Part 37 (1/2)

In his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge that Frowenfeld had been three times to the dwelling of Palmyre Philosophe. Why, he further intimated, he knew not, nor would he ask; but _he_--when _he_ had applied for admission--had been refused. He had laid open his heart to the apothecary's eyes--”It may have been unwisely--”

Frowenfeld interrupted him; Palmyre had been ill for several days; Doctor Keene--who, Mr. Grandissime probably knew, was her physician--

The landlord bowed, and Frowenfeld went on to explain that Doctor Keene, while attending her, had also fallen sick and had asked him to take the care of this one case until he could himself resume it. So there, in a word, was the reason why Joseph had, and others had not, been admitted to her presence.

As obviously to the apothecary's eyes as anything intangible could be, a load of suffering was lifted from the quadroon's mind, as this explanation was concluded. Yet he only sat in meditation before his tenant, who regarded him long and sadly. Then, seized with one of his energetic impulses, he suddenly said:

”Mr. Grandissime, you are a man of intelligence, accomplishments, leisure and wealth; why” (clenchings his fists and frowning), ”why do you not give yourself--your time--wealth--attainments--energies--everything--to the cause of the downtrodden race with which this community's scorn unjustly compels you to rank yourself?”

The quadroon did not meet Frowenfeld's kindled eyes for a moment, and when he did, it was slowly and dejectedly.

”He canno' be,” he said, and then, seeing his words were not understood, he added: ”He 'ave no Cause. Dad peop' 'ave no Cause.” He went on from this with many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to tell, with a plaintiveness that seemed to Frowenfeld almost unmanly, the reasons why the people, a little of whose blood had been enough to blast his life, would never be free by the force of their own arm. Reduced to the meanings which he vainly tried to convey in words, his statement was this: that that people was not a people. Their cause--was in Africa.

They upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here the struggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war.

”You speak of them in the third person,” said Frowenfeld.

”Ah ham nod a slev.”

”Are you certain of that?” asked the tenant.

His landlord looked at him.

”It seems to me,” said Frowenfeld, ”that you--your cla.s.s--the free quadroons--are the saddest slaves of all. Your men, for a little property, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselves be shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of sham freedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattens them into the dirt like gra.s.s under a slab. I would rather be a runaway in the swamps than content myself with such a freedom. As your cla.s.s stands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--you are--I do not know but I was almost ready to say--a warning to philanthropists!”

The free man of color slowly arose.

”I trust you know,” said Frowenfeld, ”that I say nothing in offence.”

”Havery word is tru',” replied the sad man.

”Mr. Grandissime,” said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back again into his seat, ”I know you are a broken-hearted man.”

The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up.

”And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work of patient and sustained self-sacrifice. You have only those things to lose which grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display. Give yourself to your people--to those, I mean, who groan, or should groan, under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common.”

The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment's silence, answered:

”Ah cannod be one Toussaint l'Ouverture. Ah cannod trah to be. Hiv I trah, I h-only s'all soogceed to be one Bras-Coupe.”

”You entirely misunderstand me,” said Frowenfeld in quick response. ”I have no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection. I believe that to every desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife and the way of peace. I can imagine a man in your place, going about among his people, stirring up their minds to a n.o.ble discontent, laying out his means, sparingly here and bountifully there, as in each case might seem wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, their training in skilled work; going, too, among the men of the prouder caste, among such as have a spirit of fairness, and seeking to prevail with them for a public recognition of the rights of all; using all his cunning to show them the double damage of all oppression, both great and petty--”

The quadroon motioned ”enough.” There was a heat in his eyes which Frowenfeld had never seen before.

”M'sieu',” he said, ”waid till Agricola Fusilier ees keel.”

”Do you mean 'dies'?”

”No,” insisted the quadroon; ”listen.” And with slow, painstaking phrase this man of strong feeling and feeble will (the trait of his caste) told--as Frowenfeld felt he would do the moment he said ”listen”--such part of the story of Bras-Coupe as showed how he came by his deadly hatred of Agricola.