Part 48 (1/2)

”Sir, I am not aware that I have ever offered you the slightest injury or affront; if you wish to finish your conversation with this gentleman, I will wait till you are through.”

The Creole bowed, as a knight who takes up the gage. He turned to Valentine.

”Valentine, I was sayin' to you dad diz pusson is a cowa'd and a sneak; I repead thad! I repead id! I spurn you! Go f'om yeh!”

The apothecary stood like a cliff.

It was too much for Creole forbearance. His adversary, with a long snarl of oaths, sprang forward and with a great sweep of his arm slapped the apothecary on the cheek. And then--

What a silence!

Frowenfeld had advanced one step; his opponent stood half turned away, but with his face toward the face he had just struck and his eyes glaring up into the eyes of the apothecary. The semicircle was dissolved, and each man stood in neutral isolation, motionless and silent. For one instant objects lost all natural proportion, and to the expectant on-lookers the largest thing in the room was the big, upraised, white fist of Frowenfeld. But in the next--how was this? Could it be that that fist had not descended?

The imperturbable Valentine, with one preventing arm laid across the breast of the expected victim and an open hand held restrainingly up for truce, stood between the two men and said:

”Professor Frowenfeld--one moment--”

Frowenfeld's face was ashen.

”Don't speak, sir!” he exclaimed. ”If I attempt to parley I shall break every bone in his body. Don't speak! I can guess your explanation--he is drunk. But take him away.”

Valentine, as sensible as cool, a.s.sisted by the kinsman who had laid a hand on his arm, shuffled his enraged companion out. Frowenfeld's still swelling anger was so near getting the better of him that he unconsciously followed a quick step or two; but as Valentine looked back and waved him to stop, he again stood still.

”_Professeur_--you know,--” said a stranger, ”daz Sylvestre Grandissime.”

Frowenfeld rather spoke to himself than answered:

”If I had not known that, I should have--” He checked himself and left the place.

While the apothecary was gathering these experiences, the free spirit of Raoul Innerarity was chafing in the shop like an eagle in a hen-coop.

One moment after another brought him straggling evidences, now of one sort, now of another, of the ”never more peaceable” state of affairs without. If only some pretext could be conjured up, plausible or flimsy, no matter; if only some man would pa.s.s with a gun on his shoulder, were it only a blow-gun; or if his employer were any one but his beloved Frowenfeld, he would clap up the shutters as quickly as he had already done once to-day, and be off to the wars. He was just trying to hear imaginary pistol-shots down toward the Place d'Armes, when the apothecary returned.

”D' you fin' him?”

”I found Sylvestre.”

”'E took de lett'?”

”I did not offer it.” Frowenfeld, in a few compact sentences, told his adventure.

Raoul was ablaze with indignation.

”'Sieur Frowenfel', gimmy dat lett'!” He extended his pretty hand.

Frowenfeld pondered.

”Gimmy 'er!” persisted the artist; ”befo' I lose de sight from dat lett'