Part 28 (2/2)
What could he say?
CHAPTER XXVI
A RIDE AND A RESCUE
”Douane or Bienville?”
Such was the choice presented by Honore Grandissime to Joseph Frowenfeld, as the former on a lively brown colt and the apothecary on a nervy chestnut fell into a gentle, preliminary trot while yet in the rue Royale, looked after by that great admirer of both, Raoul Innerarity.
”Douane?” said Frowenfeld. (It was the street we call Custom-house.)
”It has mud-holes,” objected Honore.
”Well, then, the rue du Ca.n.a.l?”
”The ca.n.a.l--I can smell it from here. Why not rue Bienville?”
Frowenfeld said he did not know. (We give the statement for what it is worth.)
Notice their route. A spirit of perversity seems to have entered into the very topography of this quarter. They turned up the rue Bienville (up is toward the river); reaching the levee, they took their course up the sh.o.r.e of the Mississippi (almost due south), and broke into a lively gallop on the Tchoupitoulas road, which in those days skirted that margin of the river nearest the sunsetting, namely, the _eastern_ bank.
Conversation moved sluggishly for a time, halting upon trite topics or swinging easily from polite inquiry to mild affirmation, and back again.
They were men of thought, these two, and one of them did not fully understand why he was in his present position; hence some reticence. It was one of those afternoons in early March that make one wonder how the rest 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 seemed so, he said.
The land was an inverted firmament of flowers. The birds were an innumerable, busy, joy-compelling mult.i.tude, darting and fluttering hither and thither, as one might imagine the babes do in heaven. The orange-groves were in blossom; their dark-green boughs seemed snowed upon from a cloud of incense, and a listening ear might catch an incessant, whispered trickle of falling petals, dropping ”as the honey-comb.” The magnolia was beginning to add to its dark and s.h.i.+ning evergreen 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 putting out their subdued florescence as if they smiled in grave partic.i.p.ation with the laughing gardens. The homes that gave perfection to this beauty were those old, large, belvidered colonial villas, of which you may still here and there see one standing, battered into half ruin, high and broad, among foundries, cotton-and tobacco-sheds, junk-yards, and longsh.o.r.emen's hovels, like one unconquered elephant in a wreck of artillery. In Frowenfeld's day the ”smell of their garments was like Lebanon.” They were seen by glimpses through chance openings in lofty hedges of Cherokee-rose or bois-d'arc, under boughs of cedar or pride-of-China, above their groves of orange or down their long, overarched avenues of oleander; and the lemon and the pomegranate, the banana, the fig, the shaddock, and at times even the mango and the guava, joined ”hands around” and tossed their fragrant locks above the lilies and roses. Frowenfeld forgot to ask himself further concerning the probable intent of M. Grandissime's invitation to ride; these beauties seemed rich enough in good reasons. He felt glad and grateful.
At a certain point the two horses turned of their own impulse, as by force of habit, and with a few clambering strides mounted to the top of the levee and stood still, facing the broad, dancing, hurrying, br.i.m.m.i.n.g river.
The Creole stole an amused glance at the elated, self-forgetful look of his immigrant friend.
”Mr. Frowenfeld,” he said, as the delighted apothecary turned with unwonted suddenness and saw his smile, ”I believe you like this better than discussion. You find it easier to be in harmony with Louisiana than with Louisianians, eh?”
Frowenfeld colored with surprise. Something unpleasant had lately occurred in his shop. Was this to signify that M. Grandissime had heard of it?
”I am a Louisianian,” replied he, as if this were a point a.s.sailed.
”I would not insinuate otherwise,” said M. Grandissime, with a kindly gesture. ”I would like you to feel so. We are citizens now of a different government from that under which we lived the morning we first met. Yet”--the Creole paused and smiled--”you are not, and I am glad you are not, what we call a Louisianian.”
Frowenfeld's color increased. He turned quickly in his saddle as if to say something very positive, but hesitated, restrained himself and 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 a thoughtful countenance; but he presently said, with some suddenness:
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