Part 37 (2/2)
”Tale me,” said the landlord, as he concluded the recital, ”w'y deen Bras Coupe mague dad curze on Agricola Fusilier? Becoze Agricola ees one sorcier! Elz 'e bin dade sinz long tamm.”
The speaker's gestures seemed to imply that his own hand, if need be, would have brought the event to pa.s.s.
As he rose to say adieu, Frowenfeld, without previous intention, laid a hand upon his visitor's arm.
”Is there no one who can make peace between you?”
The landlord shook his head.
”'Tis impossib'. We don' wand.”
”I mean,” insisted Frowenfeld, ”Is there no man who can stand between you and those who wrong you, and effect a peaceful reparation?”
The landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his tenant speaking, but each knowing that the one man in the minds of both, as a possible peacemaker, was Honore Grandissime.
”Should the opportunity offer,” continued Joseph, ”may I speak a word for you myself?”
The quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely though bitterly, and departed repeating again:
”'Tis impossib'. We don' wand.”
”Palsied,” murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully,--”like all of them.”
Frowenfeld's thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day having pa.s.sed, the hour was approaching wherein Innerarity was exhorted to tell his good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Grandissime mansion. As the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, the fairer Honore called him out into the moonlight.
”Withered,” the student was saying audibly to himself, ”not in the shadow of the Ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man.”
”Who is withered?” pleasantly demanded Honore. The apothecary started slightly.
”Did I speak? How do you do, sir? I meant the free quadroons.”
”Including the gentleman from whom you rent your store?”
”Yes, him especially; he told me this morning the story of Bras-Coupe.”
M. Grandissime laughed. Joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh sound entirely genuine.
”Do not open the door, Mr Frowenfeld,” said the Creole, ”Get your greatcoat and cane and come take a walk with me; I will tell you the same story.”
It was two hours before they approached this door again on their return.
Just before they reached it, Honore stopped under the huge street-lamp, whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on the ground in the narrow, moonlit street. There was a tall, unfinished building at his back.
”Mr Frowenfeld,”--he struck the stone with his cane,--”this stone is Bras-Coupe--we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools.”
He laughed. He had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a man of Frowenfeld's quiet mind.
As the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hear his companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it could be--for M. Grandissime had not disclosed it--that induced such a man as he to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chill and dangerous hours. ”What does he want with me?” The thought was so natural that it was no miracle the Creole read it.
<script>