Part 53 (2/2)
”It is in such moods as this that fools drown themselves.”
His speech was French. He straightened up, smote the tree softly with his palm, and breathed a long, deep sigh--such a sigh, if the very truth be told, as belongs by right to a lover. And yet his mind did not dwell on love.
He turned and left the place; but the trouble that was plowing hither and thither through the deep of his meditations went with him. As he turned into the rue Chartres it showed itself thus:
”Right; it is but right;” he shook his head slowly--”it is but right.”
In the rue Douane he spoke again:
”Ah! Frowenfeld”--and smiled unpleasantly, with his head down.
And as he made yet another turn, and took his meditative way down the city's front, along the blacksmith's shops in the street afterward called Old Levee, he resumed, in English, and with a distinctness that made a staggering sailor halt and look after him:
”There are but two steps to civilization, the first easy, the second difficult; to construct--to reconstruct--ah! there it is! the tearing down! The tear'--”
He was still, but repeated the thought by a gesture of distress turned into a slow stroke of the forehead.
”Monsieur Honore Grandissime,” said a voice just ahead.
”_Eh, bien_?”
At the mouth of an alley, in the dim light of the streep lamp, stood the dark figure of Honore Grandissime, f.m.c., holding up the loosely hanging form of a small man, the whole front of whose clothing was saturated with blood.
”Why, Charlie Keene! Let him down again, quickly--quickly; do not hold him so!”
”Hands off,” came in a ghastly whisper from the shape.
”Oh, Chahlie, my boy--”
”Go and finish your courts.h.i.+p,” whispered the doctor.
”Oh Charlie, I have just made it forever impossible!”
”Then help me back to my bed; I don't care to die in the street.”
CHAPTER XLV
MORE REPARATION
”That is all,” said the fairer Honore, outside Doctor Keene's sick-room about ten o'clock at night. He was speaking to the black son of Clemence, who had been serving as errand-boy for some hours. He spoke in a low tone just without the half-open door, folding again a paper which the lad had lately borne to the apothecary of the rue Royale, and had now brought back with Joseph's answer written under Honore's inquiry.
”That is all,” said the other Honore, standing partly behind the first, as the eyes of his little menial turned upon him that deprecatory glance of inquiry so common to slave children. The lad went a little way down the corridor, curled up upon the floor against the wall, and was soon asleep. The fairer Honore handed the darker the slip of paper; it was received and returned in silence. The question was:
”_Can you state anything positive concerning the duel_?”
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