Part 58 (2/2)
”_Oui, Miche_.”
”You wish me to open it? I cannot read French.”
She seemed to have some explanation to offer, but could not command the necessary English; however, with the aid of Frowenfeld's limited guessing powers, she made him understand that the bearer of the letter to her had brought word from the writer that it was written in English purposely that M. Frowenfeld--the only person he was willing should see it--might read it. Frowenfeld broke the seal and ran his eye over the writing, but remained silent.
The woman stirred, as if to say ”Well?” But he hesitated.
”Palmyre,” he suddenly said, with a slight, dissuasive smile, ”it would be a profanation for me to read this.”
She bowed to signify that she caught his meaning, then raised her elbows with an expression of dubiety, and said:
”'E hask you--”
”Yes,” murmured the apothecary. He shook his head as if to protest to himself, and read in a low but audible voice:
”Star of my soul, I approach to die. It is not for me possible to live without Palmyre. Long time have I so done, but now, cut off from to see thee, by imprisonment, as it may be called, love is starving to death. Oh, have pity on the faithful heart which, since ten years, change not, but forget heaven and earth for you. Now in the peril of the life, hidden away, that absence from the sight of you make his seclusion the more worse than death. Halas! I pine! Not other ten years of despair can I commence. Accept this love. If so I will live for you, but if to the contraire, I must die for you. Is there anything at all what I will not give or even do if Palmyre will be my wife? Ah, no, far otherwise, there is nothing!” ...
Frowenfeld looked over the top of the letter. Palmyre sat with her eyes cast down, slowly shaking her head. He returned his glance to the page, coloring somewhat with annoyance at being made a proposing medium.
”The English is very faulty here,” he said, without looking up. ”He mentions Bras-Coupe.” Palmyre started and turned toward him; but he went on without lifting his eyes. ”He speaks of your old pride and affection toward him as one who with your aid might have been a leader and deliverer of his people.” Frowenfeld looked up. ”Do you under--”
”_Allez, Miche_” said she, leaning forward, her great eyes fixed on the apothecary and her face full of distress. ”_Mo comprend bien_.”
”He asks you to let him be to you in the place of Bras-Coupe.”
The eyes of the philosophe, probably for the first time since the death of the giant, lost their pride. They gazed upon Frowenfeld almost with piteousness; but she compressed her lips and again slowly shook her head.
”You see,” said Frowenfeld, suddenly feeling a new interest, ”he understands their wants. He knows their wrongs. He is acquainted with laws and men. He could speak for them. It would not be insurrection--it would be advocacy. He would give his time, his pen, his speech, his means, to get them justice--to get them their rights.”
She hushed the over-zealous advocate with a sad and bitter smile and essayed to speak, studied as if for English words, and, suddenly abandoning that attempt, said, with ill-concealed scorn and in the Creole patois:
”What is all that? What I want is vengeance!”
”I will finish reading,” said Frowenfeld, quickly, not caring to understand the pa.s.sionate speech.
”Ah, Palmyre! Palmyre! What you love and hope to love you because his heart keep itself free, he is loving another!”
_”Qui ci ca, Miche?”_
Frowenfeld was loth to repeat. She had understood, as her face showed; but she dared not believe. He made it shorter:
”He means that Honore Grandissime loves another woman.”
”'Tis a lie!” she exclaimed, a better command of English coming with the momentary loss of restraint.
The apothecary thought a moment and then decided to speak.
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