Part 20 (1/2)
”G.o.d forbid!”
The landlord was grossly incredulous.
”You G.o.dd one 'P't.i.t Albert.'”
He dropped his forefinger upon an iron-clasped book on the table, whose t.i.tle 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 his visitor, who said without a motion:
”You di'n't gave Agricola Fusilier _une ouangan, la nuit pa.s.se_?”
”Sir?”
”Ee was yeh?--laz nighd?”
”Mr. Fusilier was here last night--yes. He had been attacked by an a.s.sa.s.sin and slightly wounded. He was accompanied by his nephew, who, I suppose, is your cousin: he has the same name.”
Frowenfeld, hoping he had changed the subject, concluded with a propitiatory 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that started toward his lips turned back and rushed into his heart, and it 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 something terrible.
”Nod sell me--_ouangan_?” asked the landlord, again.
”Sir,” exclaimed Frowenfeld, taking a step backward, ”pardon me if I offend you; that mixture of blood which draws upon you the scorn of this community is to me nothing--nothing! And every invidious distinction made against you on that account I despise! But, sir, whatever may be either your private wrongs, or the wrongs you suffer in common with your cla.s.s, if you have it in your mind to employ any manner of secret art against the interests or person of any one--”
The landlord was making silent protestations, and his tenant, lost in a wilderness of indignant emotions, stopped.
”M'sieu',” began the quadroon, but ceased and stood with an expression of annoyance every moment deepening on his face, until he finally shook his head slowly, and said with a baffled smile: ”Ah can nod spig Engliss.”
”Write it,” said Frowenfeld, lifting forward a chair.
The landlord, for the first time in their acquaintance, accepted a seat, bowing low as he did so, with a demonstration of profound grat.i.tude that just perceptibly heightened his even dignity. Paper, quills, and ink were handed down from a shelf and Joseph retired into the shop.
Honore Grandissime, f.m.c. (these initials could hardly have come into use until some months later, but the convenience covers the sin of the slight anachronism), Honore Grandissime, free man of color, entered from the rear room so silently that Joseph was first made aware of his presence by feeling him at his elbow. He handed the apothecary--but a few words in time, lest we misjudge.