Part 7 (1/2)
”He didn't say that?” asked one of the debaters, with pretended indignation.
”He did, sir, after eating our bread!”
”And sucking our sugar-cane, too, no doubt!” said the wag; but the old man took no notice.
Frowenfeld, naturally, was not anxious to reply, and was greatly relieved to be touched on the elbow by a child with a picayune in one hand and a tumbler in the other. He escaped behind the counter and gladly remained there.
”Citizen Fusilier,” asked one of the gossips, ”what has the new government 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 the language.”
”English is not a language, sir; it is a jargon! And when this young simpleton, Claiborne, attempts to cram it down the public windpipe in the courts, as I understand he intends, he will fail! Hah! sir, I know men in this city who would rather eat a dog than speak Englis.h.!.+ I speak it, but I also speak Choctaw.”
”The new land t.i.tles will be in English.”
”They will spurn his rotten t.i.tles. And if he attempts to invalidate their old ones, why, let him do it! Napoleon Buonaparte” (Italian p.r.o.nounciation) ”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 fever may spare you to witness it.”
A sullen grunt from the circle showed the ”citizen” that he had presumed too much upon the license commonly accorded his advanced age, and by way of a diversion he looked around for Frowenfeld to pour new flatteries upon. But Joseph, behind his counter, unaware of either the offense or the resentment, was blus.h.i.+ng with pleasure before a visitor who had entered by the side door farthest from the company.
”Gentlemen,” said Agricola, ”h-my dear friends, you must not expect an old Creole to like anything in comparison with _la belle langue_.”
”Which language do you call _la belle?_” asked Doctor Keene, with pretended simplicity.
The old man bent upon him a look of unspeakable contempt, which n.o.body noticed. The gossips were one by one stealing a glance toward that which ever was, is and must be an irresistible lodestone to the eyes of all the 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 in her hand, with her purse, the heavy veil whose folds had before concealed her features.
CHAPTER X
”OO DAD IS, 'SIEUR FROWENFEL'?”
Whether the removal of the veil was because of the milder light of the evening, or the result of accident, or of haste, or both, or whether, by reason of some exciting or absorbing course of thought, the wearer had withdrawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the apothecary as little as did Agricola's continued harangue. As he looked upon the fair face through the light gauze which still overhung but not obscured it, he readily perceived, despite the sprightly smile, something like distress, and as she spoke this became still more evident in her hurried undertone.
”'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 the course of discussion:
”The Louisiana Creole is the n.o.blest variety of enlightened man!”
”Oo dad is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?” she asked, softly, but with an excited eye.
”That is Mr. Agricola Fusilier,” answered Joseph in the same tone, his heart leaping inexplicably as he met her glance. With an angry flush she looked quickly around, scrutinized the old man in an instantaneous, thorough way, and then glanced back at the apothecary again, as if asking him to fulfil her request the quicker.