPTER LII

LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING

When Honoré Grandissime heard that Doctor Keene had returned to the cityin a very feeble state of health, he rose at once from the desk where hewas sitting and went to see him; but it was on that morning when thedoctor was sitting and talking with Joseph, and Honoré found his chamberdoor locked. Doctor Keene called twice, within the following two days, upon Honoré at his counting-room; but on both occasions Honoré's chairwas empty. So it was several days before they met. But one hot morningin the latter part of August, --the August days were hotter before thecypress forest was cut down between the city and the lake than they arenow, --as Doctor Keene stood in the middle of his room breathingdistressedly after a sad fit of coughing, and looking toward one of hiswindows whose closed sash he longed to see opened, Honoré knocked atthe door. 

"Well, come in!" said the fretful invalid. "Why, Honoré, --well, itserves you right for stopping to knock. Sit down. "

Each took a hasty, scrutinizing glance at the other; and, after a pause, Doctor Keene said:

"Honoré, you are pretty badly stove. "

M. Grandissime smiled. 

"Do you think so, Doctor? I will be more complimentary to you; you mightlook more sick. "

"Oh, I have resumed my trade, " replied Doctor Keene. 

"So I have heard; but, Charlie, that is all in favor of the people whowant a skilful and advanced physician and do not mind killing him; Ishould advise you not to do it. "

"You mean" (the incorrigible little doctor smiled cynically) "if Ishould ask your advice. I am going to get well, Honoré. "

His visitor shrugged. 

"So much the better. I do confess I am tempted to make use of you inyour official capacity, right now. Do you feel strong enough to go withme in your gig a little way?"

"A professional call?"

"Yes, and a difficult case; also a confidential one. "

"Ah! confidential!" said the little man, in his painful, husky irony. "You want to get me into the sort of scrape I got our 'professor'into, eh?"

"Possibly a worse one, " replied the amiable Creole. 

"And I must be mum, eh?"

"I would prefer. "

"Shall I need any instruments? No?"--with a shade of disappointment onhis face. 

He pulled a bell-rope and ordered his gig to the street door. 

"How are affairs about town?" he asked, as he made some slightpreparation for the street. 

"Excitement continues. Just as I came along, a private difficultybetween a Creole and an Américain drew instantly half the streettogether to take sides strictly according to belongings and withoutasking a question. My-de'-seh, we are having, as Frowenfeld says, a warof human acids and alkalies. "

They descended and drove away. At the first corner the lad who droveturned, by Honoré's direction, toward the rue Dauphine, entered it, passed down it to the rue Dumaine, turned into this toward the riveragain and entered the rue Condé. The route was circuitous. They stoppedat the carriage-door of a large brick house. The wicket was opened byClemence. They alighted without driving in. 

"Hey, old witch, " said the doctor, with mock severity; "not hung yet?"

The houses of any pretension to comfortable spaciousness in the closelybuilt parts of the town were all of the one, general, Spanish-Americanplan. Honoré led the doctor through the cool, high, tessellatedcarriage-hall, on one side of which were the drawing-rooms, closed anddarkened. They turned at the bottom, ascended a broad, iron-railedstaircase to the floor above, and halted before the open half of aglazed double door with a clumsy iron latch. It was the entrance to twospacious chambers, which were thrown into one by folded doors. 

The doctor made a low, indrawn whistle and raised his eyebrows--therooms were so sumptuously furnished; immovable largeness and heaviness, lofty sobriety, abundance of finely wrought brass mounting, motionlessrichness of upholstery, much silent twinkle of pendulous crystal, a softsemi-obscurity--such were the characteristics. The long windows of thefarther apartment could be seen to open over the street, and the airfrom behind, coming in over a green mass of fig-trees that stood in thepaved court below, moved through the rooms, making them cool andcavernous. 

"You don't call this a hiding place, do you--in his own bedchamber?" thedoctor whispered. 

"It is necessary, now, only to keep out of sight, " softly answeredHonoré. "Agricole and some others ransacked this house one night lastMarch--the day I announced the new firm; but of course, then, he wasnot here. "

They entered, and the figure of Honoré Grandissime, f. M. C. , came intoview in the centre of the farther room, reclining in an attitude ofextreme languor on a low couch, whither he had come from the high bednear by, as the impression of his form among its pillows showed. Heturned upon the two visitors his slow, melancholy eyes, and, without anattempt to rise or speak, indicated, by a feeble motion of the hand, aninvitation to be seated. 

"Good morning, " said Doctor Keene, selecting a light chair and drawingit close to the side of the couch. 

The patient before him was emaciated. The limp and bloodless hand, whichhad not responded to the doctor's friendly pressure but sank idly backupon the edge of the couch, was cool and moist, and its nailsslightly blue. 

"Lie still, " said the doctor, reassuringly, as the rentier began to liftthe one knee and slippered foot which was drawn up on the couch and thehand which hung out of sight across a large, linen-covered cushion. 

By pleasant talk that seemed all chat, the physician soon acquaintedhimself with the case before him. It was a very plain one. By and by herubbed his face and red curls and suddenly said:

"You will not take my prescription. "

The f. M. C. Did not say yes or no. 

"Still, "--the doctor turned sideways in his chair, as was his wont, and, as he spoke, allowed the corners of his mouth to take that littlesatirical downward pull which his friends disliked, "I'll do my duty. I'll give Honoré the details as to diet; no physic; but my prescriptionto you is, Get up and get out. Never mind the risk of rough handling;they can but kill you, and you will die anyhow if you stay here. " Herose. "I'll send you a chalybeate tonic; or--I will leave it atFrowenfeld's to-morrow morning, and you can call there and get it. Itwill give you an object for going out. "

The two visitors presently said adieu and retired together. Reaching thebottom of the stairs in the carriage "corridor, " they turned in adirection opposite to the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of thepaved court, at a small table where the hospitality of Clemence hadplaced glasses of lemonade. 

"No, " said the doctor, as they sat down, "there is, as yet, no incurableorganic derangement; a little heart trouble easily removed; stillyour--your patient--"

"My half-brother, " said Honoré. 

"Your patient, " said Doctor Keene, "is an emphatic 'yes' to the questionthe girls sometimes ask us doctors--Does love ever kill?' It will killhim _soon_, if you do not get him to rouse up. There is absolutelynothing the matter with him but his unrequited love. "

"Fortunately, the most of us, " said Honoré, with something of thedoctor's smile, "do not love hard enough to be killed by it. "

"Very few. " The doctor paused, and his blue eyes, distended in reverie, gazed upon the glass which he was slowly turning around with hisattenuated fingers as it stood on the board, while he added: "However, one _may_ love as hopelessly and harder than that man upstairs, andyet not die. "

"There is comfort in that--to those who must live, " said Honoré withgentle gravity. 

"Yes, " said the other, still toying with his glass. 

He slowly lifted his glance, and the eyes of the two men met andremained steadfastly fixed each upon each. 

"You've got it bad, " said Doctor Keene, mechanically. 

"And you?" retorted the Creole. 

"It isn't going to kill me. "

"It has not killed me. And, " added M. Grandissime, as they passedthrough the carriage-way toward the street, "while I keep in mind thenumberless other sorrows of life, the burials of wives and sons anddaughters, the agonies and desolations, I shall never die of love, my-de'-seh, for very shame's sake. "

This was much sentiment to risk within Doctor Keene's reach; but he tookno advantage of it. 

"Honoré, " said he, as they joined hands on the banquette beside thedoctor's gig, to say good-day, "if you think there's a chance for you, why stickle upon such fine-drawn points as I reckon you are making? Why, sir, as I understand it, this is the only weak spot your action hasshown; you have taken an inoculation of Quixotic conscience from ourtranscendental apothecary and perpetrated a lot of heroic behavior thatwould have done honor to four-and-twenty Brutuses; and now that you havea chance to do something easy and human, you shiver and shrink at the'looks o' the thing. ' Why, what do you care--"

"Hush!" said Honoré; "do you suppose I have not temptation enoughalready?"

He began to move away. 

"Honoré, " said the doctor, following him a step, "I couldn't have made amistake--It's the little Monk, --it's Aurora, isn't it?"

Honoré nodded, then faced his friend more directly, with a sudden newthought. 

"But, Doctor, why not take your own advice? I know not how you areprevented; you have as good a right as Frowenfeld. "

"It wouldn't be honest, " said the doctor; "it wouldn't be the straightup and down manly thing. "

"Why not?"

The doctor stepped into his gig--

"Not till I feel all right _here_. " (In his chest. )

CHAPTER LIII

FROWENFELD AT THE GRANDISSIME MANSION

One afternoon--it seems to have been some time in June, and consequentlyearlier than Doctor Keene's return--the Grandissimes were set alla-tremble with vexation by the discovery that another of their numberhad, to use Agricola's expression, "gone over to the enemy, "--a phrasefirst applied by him to Honoré. 

"What do you intend to convey by that term?" Frowenfeld had asked onthat earlier occasion. 

"Gone over to the enemy means, my son, gone over to the enemy!" repliedAgricola. "It implies affiliation with Américains in matters of businessand of government! It implies the exchange of social amenities with arace of upstarts! It implies a craven consent to submit the sacredestprejudices of our fathers to the new-fangled measuring-rods of pert, imported theories upon moral and political progress! It implies alistening to, and reasoning with, the condemners of some of our mosttime-honored and respectable practices! Reasoning with? N-a-hay! butHonoré has positively sat down and eaten with them! What?--and h-walkedout into the stre-heet with them, arm in arm! It implies in his case anact--two separate and distinct acts--so base that--that--I simply do notunderstand them! _H-you_ know, Professor Frowenfeld, what he has done!You know how ignominiously he has surrendered the key of a moralposition which for the honor of the Grandissime-Fusilier name we havefelt it necessary to hold against our hereditary enemies!And--you--know--" here Agricola actually dropped all artificiality andspoke from the depths of his feelings, without figure--"h-h-he hasjoined himself in business h-with a man of negro blood! What can we do?What can we say? It is Honoré Grandissime. We can only say, 'Farewell!He is gone over to the enemy. '"

The new cause of exasperation was the defection of Raoul Innerarity. Raoul had, somewhat from a distance, contemplated such part as he couldunderstand of Joseph Frowenfeld's character with ever-broadeningadmiration. We know how devoted he became to the interests and fame of"Frowenfeld's. " It was in April he had married. Not to divide hisgenerous heart he took rooms opposite the drug-store, resolved that"Frowenfeld's" should be not only the latest closed but the earliestopened of all the pharmacies in New Orleans. 

This, it is true, was allowable. Not many weeks afterward his bride fellsuddenly and seriously ill. The overflowing souls of Aurora and Clotildecould not be so near to trouble and not know it, and before Raoul wasnearly enough recovered from the shock of this peril to remember that hewas a Grandissime, these last two of the De Grapions had hastened acrossthe street to the small, white-walled sick-room and filled it as full ofuniversal human love as the cup of a magnolia is full of perfume. MadameInnerarity recovered. A warm affection was all she and her husband couldpay such ministration in, and this they paid bountifully; the fourbecame friends. The little madame found herself drawn most towardClotilde; to her she opened her heart--and her wardrobe, and showed herall her beautiful new underclothing. Raoul found Clotilde to be, forhim, rather--what shall we say?--starry; starrily inaccessible; butAurora was emphatically after his liking; he was delighted with Aurora. He told her in confidence that "Profess-or Frowenfel'" was the best manin the world; but she boldly said, taking pains to speak with atear-and-a-half of genuine gratitude, --"Egcep' Monsieur HonoréGrandissime, " and he assented, at first with hesitation and then withardor. The four formed a group of their own; and it is not certain thatthis was not the very first specimen ever produced in the Crescent Cityof that social variety of New Orleans life now distinguished asUptown Creoles. 

Almost the first thing acquired by Raoul in the camp of the enemy was acertain Aurorean audacity; and on the afternoon to which we allude, having told Frowenfeld a rousing fib to the effect that themultitudinous inmates of the maternal Grandissime mansion had insistedon his bringing his esteemed employer to see them, he and his bride hadthe hardihood to present him on the front veranda. 

The straightforward Frowenfeld was much pleased with his reception. Itwas not possible for such as he to guess the ire with which his presencewas secretly regarded. New Orleans, let us say once more, was small, andthe apothecary of the rue Royale locally famed; and what with curiosityand that innate politeness which it is the Creole's boast that he cannotmortify, the veranda, about the top of the great front stair, was wellcrowded with people of both sexes and all ages. It would be mostpleasant to tarry once more in description of this gathering of nobilityand beauty; to recount the points of Creole loveliness in midsummerdress; to tell in particular of one and another eye-kindling face, form, manner, wit; to define the subtle qualities of Creole air and skyand scene, or the yet more delicate graces that characterize the musicof Creole voice and speech and the light of Creole eyes; to set forththe gracious, unaccentuated dignity of the matrons and the ravishingarchness of their daughters. To Frowenfeld the experience seemed allunreal. Nor was this unreality removed by conversation on gravesubjects; for few among either the maturer or the younger beauty coulddo aught but listen to his foreign tongue like unearthly strangers inthe old fairy tales. They came, however, in the course of their talk tothe subject of love and marriage. It is not certain that they entereddeeper into the great question than a comparison of its attendantAnglo-American and Franco-American conventionalities; but sure it isthat somehow--let those young souls divine the method who can--everyunearthly stranger on that veranda contrived to understand Frowenfeld'sEnglish. Suddenly the conversation began to move over the ground ofinter-marriage between hostile families. Then what eyes and ears! Acertain suspicion had already found lodgement in the universalGrandissime breast, and every one knew in a moment that, to all intentsand purposes, they were about to argue the case of Honoré and Aurora. 

The conversation became discussion, Frowenfeld, Raoul and Raoul's littleseraph against the whole host, chariots, horse and archery. Ah! suchstrokes as the apothecary dealt! And if Raoul and "Madame Raoul" playedparts most closely resembling the blowing of horns and breaking ofpitchers, still they bore themselves gallantly. The engagement wasshort; we need not say that nobody surrendered; nobody ever gives up theship in parlor or veranda debate: and yet--as is generally the case insuch affairs--truth and justice made some unacknowledged headway. Ifanybody on either side came out wounded--this to the credit of theCreoles as a people--the sufferer had the heroic good manners not to sayso. But the results were more marked than this; indeed, in more than oneor two candid young hearts and impressible minds the wrongs and rightsof sovereign true love began there on the spot to be more generouslyconceded and allowed. "My-de'-seh, " Honoré had once on a time said toFrowenfeld, meaning that to prevail in conversational debate one shouldnever follow up a faltering opponent, "you mus' _crack_ the egg, notsmash it!" And Joseph, on rising to take his leave, could the moreamiably overlook the feebleness of the invitation to call again, sincehe rejoiced, for Honoré's sake, in the conviction that the eggwas cracked. 

Agricola, the Grandissimes told the apothecary, was ill in his room, andMadame de Grandissime, his sister--Honoré's mother--begged to be excusedthat she might keep him company. The Fusiliers were a very close order;or one might say they garrisoned the citadel. 

But Joseph's rising to go was not immediately upon the close of thediscussion; those courtly people would not let even an unwelcome guestgo with the faintest feeling of disrelish for them. They were castingabout in their minds for some momentary diversion with which to add afinishing touch to their guest's entertainment, when Clemence appearedin the front garden walk and was quickly surrounded by boundingchildren, alternately begging and demanding a song. Many of even theyounger adults remembered well when she had been "one of the hands onthe place, " and a passionate lover of the African dance. In the sameinstant half a dozen voices proposed that for Joseph's amusementClemence should put her cakes off her head, come up on the veranda andshow a few of her best steps. 

"But who will sing?"

"Raoul!"

"Very well; and what shall it be?"

"'Madame Gaba. '"

No, Clemence objected. 

"Well, well, stand back--something better than 'Madame Gaba. '"

Raoul began to sing and Clemence instantly to pace and turn, posture, bow, respond to the song, start, swing, straighten, stamp, wheel, lifther hand, stoop, twist, walk, whirl, tiptoe with crossed ankles, smiteher palms, march, circle, leap, --an endless improvisation of rhythmicmotion to this modulated responsive chant:

 Raoul. "_Mo pas l'aimein ça_. "

 Clemence. "_Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!_"

 He. "_Yé donné vingt cinq sous pou' manzé poulé_. "

 She. "_Miché Igenne, dit--dit--dit--_"

 He. "_Mo pas l'aimein ça!_"

 She. "_Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!_"

 He. "_Mo pas l'aimein ça!_"

 She. "_Miché Igenne, oap! oap! oap!_"

Frowenfeld was not so greatly amused as the ladies thought he shouldhave been, and was told that this was not a fair indication of what hewould see if there were ten dancers instead of one. 

How much less was it an indication of what he would have seen in thatmansion early the next morning, when there was found just outside ofAgricola's bedroom door a fresh egg, not cracked, according to Honoré'smaxim, but smashed, according to the lore of the voudous. Who could havegot in in the night? And did the intruder get in by magic, by outsidelock-picking, or by inside collusion? Later in the morning, the childrenplaying in the basement found--it had evidently been accidentallydropped, since the true use of its contents required them to bescattered in some person's path--a small cloth bag, containing aquantity of dogs' and cats' hair, cut fine and mixed with saltand pepper. 

"Clemence?"

"Pooh! Clemence. No! But as sure as the sun turns around theworld--Palmyre Philosophe!"

CHAPTER LIV

"CAULDRON BUBBLE"

The excitement and alarm produced by the practical threat of voudoucurses upon Agricola was one thing, Creole lethargy was quite another;and when, three mornings later, a full quartette of voudou charms wasfound in the four corners of Agricola's pillow, the great Grandissimefamily were ignorant of how they could have come there. Let us examinethese terrible engines of mischief. In one corner was an acorn drilledthrough with two holes at right angles to each other, a small featherrun through each hole; in the second a joint of cornstalk with a cavityscooped from the middle, the pith left intact at the ends, and the spacefilled with parings from that small callous spot near the knee of thehorse, called the "nail;" in the third corner a bunch of parti-coloredfeathers; something equally meaningless in the fourth. No thread wasused in any of them. All fastening was done with the gum of trees. Itwas no easy task for his kindred to prevent Agricola, beside himselfwith rage and fright, from going straight to Palmyre's house andshooting her down in open day. 

"We shall have to watch our house by night, " said a gentleman of thehousehold, when they had at length restored the Citizen to a conditionof mind which enabled them to hold him in a chair. 

"Watch this house?" cried a chorus. "You don't suppose she comes nearhere, do you? She does it all from a distance. No, no; watch_her_ house. "

Did Agricola believe in the supernatural potency of these gimcracks? No, and yes. Not to be foolhardy, he quietly slipped down every day to thelevee, had a slave-boy row him across the river in a skiff, landed, re-embarked, and in the middle of the stream surreptitiously cast apicayune over his shoulder into the river. Monsieur D'Embarras, the impof death thus placated, must have been a sort of spiritual Cheap John. 

Several more nights passed. The house of Palmyre, closely watched, revealed nothing. No one came out, no one went in, no light was seen. They should have watched in broad daylight. At last, one midnight, 'Polyte Grandissime stepped cautiously up to one of the batten doorswith an auger, and succeeded, without arousing any one, in boring ahole. He discovered a lighted candle standing in a glass of water. 

"Nothing but a bedroom light, " said one. 

"Ah, bah!" whispered the other; "it is to make the spell work strong. "

"We will not tell Agricola first; we had better tell Honoré, " saidSylvestre. 

"You forget, " said 'Polyte, "that I no longer have any acquaintance withMonsieur Honoré Grandissime. "

They told Agamemnon; and it would have gone hard with the"_milatraise_" but for the additional fact that suspicion had fastenedupon another person; but now this person in turn had to be identified. It was decided not to report progress to old Agricola, but to wait andseek further developments. Agricola, having lost all ability to sleep inthe mansion, moved into a small cottage in a grove near the house. Butthe very next morning, he turned cold with horror to find on hisdoorstep a small black-coffined doll, with pins run through the heart, aburned-out candle at the head and another at the feet. 

"You know it is Palmyre, do you?" asked Agamemnon, seizing the old manas he was going at a headlong pace through the garden gate. "What if Ishould tell you that by watching the Congo dancing-ground at midnightto-night, you will see the real author of this mischief--eh?"

"And why to-night?"

"Because the moon rises at midnight. "

There was firing that night in the deserted Congo dancing-grounds underthe ruins of Fort St. Joseph, or, as we would say now, in Congo Square, from three pistols--Agricola's, 'Polyte's, and the weapon of anill-defined, retreating figure answering the description of the personwho had stabbed Agricola the preceding February. "And yet, " said'Polyte, "I would have sworn that it was Palmyre doing this work. "

Through Raoul these events came to the ear of Frowenfield. It was aboutthe time that Raoul's fishing party, after a few days' mishaps, hadreturned home. Palmyre, on several later dates, had craved furtheraudiences and shown other letters from the hidden f. M. C. She had heardthem calmly, and steadfastly preserved the one attitude of refusal. Butit could not escape Frowenfeld's notice that she encouraged the sendingof additional letters. He easily guessed the courier to be Clemence; andnow, as he came to ponder these revelations of Raoul, he found thatwithin twenty-four hours after every visit of Clemence to the house ofPalmyre, Agricola suffered a visitation. 

CHAPTER LV

CAUGHT

The fig-tree, in Louisiana, sometimes sheds its leaves while it is yetsummer. In the rear of the Grandissme mansion, about two hundred yardsnorthwest of it and fifty northeast of the cottage in which Agricola hadmade his new abode, on the edge of the grove of which we have spoken, stood one of these trees, whose leaves were beginning to lie thicklyupon the ground beneath it. An ancient and luxuriant hedge ofCherokee-rose started from this tree and stretched toward the northwestacross the level country, until it merged into the green confusion ofgardened homes in the vicinity of Bayou St. Jean, or, by night, into thecommon obscurity of a starlit perspective. When an unclouded moon shoneupon it, it cast a shadow as black as velvet. 

Under this fig-tree, some three hours later than that at which Honorébade Joseph good-night, a man was stooping down and covering somethingwith the broad, fallen leaves. 

"The moon will rise about three o'clock, " thought he. "That, the hour ofuniversal slumber, will be, by all odds, the time most likely to bringdevelopments. "

He was the same person who had spent the most of the day in ablacksmith's shop in St. Louis street, superintending a piece ofsmithing. Now that he seemed to have got the thing well hid, he turnedto the base of the tree and tried the security of some attachment. Yes, it was firmly chained. He was not a robber; he was not an assassin; hewas not an officer of police; and what is more notable, seeing he was aLouisianian, he was not a soldier nor even an ex-soldier; and thisalthough, under his clothing, he was encased from head to foot in acomplete suit of mail. Of steel? No. Of brass? No. It was all onepiece--_a white skin_; and on his head he wore an invisible helmet--thename of Grandissime. As he straightened up and withdrew into the grove, you would have recognized at once--by his thick-set, powerful frame, clothed seemingly in black, but really, as you might guess, in bluecottonade, by his black beard and the general look of a seafarer--afrequent visitor at the Grandissime mansion, a country member of thatgreat family, one whom we saw at the _fête de grandpère_. 

Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime was a man of few words, nosentiments, short methods; materialistic, we might say; quietlyferocious; indifferent as to means, positive as to ends, quick ofperception, sure in matters of saltpetre, a stranger at thecustom-house, and altogether--_take him right_--very much of agentleman. He had been, for a whole day, beset with the idea that theway to catch a voudou was--to catch him; and as he had caught numbers ofthem on both sides of the tropical and semi-tropical Atlantic, hedecided to try his skill privately on the one who--his experience toldhim--was likely to visit Agricola's doorstep to-night. All things beingnow prepared, he sat down at the root of a tree in the grove, where theshadow was very dark, and seemed quite comfortable. He did not strike atthe mosquitoes; they appeared to understand that he did not wish totrifle. Neither did his thoughts or feelings trouble him; he sat andsharpened a small penknife on his boot. 

His mind--his occasional transient meditation--was the more comfortablebecause he was one of those few who had coolly and unsentimentallyallowed Honoré Grandissime to sell their lands. It continued to growplainer every day that the grants with which theirs were classed--grantsof old French or Spanish under-officials--were bad. Their sagaciouscousin seemed to have struck the right standard, and while those titleswhich he still held on to remained unimpeached, those that he hadparted with to purchasers--as, for instance, the grant held by thisCapitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime--could be bought back now for halfwhat he had got for it. Certainly, as to that, the Capitain might wellhave that quietude of mind which enabled him to find occupation inperfecting the edge of his penknife and trimming his nails in the dark. 

By and by he put up the little tool and sat looking out upon theprospect. The time of greatest probability had not come, but the voudoumight choose not to wait for that; and so he kept watch. There was agreat stillness. The cocks had finished a round and were silent. No dogbarked. A few tiny crickets made the quiet land seem the more deserted. Its beauties were not entirely overlooked--the innumerable host of starsabove, the twinkle of myriad fireflies on the dark earth below. Betweena quarter and a half-mile away, almost in a line with the Cherokeehedge, was a faint rise of ground, and on it a wide-spreading live-oak. There the keen, seaman's eye of the Capitain came to a stop, fixed upona spot which he had not noticed before. He kept his eye on it, andwaited for the stronger light of the moon. 

Presently behind the grove at his back she rose; and almost the firstbeam that passed over the tops of the trees, and stretched across theplain, struck the object of his scrutiny. What was it? The ground, heknew; the tree, he knew; he knew there ought to be a white palingenclosure about the trunk of the tree: for there were buried--ah!--hecame as near laughing at himself as ever he did in his life; theapothecary of the rue Royale had lately erected some marble headstonesthere, and--

"Oh! my God!"

While Capitain Jean-Baptiste had been trying to guess what thetombstones were, a woman had been coming toward him in the shadow of thehedge. She was not expecting to meet him; she did not know that he wasthere; she knew she had risks to run, but was ignorant of what theywere; she did not know there was anything under the fig-tree which sheso nearly and noiselessly approached. One moment her foot was liftedabove the spot where the unknown object lay with wide-stretched jawsunder the leaves, and the next, she uttered that cry of agony andconsternation which interrupted the watcher's meditation. She was caughtin a huge steel-trap. 

Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime remained perfectly still. She fell, asnarling, struggling, groaning heap, to the ground, wild with pain andfright, and began the hopeless effort to draw the jaws of the trap apartwith her fingers. 

"_Ah! bon Dieu, bon Dieu!_ Quit a-_bi-i-i-i-tin' me_! Oh! Lawd 'a'mussy! Ow-ow-ow! lemme go! Dey go'n' to kyetch an' hang me! Oh! an' Ihain' done nutt'n' 'gainst _no_body! Ah! _bon Dieu! ein pov' viénégresse_! Oh! Jemimy! I cyan' gid dis yeh t'ing loose--oh! m-m-m-m! An'dey'll tra to mek out't I voudou' Mich-Agricole! An' I did n' hadnutt'n' do wid it! Oh Lawd, oh _Lawd_, you'll be mighty good ef youlemme loose! I'm a po' nigga! Oh! dey had n' ought to mek it so_pow_'ful!"

Hands, teeth, the free foot, the writhing body, every combination ofavailable forces failed to spread the savage jaws, though she stroveuntil hands and mouth were bleeding. 

Suddenly she became silent; a thought of precaution came to her; shelifted from the earth a burden she had dropped there, struggled to ahalf-standing posture, and, with her foot still in the trap, wasendeavoring to approach the end of the hedge near by, to thrust thisburden under it, when she opened her throat in a speechless ecstasy offright on feeling her arm grasped by her captor. 

"O-o-o-h! Lawd! o-o-oh! Lawd!" she cried, in a frantic, husky whisper, going down upon her knees, "_Oh, Miché! pou' l'amou' du bon Dieu! Pou'l'amou du bon Dieu ayez pitié d'ein pov' négresse! Pov' négresse, Miché_, w'at nevva done nutt'n' to nobody on'y jis sell _calas_! I isscomin' 'long an' step inteh dis-yeh bah-trap by acci_dent_! Ah! _Miché, Miché_, ple-e-ease be good! _Ah! mon Dieu_!--an' de Lawd'll rewardyou--'deed 'E will, _Miché_!"

"_Qui ci ça?_" asked the Capitain, sternly, stooping and grasping herburden, which she had been trying to conceal under herself. 

"Oh, Miché, don' trouble dat! Please jes tek dis yeh trap offen me--da'sall! Oh, don't, mawstah, ple-e-ease don' spill all my wash'n' t'ings!'Tain't nutt'n' but my old dress roll' up into a ball. Oh, please--now, you see? nutt'n' but a po' nigga's dr--_oh! fo' de love o' God, MichéJean-Baptiste, don' open dat ah box! Y'en a rien du tout la-dans, MichéJean-Baptiste; du tout, du tout_! Oh, my God! _Miché_, on'y jis teckdis-yeh t'ing off'n my laig, ef yo' _please_, it's bit'n' me lak a_dawg_!--if you _please, Miché_! Oh! you git kill' if you open dat ahbox, Mawse Jean-Baptiste! _Mo' parole d'honneur le plus sacre_--I'llkiss de cross! Oh, _sweet Miché Jean, laisse moi aller_! Nutt'n' butsome dutty close _la-dans_. " She repeated this again and again, evenafter Capitain Jean-Baptiste had disengaged a small black coffin fromthe old dress in which it was wrapped. "_Rien du tout, Miché_; nutt'n'but some wash'n' fo' one o' de boys. "

He removed the lid and saw within, resting on the cushioned bottom, theimage, in myrtle-wax, moulded and painted with some rude skill, of anegro's bloody arm cut off near the shoulder--a _bras coupé_--with adirk grasped in its hand. 

The old woman lifted her eyes to heaven; her teeth chattered; she gaspedtwice before she could recover utterance. "_Oh, Miché_ Jean-Baptiste, Idi' n' mek dat ah! _Mo' té pas fé ça_! I swea' befo' God! Oh, no, no, no! 'Tain' nutt'n' nohow but a lill play-toy, _Miché_. Oh, sweet _MichéJean_, you not gwan to kill me? I di' n' mek it! It was--ef you lemmego, I tell you who mek it! Sho's I live I tell you, _Miché Jean_--ef youlemme go! Sho's God's good to me--ef you lemme go! Oh, God A'mighty, _Miché Jean_, sho's God's good to me. "

She was becoming incoherent. 

Then Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime for the first time spoke atlength:

"Do you see this?" he spoke the French of the Atchafalaya. He put hislong flintlock pistol close to her face. "I shall take the trap off; youwill walk three feet in front of me; if you make it four I blow yourbrains out; we shall go to Agricole. But right here, just now, before Icount ten, you will tell me who sent you here; at the word ten, if Ireach it, I pull the trigger. One--two--three--"

"Oh, _Miché_, she gwan to gib me to de devil wid _houdou_ ef I tellyou--Oh, good _Lawdy_!"

But he did not pause. 

"Four--five--six--seven--eight--"

"Palmyre!" gasped the negress, and grovelled on the ground. 

The trap was loosened from her bleeding leg, the burden placed in herarms, and they disappeared in the direction of the mansion. 

 * * * * *

A black shape, a boy, the lad who had carried the basil to Frowenfeld, rose up from where he had all this time lain, close against the hedge, and glided off down its black shadow to warn the philosophe. 

When Clemence was searched, there was found on her person an oldtable-knife with its end ground to a point. 

CHAPTER LVI

BLOOD FOR A BLOW

It seems to be one of the self-punitive characteristics of tyranny, whether the tyrant be a man, a community, or a caste, to have apusillanimous fear of its victim. It was not when Clemence lay in irons, it is barely now, that our South is casting off a certain apprehensivetremor, generally latent, but at the slightest provocation active, andnow and then violent, concerning her "blacks. " This fear, like otherssimilar elsewhere in the world, has always been met by the same oneantidote--terrific cruelty to the tyrant's victim. So we shall presentlysee the Grandissime ladies, deeming themselves compassionate, urgingtheir kinsmen to "give the poor wretch a sound whipping and let her go. "Ah! what atrocities are we unconsciously perpetrating North and Southnow, in the name of mercy or defence, which the advancing light ofprogressive thought will presently show out in their enormity?

Agricola slept late. He had gone to his room the evening before muchincensed at the presumption of some younger Grandissimes who had broughtup the subject, and spoken in defence, of their cousin Honoré. He hadretired, however, not to rest, but to construct an engine of offensivewarfare which would revenge him a hundred-fold upon the miserableschool of imported thought which had sent its revolting influences tothe very Grandissime hearthstone; he wrote a "_Phillipique Généralecontre la Conduite du Gouvernement de la Louisiane_" and a short butvigorous chapter in English on "The Insanity of Educating the Masses. "This accomplished, he had gone to bed in a condition of peacefulelation, eager for the next day to come that he might take these mightyproductions to Joseph Frowenfeld, and make him a present of them forinsertion in his book of tables. 

Jean-Baptiste felt no need of his advice, that he should rouse him; and, for a long time before the old man awoke, his younger kinsmen werestirring about unwontedly, going and coming through the hall of themansion, along its verandas and up and down its outer flight of stairs. Gates were opening and shutting, errands were being carried by negroboys on bareback horses, Charlie Mandarin of St. Bernard parish and anArmand Fusilier from Faubourg Ste. Marie had on some account come--asthey told the ladies--"to take breakfast;" and the ladies, not yetinformed, amusedly wondering at all this trampling and stage whispering, were up a trifle early. In those days Creole society was a ship, inwhich the fair sex were all passengers and the ruder sex the crew. Theladies of the Grandissime mansion this morning asked passengers'questions, got sailors' answers, retorted wittily and more or lesssatirically, and laughed often, feeling their constrainedinsignificance. However, in a house so full of bright-eyed children, with mothers and sisters of all ages as their confederates, the secretwas soon out, and before Agricola had left his little cottage in thegrove the topic of all tongues was the abysmal treachery and_ingratitude_ of negro slaves. The whole tribe of Grandissime believed, this morning, in the doctrine of total depravity--of the negro. 

And right in the face of this belief, the ladies put forth thegenerously intentioned prayer for mercy. They were answered that theylittle knew what frightful perils they were thus inviting uponthemselves. 

The male Grandissimes were not surprised at this exhibition of weakclemency in their lovely women; they were proud of it; it showed themagnanimity that was natural to the universal Grandissime heart, whennot restrained and repressed by the stern necessities of the hour. ButAgricola disappointed them. Why should he weaken and hesitate, andsuggest delays and middle courses, and stammer over their proposedmeasures as "extreme"? In very truth, it seemed as though thatdrivelling, woman-beaten Deutsch apotheke--ha! ha! ha!--in the rueRoyale had bewitched Agricola as well as Honoré. The fact was, Agricolahad never got over the interview which had saved Sylvestre his life. 

"Here, Agricole, " his kinsmen at length said, "you see you are too oldfor this sort of thing; besides, it would be bad taste for you, whomight be presumed to harbor feelings of revenge, to have a voice inthis council. " And then they added to one another: "We will wait until'Polyte reports whether or not they have caught Palmyre; much willdepend on that. "

Agricola, thus ruled out, did a thing he did not fully understand; herolled up the "_Philippique Générale_" and "The Insanity of Educatingthe Masses, " and, with these in one hand and his staff in the other, setout for Frowenfeld's, not merely smarting but trembling under thehumiliation of having been sent, for the first time in his life, to therear as a non-combatant. 

He found the apothecary among his clerks, preparing with his own handsthe "chalybeate tonic" for which the f. M. C. Was expected to call. RaoulInnerarity stood at his elbow, looking on with an amiable air of havingbeen superseded for the moment by his master. 

"Ha-ah! Professor Frowenfeld!"

The old man nourished his scroll. 

Frowenfeld said good-morning, and they shook hands across the counter;but the old man's grasp was so tremulous that the apothecary looked athim again. 

"Does my hand tremble, Joseph? It is not strange; I have had much toexcite me this morning. "

"Wat's de mattah?" demanded Raoul, quickly. 

"My life--which I admit, Professor Frowenfeld, is of little valuecompared with such a one as yours--has been--if not attempted, at leastthreatened. "

"How?" cried Raoul. 

"H-really, Professor, we must agree that a trifle like that ought not tomake old Agricola Fusilier nervous. But I find it painful, sir, verypainful. I can lift up this right hand, Joseph, and swear I never gave aslave--man or woman--a blow in my life but according to my notion ofjustice. And now to find my life attempted by former slaves of my ownhousehold, and taunted with the righteous hamstringing of a dangerousrunaway! But they have apprehended the miscreants; one is actually inhand, and justice will take its course; trust the Grandissimes forthat--though, really, Joseph, I assure you, I counselled leniency. "

"Do you say they have caught her?" Frowenfeld's question was sudden andexcited; but the next moment he had controlled himself. 

"H-h-my son, I did not say it was a 'her'!"

"Was it not Clemence? Have they caught her?"

"H-yes--"

The apothecary turned to Raoul. 

"Go tell Honoré Grandissime. "

"But, Professor Frowenfeld--" began Agricola. 

Frowenfeld turned to repeat his instruction, but Raoul was alreadyleaving the store. 

Agricola straightened up angrily. 

"Pro-hofessor Frowenfeld, by what right do you interfere?"

"No matter, " said the apothecary, turning half-way and pouring thetonic into a vial. 

"Sir, " thundered the old lion, "h-I demand of you to answer! How dareyou insinuate that my kinsmen may deal otherwise than justly?"

"Will they treat her exactly as if she were white, and had threatenedthe life of a slave?" asked Frowenfeld from behind the desk at the endof the counter. 

The old man concentrated all the indignation of his nature in the reply. 

"No-ho, sir!"

As he spoke, a shadow approaching from the door caused him to turn. Thetall, dark, finely clad form of the f. M. C, in its old soft-steppingdignity and its sad emaciation, came silently toward the spot wherehe stood. 

Frowenfeld saw this, and hurried forward inside the counter with thepreparation in his hand. 

"Professor Frowenfeld, " said Agricola, pointing with his ugly staff, "Idemand of you, as a keeper of a white man's pharmacy, to turn thatnegro out. "

"Citizen Fusilier!" exclaimed the apothecary; "Mister Grandis--"

He felt as though no price would be too dear at that moment to pay forthe presence of the other Honoré. He had to go clear to the end of thecounter and come down the outside again to reach the two men. They didnot wait for him. Agricola turned upon the f. M. C. 

"Take off your hat!"

A sudden activity seized every one connected with the establishment asthe quadroon let his thin right hand slowly into his bosom, and answeredin French, in his soft, low voice:

"I wear my hat on my head. "

Frowenfeld was hurrying toward them; others stepped forward, and fromtwo or three there came half-uttered exclamations of protest; butunfortunately nothing had been done or said to provoke any one to rushupon them, when Agricola suddenly advanced a step and struck the f. M. C. On the head with his staff. Then the general outcry and forward rushcame too late; the two crashed together and fell, Agricola above, thef. M. C. Below, and a long knife lifted up from underneath sank to itshilt, once--twice--thrice, --in the old man's back. 

The two men rose, one in the arms of his friends, the other upon his ownfeet. While every one's attention was directed toward the wounded man, his antagonist restored his dagger to its sheath, took up his hat andwalked away unmolested. When Frowenfeld, with Agricola still in hisarms, looked around for the quadroon, he was gone. 

Doctor Keene, sent for instantly, was soon at Agricola's side. 

"Take him upstairs; he can't be moved any further. "

Frowenfeld turned and began to instruct some one to run upstairs andask permission, but the little doctor stopped him. 

"Joe, for shame! you don't know those women better than that? Take theold man right up!"

CHAPTER LVII

VOUDOU CURED

"Honoré, " said Agricola, faintly, "where is Honoré!"

"He has been sent for, " said Doctor Keene and the two ladies in abreath. 

Raoul, bearing the word concerning Clemence, and the later messengersummoning him to Agricola's bedside, reached Honoré within a minute ofeach other. His instructions were quickly given, for Raoul to take hishorse and ride down to the family mansion, to break gently to his motherthe news of Agricola's disaster, and to say to his kinsmen withimperative emphasis, not to touch the _marchande des calas_ till heshould come. Then he hurried to the rue Royale. 

But when Raoul arrived at the mansion he saw at a glance that the newshad outrun him. The family carriage was already coming round the bottomof the front stairs for three Mesdames Grandissime and Madame Martinez. The children on all sides had dropped their play, and stood about, hushed and staring. The servants moved with quiet rapidity. In the hallhe was stopped by two beautiful girls. 

"Raoul! Oh, Raoul, how is he now? Oh! Raoul, if you could only stopthem! They have taken old Clemence down into the swamp--as soon as theyheard about Agricole--Oh, Raoul, surely that would be cruel! She nursedme--and me--when we were babies!"

"Where is Agamemnon?"

"Gone to the city. "

"What did he say about it?"

"He said they were doing wrong, that he did not approve their action, and that they would get themselves into trouble: that he washed hishands of it. "

"Ah-h-h!" exclaimed Raoul, "wash his hands! Oh, yes, wash his hands?Suppose we all wash our hands? But where is Valentine? Where is CharlieMandarin?"

"Ah! Valentine is gone with Agamemnon, saying the same thing, andCharlie Mandarin is down in the swamp, the worst of all of them!"

"But why did you let Agamemnon and Valentine go off that way, you?"

"Ah! listen to Raoul! What can a woman do?"

"What can a woman--Well, even if I was a woman, I would do something!"

He hurried from the house, leaped into the saddle and galloped acrossthe fields toward the forest. 

Some rods within the edge of the swamp, which, at this season, wasquite dry in many places, on a spot where the fallen dead bodies oftrees overlay one another and a dense growth of willows and vines anddwarf palmetto shut out the light of the open fields, the younger andsome of the harsher senior members of the Grandissime family weresitting or standing about, in an irregular circle whose centre was a bigand singularly misshapen water-willow. At the base of this tree satClemence, motionless and silent, a wan, sickly color in her face, andthat vacant look in her large, white-balled, brown-veined eyes, withwhich hope-forsaken cowardice waits for death. Somewhat apart from therest, on an old cypress stump, half-stood, half-sat, in whisperedconsultation, Jean-Baptiste Grandissime and Charlie Mandarin. 

"_Eh bien_, old woman, " said Mandarin, turning, without rising, andspeaking sharply in the negro French, "have you any reason to give whyyou should not be hung to that limb over your head?"

She lifted her eyes slowly to his, and made a feeble gesture ofdeprecation. 

"_Mo té pas fé cette bras_, Mawse Challie--I di'n't mek dat ahm; no'ndeed I di'n', Mawse Challie. I ain' wuth hangin', gen'lemen; you'doughteh jis gimme fawty an' lemme go. I--I--I--I di'n' 'ten' no hawm toMawse-Agricole; I wa'n't gwan to hu't nobody in God's worl'; 'ndeed Iwasn'. I done tote dat old case-knife fo' twenty year'--_mo po'te çadipi vingt ans_. I'm a po' ole _marchande des calas; mo courri_ 'mongs'de sojer boys to sell my cakes, you know, and da's de onyest reason whyI cyah dat ah ole fool knife. " She seemed to take some hope from thesilence with which they heard her. Her eye brightened and her voice tooka tone of excitement. "You'd oughteh tek me and put me in calaboose, an'let de law tek 'is co'se. You's all nice gen'lemen--werry nicegen'lemen, an' you sorter owes it to yo'sev's fo' to not do no sichnasty wuck as hangin' a po' ole nigga wench; 'deed you does. 'Tain' nouse to hang me; you gwan to kyetch Palmyre yit; _li courri dans marais;_she is in de swamp yeh, sum'ers; but as concernin' me, you'd oughteh jisgimme fawty an lemme go. You mus'n't b'lieve all dis-yeh nonsense 'boutinsurrectionin'; all fool-nigga talk. W'at we want to be insurrectionin'faw? We de happies' people in de God's worl'!" She gave a start, andcast a furtive glance of alarm behind her. "Yes, we is; you jis' oughtehgimme fawty an' lemme go! Please, gen'lemen! God'll be good to you, younice, sweet gen'lemen!"

Charlie Mandarin made a sign to one who stood at her back, who respondedby dropping a rawhide noose over her head. She bounded up with a cry ofterror; it may be that she had all along hoped that all wasmake-believe. She caught the noose wildly with both hands and tried tolift it over her head. 

"Ah! no, mawsteh, you cyan' do dat! It's ag'in' de law! I's 'bleeged tohave my trial, yit. Oh, no, no! Oh, good God, no! Even if I is a nigga!You cyan' jis' murdeh me hyeh in de woods! _Mo dis la zize_! I tell dejudge on you! You ain' got no mo' biznis to do me so 'an if I was awhite 'oman! You dassent tek a white 'oman out'n de Pa'sh Pris'n an' do'er so! Oh, sweet mawsteh, fo' de love o' God! Oh, Mawse Challie, _pou'l'amou' du bon Dieu n'fé pas ça_! Oh, Mawse 'Polyte, is you gwan to let'em kill ole Clemence? Oh, fo' de mussy o' Jesus Christ, Mawse 'Polyte, leas' of all, _you_! You dassent help to kill me, Mawse 'Polyte! Youknows why! Oh God, Mawse 'Polyte, you knows why! Leas' of all you, Mawse'Polyte! Oh, God 'a' mussy on my wicked ole soul! I aint fitt'n to die!Oh, gen'lemen, I kyan' look God in de face! _Oh, Michés, ayez pitié demoin! Oh, God A'mighty ha' mussy on my soul_! Oh, gen'lemen, dough yo'kinfolks kyvvah up yo' tricks now, dey'll dwap f'um undeh you some day!_Solé levé là, li couché là_! Yo' tu'n will come! Oh, God A'mighty! deGod o' de po' nigga wench! Look down, oh God, look down an' stop dis yehfoolishness! Oh, God, fo' de love o' Jesus! _Oh, Michés, y'en a einzizement_! Oh, yes, deh's a judgmen' day! Den it wont be a bit o' use toyou to be white! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, fo', fo', fo', de, de, _love 0'God! Oh_!"

They drew her up. 

Raoul was not far off. He heard the woman's last cry, and came threshingthrough the bushes on foot. He saw Sylvestre, unconscious of anyapproach, spring forward, jerk away the hands that had drawn the thongover the branch, let the strangling woman down and loosen the noose. Hereyes, starting out with horror, turned to him; she fell on her knees andclasped her hands. The tears were rolling down Sylvestre's face. 

"My friends, we must not do this! You _shall_ not do it!"

He hurled away, with twice his natural strength, one who put out a hand. 

"No, sirs!" cried Raoul, "you shall not do it! I come from Honoré! Touchher who dares!"

He drew a weapon. 

"Monsieur Innerarity, " said 'Polyte, "_who is_ Monsieur HonoréGrandissime? There are two of the name, you know, --partners--brothers. Which of--but it makes no difference; before either of them sees thisassassin she is going to be a lump of nothing!"

The next word astonished every one. It was Charlie Mandarin who spoke. 

"Let her go!"

"Let her go!" said Jean-Baptiste Grandissime; "give her a run for life. Old woman, rise up. We propose to let you go. Can you run? Never mind, we shall see. Achille, put her upon her feet. Now, old woman, run!"

She walked rapidly, but with unsteady feet, toward the fields. 

"Run! If you don't run I will shoot you this minute!"

She ran. 

"Faster!"

She ran faster. 

"Run!"

"Run!"

"Run, Clemence! Ha, ha, ha!" It was so funny to see her scuttling andtripping and stumbling. "_Courri! courri, Clemence! c'est pou to' vie!_ha, ha, ha--"

A pistol-shot rang out close behind Raoul's ear; it was never told whofired it. The negress leaped into the air and fell at full length to theground, stone dead. 

CHAPTER LVIII

DYING WORDS

Drivers of vehicles in the rue Royale turned aside before two slightbarriers spanning the way, one at the corner below, the other at thatabove, the house where the aged high-priest of a doomed civilization laybleeding to death. The floor of the store below, the pavement of thecorridor where stood the idle volante, were covered with straw, andservants came and went by the beckoning of the hand. 

"This way, " whispered a guide of the four ladies from the Grandissimemansion. As Honoré's mother turned the angle half-way up the muffledstair, she saw at the landing above, standing as if about to part, yetin grave council, a man and a woman, the fairest--she noted it even inthis moment of extreme distress--she had ever looked upon. He hadalready set one foot down upon the stair, but at sight of the ascendinggroup drew back and said:

"It is my mother;" then turned to his mother and took her hand; they hadbeen for months estranged, but now they silently kissed. 

"He is sleeping, " said Honoré. "Maman, Madame Nancanou. "

The ladies bowed--the one looking very large and splendid, the othervery sweet and small. There was a single instant of silence, and Auroraburst into tears. 

For a moment Madame Grandissime assumed a frown that was almost areminder of her brother's, and then the very pride of the Fusiliersbroke down. She uttered an inaudible exclamation, drew the weeper firmlyinto her bosom, and with streaming eyes and choking voice, but yet withmajesty, whispered, laying her hand on Aurora's head:

"Never mind, my child; never mind; never mind. "

And Honoré's sister, when she was presently introduced, kissed Auroraand murmured:

"The good God bless thee! It is He who has brought us together. "

"Who is with him just now?" whispered the two other ladies, while Honoréand his mother stood a moment aside in hurried consultation. 

"My daughter, " said Aurora, "and--"

"Agamemnon, " suggested Madame Martinez. 

"I believe so, " said Aurora. 

Valentine appeared from the direction of the sick-room and beckoned toHonoré. Doctor Keene did the same and continued to advance. 

"Awake?" asked Honoré. 

"Yes. "

"Alas! my brother!" said Madame Grandissime, and started forward, followed by the other women. 

"Wait, " said Honoré, and they paused. "Charlie, " he said, as the littledoctor persistently pushed by him at the head of the stair. 

"Oh, there's no chance, Honoré, you'd as well all go in there. "

They gathered into the room and about the bed. Madame Grandissime bentover it. 

"Ah! sister, " said the dying man, "is that you? I had the sweetest dreamjust now--just for a minute. " He sighed. "I feel very weak. Where isCharlie Keene?"

He had spoken in French; he repeated his question in English. He thoughthe saw the doctor. 

"Charlie, if I must meet the worst I hope you will tell me so; I amfully prepared. Ah! excuse--I thought it was--

"My eyes seem dim this evening. _Est-ce-vous_, Honoré? Ah, Honoré, youwent over to the enemy, did you?--Well, --the Fusilier blood wouldal--ways--do as it pleased. Here's your old uncle's hand, Honoré. Iforgive you, Honoré--my noble-hearted, foolish--boy. " He spoke feebly, and with great nervousness. 

"Water. "

It was given him by Aurora. He looked in her face; they could not besure whether he recognized her or not. He sank back, closed his eyes, and said, more softly and dreamily, as if to himself, "I forgiveeverybody. A man must die--I forgive--even the enemies--of Louisiana. "

He lay still a few moments, and then revived excitedly. "Honoré! tellProfessor Frowenfeld to take care of that _Philippique Générale_. 'Tis agrand thing, Honoré, on a grand theme! I wrote it myself in one evening. Your Yankee Government is a failure, Honoré, a drivelling failure. Itmay live a year or two, not longer. Truth will triumph. The oldLouisiana will rise again. She will get back her trampled rights. Whenshe does, remem'--" His voice failed, but he held up one finger firmlyby way of accentuation. 

There was a stir among the kindred. Surely this was a turn for thebetter. The doctor ought to be brought back. A little while ago he wasnot nearly so strong. "Ask Honoré if the doctor should not come. " ButHonoré shook his head. The old man began again. 

"Honoré! Where is Honoré? Stand by me, here, Honoré; and sister?--onthis other side. My eyes are very poor to-day. Why do I perspire so?Give me a drink. You see--I am better now; I have ceased--to throw upblood. Nay, let me talk. " He sighed, closed his eyes, and opened themagain suddenly. "Oh, Honoré, you and the Yankees--you and--all--goingwrong--education--masses--weaken--caste--indiscr'--quarrels settl'--byaffidav'--Oh! Honoré. "

"If he would only forget, " said one, in an agonized whisper, "that_philippique générale_!"

Aurora whispered earnestly and tearfully to Madame Grandissime. Surelythey were not going to let him go thus! A priest could at least do noharm. But when the proposition was made to him by his sister, he said:

"No;--no priest. You have my will, Honoré, --in your iron box. ProfessorFrowenfeld, "--he changed his speech to English, --"I have written you anarticle on--" his words died on his lips. 

"Joseph, son, I do not see you. Beware, my son, of the doctrine of equalrights--a bottomless iniquity. Master and man--arch and pier--archabove--pier below. " He tried to suit the gesture to the words, but bothhands and feet were growing uncontrollably restless. 

"Society, Professor, "--he addressed himself to a weeping girl, --"societyhas pyramids to build which make menials a necessity, and Naturefurnishes the menials all in dark uniform. She--I cannot tell you--youwill find--all in the _Philippique Générale_. Ah! Honoré, is it--"

He suddenly ceased. 

"I have lost my glasses. "

Beads of sweat stood out upon his face. He grew frightfully pale. Therewas a general dismayed haste, and they gave him a stimulant. 

"Brother, " said the sister, tenderly. 

He did not notice her. 

"Agamemnon! Go and tell Jean-Baptiste--" his eyes drooped and flashedagain wildly. 

"I am here, Agricole, " said the voice of Jean-Baptiste, close beside thebed. 

"I told you to let--that negress--"

"Yes, we have let her go. We have let all of them go. "

"All of them, " echoed the dying man, feebly, with wandering eyes. Suddenly he brightened again and tossed his arms. "Why, there you werewrong, Jean-Baptiste; the community must be protected. " His voice sankto a murmur. "He would not take off--'you must remem'--" He was silent. "You must remem'--those people are--are not--white people. " He ceased amoment. "Where am I going?" He began evidently to look, or try to look, for some person; but they could not divine his wish until, with piteousfeebleness, he called:

"Aurore De Grapion!"

So he had known her all the time. 

Honoré's mother had dropped on her knees beside the bed, dragging Auroradown with her. 

They rose together. 

The old man groped distressfully with one hand. She laid her own in it. 

"Honoré!

"What could he want?" wondered the tearful family. He was feeling aboutwith the other hand. 

"Hon'--Honoré"--his weak clutch could scarcely close upon his nephew'shand. 

"Put them--put--put them--"

What could it mean? The four hands clasped. 

"Ah!" said one, with fresh tears, "he is trying to speak and cannot. "

But he did. 

"Aurora De Gra--I pledge'--pledge'--pledged--this union--to yourfa'--father--twenty--years--ago. "

The family looked at each other in dejected amazement. They had neverknown it. 

"He is going, " said Agamemnon; and indeed it seemed as though he wasgone; but he rallied. 

"Agamemnon! Valentine! Honoré! patriots! protect the race! Beware ofthe"--that sentence escaped him. He seemed to fancy himself haranguing acrowd; made another struggle for intelligence, tried once, twice, tospeak, and the third time succeeded:

"Louis'--Louisian'--a--for--ever!" and lay still. 

They put those two words on his tomb. 

CHAPTER LIX

WHERE SOME CREOLE MONEY GOES

And yet the family committee that ordered the inscription, the mason whocut it in the marble--himself a sort of half-Grandissime, half-nobody--and even the fair women who each eve of All-Saints came, attended by flower-laden slave girls, to lay coronals upon the old man'stomb, felt, feebly at first, and more and more distinctly as years wentby, that Forever was a trifle long for one to confine one's patrioticaffection to a small fraction of a great country. 

 * * * * *

"And you say your family decline to accept the assistance of the policein their endeavors to bring the killer of your uncle to justice?" askedsome _Américain_ or other of 'Polyte Grandissime. 

"'Sir, mie fam'lie do not want to fetch him to justice!--neitherPalmyre! We are goin' to fetch the justice to them! And sir, when wecannot do that, sir, by ourselves, sir, --no, sir! no police!"

So Clemence was the only victim of the family wrath; for the other twowere never taken; and it helps our good feeling for the Grandissimes toknow that in later times, under the gentler influences of a highercivilization, their old Spanish-colonial ferocity was gradually absorbedby the growth of better traits. To-day almost all the savagery that canjustly be charged against Louisiana must--strange to say--be laid atthe door of the _Américain_. The Creole character has been diluted andsweetened. 

One morning early in September, some two weeks after the death ofAgricola, the same brig which something less than a year before hadbrought the Frowenfelds to New Orleans crossed, outward bound, the sharpline dividing the sometimes tawny waters of Mobile Bay from the deepblue Gulf, and bent her way toward Europe. 

She had two passengers; a tall, dark, wasted yet handsome man ofthirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age, and a woman seemingly somethree years younger, of beautiful though severe countenance; "veryelegant-looking people and evidently rich, " so the brig-master describedthem, --"had much the look of some of the Mississippi River 'Lower Coast'aristocracy. " Their appearance was the more interesting for a look ofmental distress evident on the face of each. Brother and sister theycalled themselves; but, if so, she was the most severely reserved anddistant sister the master of the vessel had ever seen. 

They landed, if the account comes down to us right, at Bordeaux. Thecaptain, a fellow of the peeping sort, found pastime in keeping them insight after they had passed out of his care ashore. They went todifferent hotels!

The vessel was detained some weeks in this harbor, and her mastercontinued to enjoy himself in the way in which he had begun. He saw hislate passengers meet often, in a certain quiet path under the trees ofthe Quinconce. Their conversations were low; in the patois they usedthey could have afforded to speak louder; their faces were always graveand almost always troubled. The interviews seemed to give neither ofthem any pleasure. The monsieur grew thinner than ever, andsadly feeble. 

"He wants to charter her, " the seaman concluded, "but she doesn't likehis rates. "

One day, the last that he saw them together, they seemed to be, each ina way different from the other, under a great strain. He was haggard, woebegone, nervous; she high-strung, resolute, --with "eyes that shonelike lamps, " as said the observer. 

"She's a-sendin' him 'way to lew-ard, " thought he. Finally the Monsieurhanded her--or rather placed upon the seat near which she stood, whatshe would not receive--a folded and sealed document, seized her hand, kissed it and hurried away. She sank down upon the seat, weak and pale, and rose to go, leaving the document behind. The mariner picked it up;it was directed to _M. Honoré Grandissime, Nouvelle Orléans, États Unis, Amérique_. She turned suddenly, as if remembering, or possiblyreconsidering, and received it from him. 

"It looked like a last will and testament, " the seaman used to say, intelling the story. 

The next morning, being at the water's edge and seeing a number ofpersons gathering about something not far away, he sauntered down towardit to see how small a thing was required to draw a crowd of theseFrenchmen. It was the drowned body of the f. M. C. 

Did the brig-master never see the woman again? He always waited for thisquestion to be asked him, in order to state the more impressively thathe did. His brig became a regular Bordeaux packet, and he saw the Madametwice or thrice, apparently living at great ease, but solitary, in therue--. He was free to relate that he tried to scrape acquaintance withher, but failed ignominiously. 

The rents of Number 19 rue Bienville and of numerous other places, including the new drug-store in the rue Royale, were collected regularlyby H. Grandissime, successor to Grandissime Frères. Rumor said, andtradition repeats, that neither for the advancement of a friendlesspeople, nor even for the repair of the properties' wear and tear, didone dollar of it ever remain in New Orleans; but that once a yearHonoré, "as instructed, " remitted to Madame--say Madame Inconnue--ofBordeaux, the equivalent, in francs, of fifty thousand dollars. It isaverred he did this without interruption for twenty years. "Let us see:fifty times twenty--one million dollars. That is only a _part_ of the_pecuniary_ loss which this sort of thing costs Louisiana. "

But we have wandered. 

CHAPTER LX

"ALL RIGHT"

The sun is once more setting upon the Place d'Armes. Once more theshadows of cathedral and town-hall lie athwart the pleasant groundswhere again the city's fashion and beauty sit about in the sedateSpanish way, or stand or slowly move in and out among the old willowsand along the white walks. Children are again playing on the sward;some, you may observe, are in black, for Agricola. You see, too, a morepeaceful river, a nearer-seeming and greener opposite shore, and manyother evidences of the drowsy summer's unwillingness to leave theembrace of this seductive land; the dreamy quietude of birds; thespreading, folding, re-expanding and slow pulsating of theall-prevailing fan (how like the unfolding of an angel's wing isofttimes the broadening of that little instrument!); the oft-drawnhandkerchief; the pale, cool colors of summer costume; the swallow, circling and twittering overhead or darting across the sight; thelanguid movement of foot and hand; the reeking flanks and foaming bitsof horses; the ear-piercing note of the cicada; the dancing butterfly;the dog, dropping upon the grass and looking up to his master withroping jaw and lolling tongue; the air sweetened with the merchandise ofthe flower _marchandes_. 

On the levee road, bridles and saddles, whips, gigs, andcarriages, --what a merry coming and going! We look, perforce, toward theold bench where, six months ago, sat Joseph Frowenfeld. There issomebody there--a small, thin, weary-looking man, who leans his baredhead slightly back against the tree, his thin fingers knit together inhis lap, and his chapeau-bras pressed under his arm. You note hisextreme neatness of dress, the bright, unhealthy restlessness of hiseye, and--as a beam from the sun strikes them--the fineness of his shortred curls. It is Doctor Keene. 

He lifts his head and looks forward. Honoré and Frowenfeld are walkingarm-in-arm under the furthermost row of willows. Honoré is speaking. Howgracefully, in correspondence with his words, his free arm orhand--sometimes his head or even his lithe form--moves in quiet gesture, while the grave, receptive apothecary takes into his meditative mind, asinto a large, cool cistern, the valued rain-fall of his friend'scommunications. They are near enough for the little doctor easily tocall them; but he is silent. The unhappy feel so far away from thehappy. Yet--"Take care!" comes suddenly to his lips, and is almostspoken; for the two, about to cross toward the Place d'Armes at the veryspot where Aurora had once made her narrow escape, draw suddenly back, while the black driver of a volante reins up the horse he bestrides, andthe animal himself swerves and stops. 

The two friends, though startled apart, hasten with lifted hats to theside of the volante, profoundly convinced that one, at least, of its twooccupants is heartily sorry that they were not rolled in the dust. Ah, ah! with what a wicked, ill-stifled merriment those two ethereal womenbend forward in the faintly perfumed clouds of their ravishingsummer-evening garb, to express their equivocal mortificationand regret. 

"Oh! I'm so sawry, oh! Almoze runned o'--ah, ha, ha, ha!"

Aurora could keep the laugh back no longer. 

"An' righd yeh befo' haivry _boddie_! Ah, ha, ha! 'Sieur Grandissime, 'tis _me-e-e_ w'ad know 'ow dad is bad, ha, ha, ha! Oh! I assu' you, gen'lemen, id is hawful!"

And so on. 

By and by Honoré seemed urging them to do something, the thought ofwhich made them laugh, yet was entertained as not entirely absurd. Itmay have been that to which they presently seemed to consent; theyalighted from the volante, dismissed it, and walked each at a partner'sside down the grassy avenue of the levee. It was as Clotilde with onehand swept her light robes into perfect adjustment for the walk, andturned to take the first step with Frowenfeld, that she raised her eyesfor the merest instant to his, and there passed between them an exchangeof glance which made the heart of the little doctor suddenly burn like aball of fire. 

"Now we're all right, " he murmured bitterly to himself, as, withouthaving seen him, she took the arm of the apothecary, and theymoved away. 

Yes, if his irony was meant for this pair, he divined correctly. Theirhearts had found utterance across the lips, and the future stood waitingfor them on the threshold of a new existence, to usher them into aperpetual copartnership in all its joys and sorrows, itsdisappointments, its imperishable hopes, its aims, its conflicts, itsrewards; and the true--the great--the everlasting God of love was withthem. Yes, it had been "all right, " now, for nearly twenty-fourhours--an age of bliss. And now, as they walked beneath the willowswhere so many lovers had walked before them, they had whole histories totell of the tremors, the dismays, the misconstructions and longingsthrough which their hearts had come to this bliss; how at such a time, thus and so; and after such and such a meeting, so and so; no part ofwhich was heard by alien ears, except a fragment of Clotilde's speechcaught by a small boy in unintentioned ambush. 

"--Evva sinze de firze nighd w'en I big-in to nurze you wid de fivver. "

She was telling him, with that new, sweet boldness so wonderful to alately accepted lover, how long she had loved him. 

Later on they parted at the _porte-cochère_. Honoré and Aurora had gotthere before them, and were passing on up the stairs. Clotilde, catching, a moment before, a glimpse of her face, had seen that therewas something wrong; weather-wise as to its indications she perceived animpending shower of tears. A faint shade of anxiety rested an instant onher own face. Frowenfeld could not go in. They paused a little withinthe obscurity of the corridor, and just to reassure themselves thateverything _was_ "all right, " they--

God be praised for love's young dream!

The slippered feet of the happy girl, as she slowly mounted the stairalone, overburdened with the weight of her blissful reverie, made nosound. As she turned its mid-angle she remembered Aurora. She couldguess pretty well the source of her trouble; Honoré was trying to treatthat hand-clasping at the bedside of Agricola as a binding compact;"which, of course, was not fair. " She supposed they would have gone intothe front drawing-room; she would go into the back. But shemiscalculated; as she silently entered the door she saw Aurora standinga little way beyond her, close before Honoré, her eyes cast down, andthe trembling fan hanging from her two hands like a broken pinion. Heseemed to be reiterating, in a tender undertone, some question intendedto bring her to a decision. She lifted up her eyes toward his with amute, frightened glance. 

The intruder, with an involuntary murmur of apology, drew back; but, asshe turned, she was suddenly and unspeakably saddened to see Aurora dropher glance, and, with a solemn slowness whose momentous significancewas not to be mistaken, silently shake her head. 

"Alas!" cried the tender heart of Clotilde. "Alas! M. Grandissime!"

CHAPTER LXI

"NO!"

If M. Grandissime had believed that he was prepared for the supremebitterness of that moment, he had sadly erred. He could not speak. Heextended his hand in a dumb farewell, when, all unsanctioned by hiswill, the voice of despair escaped him in a low groan. At the samemoment, a tinkling sound drew near, and the room, which had grown darkwith the fall of night, began to brighten with the softly widening lightof an evening lamp, as a servant approached to place it in the frontdrawing-room. 

Aurora gave her hand and withdrew it. In the act the two somewhatchanged position, and the rays of the lamp, as the maid passed the door, falling upon Aurora's face, betrayed the again upturned eyes. 

"'Sieur Grandissime--"

They fell. 

The lover paused. 

"You thing I'm crool. "

She was the statue of meekness. 

"Hope has been cruel to me, " replied M. Grandissime, "not you; that Icannot say. Adieu. "

He was turning. 

"'Sieur Grandissime--"

She seemed to tremble. 

He stood still. 

"'Sieur Grandissime, "--her voice was very tender, --"wad you' horry?"

There was a great silence. 

"'Sieur Grandissime, you know--teg a chair. "

He hesitated a moment and then both sat down. The servant repassed thedoor; yet when Aurora broke the silence, she spoke in English--havingsuch hazardous things to say. It would conceal possible stammerings. 

"'Sieur Grandissime--you know dad riz'n I--"

She slightly opened her fan, looking down upon it, and was still. 

"I have no right to ask the reason, " said M. Grandissime. "It isyours--not mine. "

Her head went lower. 

"Well, you know, "--she drooped it meditatively to one side, with hereyes on the floor, --"'tis bick-ause--'tis bick-ause I thing in a fewdays I'm goin' to die. "

M. Grandissime said never a word. He was not alarmed. 

She looked up suddenly and took a quick breath, as if to resume, but hereyes fell before his, and she said, in a tone of half-soliloquy:

"I 'ave so mudge troub' wit dad hawt. "

She lifted one little hand feebly to the cardiac region, and sighedsoftly, with a dying languor. 

M. Grandissime gave no response. A vehicle rumbled by in the streetbelow, and passed away. At the bottom of the room, where a gilded Marswas driving into battle, a soft note told the half-hour. The ladyspoke again. 

"Id mague"--she sighed once more--"so strange, --sometime' I thing I'mgit'n' crezzy. "

Still he to whom these fearful disclosures were being made remained assilent and motionless as an Indian captive, and, after another pause, with its painful accompaniment of small sounds, the fair speaker resumedwith more energy, as befitting the approach to an incredible climax:

"Some day', 'Sieur Grandissime, --id mague me fo'gid my hage! I thing I'myoung!"

She lifted her eyes with the evident determination to meet his ownsquarely, but it was too much; they fell as before; yet she wenton speaking:

"An' w'en someboddie git'n' ti'ed livin' wid 'imsev an' big'n' to fillole, an' wan' someboddie to teg de care of 'im an' wan' me to gidmarri'd wid 'im--I thing 'e's in love to me. " Her fingers kept up alittle shuffling with the fan. "I thing I'm crezzy. I thing I muz bego'n' to die torecklie. " She looked up to the ceiling with large eyes, and then again at the fan in her lap, which continued its spreading andshutting. "An' daz de riz'n, 'Sieur Grandissime. " She waited until itwas certain he was about to answer, and then interrupted him nervously:"You know, 'Sieur Grandissime, id woon be righd! Id woon be de juztiz to_you!_ An' you de bez man I evva know in my life, 'Sieur Grandissime!"Her hands shook. "A man w'at nevva wan' to gid marri'd wid noboddie in'is life, and now trine to gid marri'd juz only to rip-ose de soul of'is oncl'--"

M. Grandissime uttered an exclamation of protest, and she ceased. 

"I asked you, " continued he, with low-toned emphasis, "for the singleand only reason that I want you for my wife. "

"Yez, " she quickly replied; "daz all. Daz wad I thing. An' I thing dazde rad weh to say, 'Sieur Grandissime. Bick-ause, you know, you an' meis too hole to talg aboud dad _lovin'_, you know. An' you godd dad grade_rizpeg_ fo' me, an' me I godd dad 'ighez rispeg fo' you; bud--" sheclutched the fan and her face sank lower still--"bud--" sheswallowed--shook her head--"bud--" She bit her lip; she could not go on. 

"Aurora, " said her lover, bending forward and taking one of her hands. "I _do_ love you with all my soul. "

She made a poor attempt to withdraw her hand, abandoned the effort, andlooked up savagely through a pair of overflowing eyes, demanding:

"_Mais_, fo' w'y you di' n' wan' to sesso?"

M. Grandissime smiled argumentatively. 

"I have said so a hundred times, in every way but in words. "

She lifted her head proudly, and bowed like a queen. 

"_Mais_, you see 'Sieur Grandissime, you bin meg one mizteg. "

"Bud 'tis corrected in time, " exclaimed he, with suppressed but eagerjoyousness. 

"'Sieur Grandissime, " she said, with a tremendous solemnity, "I'm verriesawrie; _mais_--you spogue too lade. "

"No, no!" he cried, "the correction comes in time. Say that, lady; saythat!"

His ardent gaze beat hers once more down; but she shook her head. Heignored the motion. 

"And you will correct your answer; ah! say that, too!" he insisted, covering the captive hand with both his own, and leaning forwardfrom his seat. 

"_Mais_, 'Sieur Grandissime, you know, dad is so verrie unegspeg'. "

"Oh! unexpected!"

"_Mais_, I was thing all dad time id was Clotilde wad you--"

She turned her face away and buried her mouth in her handkerchief. 

"Ah!" he cried, "mock me no more, Aurore Nancanou!"

He rose erect and held the hand firmly which she strove to draw away:

"Say the word, sweet lady; say the word!"

She turned upon him suddenly, rose to her feet, was speechless aninstant while her eyes flashed into his, and crying out:

"No!" burst into tears, laughed through them, and let him clasp her tohis bosom.