Part 8 (2/2)
”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, with unnecessary resentment:
”She was going to make some proper use of it, which need not concern me.”
”Without doubt.”
The Creole quietly walked a step or two forward and back and looked idly into the gla.s.s case. ”Is this young man in love with her?” he asked himself. 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 change for--”
”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 which still 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 into the 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 the slaves. Many of your best people consult the voudou horses.”
”Horses?”
”Priestesses, you might call them,” explained the Creole, ”like Momselle Marcelline or 'Zabeth Philosophe.”
”Witches!” whispered Frowenfeld.
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