Part 19 (2/2)
”Shall we go into my room?”
”_S'il vous plait, m'sieu'_.”
Frowenfeld's breakfast, furnished by contract from a neighboring kitchen, stood on the table. It was a frugal one, but more comfortable than formerly, and included coffee, that subject of just pride in Creole cookery. Joseph deposited his _calas_ with these things and made haste to produce a chair, which his visitor, as usual, declined.
”Idd you' bregfuz, m'sieu'.”
”I can do that afterward,” said Frowenfeld; but the landlord insisted and turned away from him to look up at the books on the wall, precisely as that other of the same name had done a few weeks before.
Frowenfeld, as he broke his loaf, noticed this, and, as the landlord turned his face to speak, wondered that he had not before seen the common likeness.
”Dez stog,” said the sombre man.
”What, sir? Oh!--dead stock? But how can the materials of an education be dead stock?”
The landlord shrugged. He would not argue the point. One American trait which the Creole is never entirely ready to encounter is this gratuitous Yankee 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 present market 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 certainly cannot 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 over depths of the question that he was little aware of. But the smile in a moment gave way for the look of one who was engrossed with another subject.
”M'sieu',” he began; but just then Joseph made an apologetic gesture and went forward to wait upon an inquirer after ”G.o.dfrey's Cordial;” for that comforter was known to be obtainable at ”Frowenfeld's.” The business of the American drug-store was daily increasing. When Frowenfeld returned his landlord stood ready to address him, with the air 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 drew close to Frowenfeld.
”Ah wand you mague me one _ouangan_,” he said.
Joseph shook his head. He remembered Doctor Keene's expressed suspicion concerning the a.s.sault 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 etes astrologue--magicien--”
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