"OO DAD IS, 'SIEUR FROWENFEL'?"
Whether the removal of the veil was because of the milder light of the evening, or the result of accident, or of haste, or both, or whether, by reason of some exciting or absorbing course of thought, the wearer had withdrawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the apothecary as little as did Agricola's continued harangue. As he looked upon the fair face through the light gauze which still overhung but not obscured it, he readily perceived, despite the sprightly smile, something like distress, and as she spoke this became still more evident in her hurried undertone.
"'Sieur Frowenfel', I want you to sell me doze basilic."
As she slipped the rings of her purse apart her fingers trembled.
"It is waiting for you," said Frowenfeld; but the lady did not hear him; she was giving her attention to the loud voice of Agricola saying in the course of discussion:
"The Louisiana Creole is the noblest variety of enlightened man!"
"Oo dad is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" she asked, softly, but with an excited eye.
"That is Mr. Agricola Fusilier," answered Joseph in the same tone, his heart leaping inexplicably as he met her glance. With an angry flush she looked quickly around, scrutinized the old man in an instantaneous, thorough way, and then glanced back at the apothecary again, as if asking him to fulfil her request the quicker.
He hesitated, in doubt as to her meaning.
"Wrap it yonder," she almost whispered.
He went, and in a moment returned, with the basil only partially hid in a paper covering.
But the lady, muffled again in her manifold veil, had once more lost her eagerness for it; at least, instead of taking it, she moved aside, offering room for a masculine figure just entering. She did not look to see who it might be--plenty of time to do that by accident, by and by. There she made a mistake; for the new-comer, with a silent bow of thanks, declined the place made for him, moved across the shop, and occupied his eyes with the contents of the glass case, his back being turned to the lady and Frowenfeld. The apothecary recognized the Creole whom he had met under the live-oak.
The lady put forth her hand suddenly to receive the package. As she took it and turned to depart, another small hand was laid upon it and it was returned to the counter. Something was said in a low-pitched undertone, and the two sisters--if Frowenfeld's guess was right--confronted each other. For a single instant only they stood so; an earnest and hurried murmur of French words passed between them, and they turned together, bowed with great suavity, and were gone.
"The Cession is a mere temporary political manoeuvre!" growled M. Fusilier.
Frowenfeld's merchant friend came from his place of waiting, and spoke twice before he attracted the attention of the bewildered apothecary.
"Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I have been told that--"
Joseph gazed after the two ladies crossing the street, and felt uncomfortable that the group of gossips did the same. So did the black attendant who glanced furtively back.
"Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I--"
"Oh! how do you do, sir?" exclaimed the apothecary, with great pleasantness, of face. It seemed the most natural thing that they should resume their late conversation just where they had left off, and that would certainly be pleasant. But the man of more experience showed an unresponsive expression, that was as if he remembered no conversation of any note.
"I have been told that you might be able to replace the glass in this thing out of your private stock."
He presented a small, leather-covered case, evidently containing some optical instrument. "It will give me a pretext for going," he had said to himself, as he put it into his pocket in his counting-room. He was not going to let the apothecary know he had taken such a fancy to him.
"I do not know," replied Frowenfeld, as he touched the spring of the case; "I will see what I have."
He passed into the back room, more than willing to get out of sight till he might better collect himself.
"I do not keep these things for sale," said he as he went.
"Sir?" asked the Creole, as if he had not understood, and followed through the open door.
"Is this what that lady was getting?" he asked, touching the remnant of the basil in the box.
"Yes, sir," said the apothecary, with his face in the drawer of a table.
"They had no carriage with them." The Creole spoke with his back turned, at the same time running his eyes along a shelf of books. Frowenfeld made only the sound of rejecting bits of crystal and taking up others. "I do not know who they are," ventured the merchant.
Joseph still gave no answer, but a moment after approached, with the instrument in his extended hand.
"You had it? I am glad," said the owner, receiving it, but keeping one hand still on the books.
Frowenfeld put up his materials.
"Mr. Frowenfeld, are these your books? I mean do you use these books?"
"Yes, sir."
The Creole stepped back to the door.
"Agricola!"
"Quoi!"
"Vien ici."
Citizen Fusilier entered, followed by a small volley of retorts from those with whom he had been disputing, and who rose as he did. The stranger said something very sprightly in French, running the back of one finger down the rank of books, and a lively dialogue followed.
"You must be a great scholar," said the unknown by and by, addressing the apothecary.
"He is a professor of chimistry," said the old man.
"I am nothing, as yet, but a student," said Joseph, as the three returned into the shop; "certainly not a scholar, and still less a professor." He spoke with a new quietness of manner that made the younger Creole turn upon him a pleasant look.
"H-my young friend," said the patriarch, turning toward Joseph with a tremendous frown, "when I, Agricola Fusilier, pronounce you a professor, you are a professor. Louisiana will not look to you for your credentials; she will look to me!"
He stumbled upon some slight impediment under foot. There were times when it took but little to make Agricola stumble.
Looking to see what it was, Joseph picked up a silken purse. There was a name embroidered on it.
SUDDEN FLASHES OF LIGHT
The day was nearly gone. The company that had been chatting at the front door, and which in warmer weather would have tarried until bedtime, had wandered off; however, by stepping toward the light the young merchant could decipher the letters on the purse. Citizen Fusilier drew out a pair of spectacles, looked over his junior's shoulder, read aloud, "Aurore De G. Nanca--," and uttered an imprecation.
"Do not speak to me!" he thundered; "do not approach me! she did it maliciously!"
"Sir!" began Frowenfeld.
But the old man uttered another tremendous malediction and hurried into the street and away.
"Let him pass," said the other Creole calmly.
"What is the matter with him?" asked Frowenfeld.
"He is getting old." The Creole extended the purse carelessly to the apothecary. "Has it anything inside?"
"But a single pistareen."
"That is why she wanted the basilic, eh?"
"I do not understand you, sir."
"Do you not know what she was going to do with it?"
"With the basil? No sir."
"May be she was going to make a little tisane, eh?" said the Creole, forcing down a smile.
But a portion of the smile would come when Frowenfeld answered, with unnecessary resentment:
"She was going to make some proper use of it, which need not concern me."
"Without doubt."
The Creole quietly walked a step or two forward and back and looked idly into the glass case. "Is this young man in love with her?" he asked himself. He turned around.
"Do you know those ladies, Mr. Frowenfeld? Do you visit them at home?"
He drew out his porte-monnaie.
"No, sir."
"I will pay you for the repair of this instrument; have you change for--"
"I will see," said the apothecary.
As he spoke he laid the purse on a stool, till he should light his shop, and then went to his till without again taking it.
The Creole sauntered across to the counter and nipped the herb which still lay there.
"Mr. Frowenfeld, you know what some very excellent people do with this? They rub it on the sill of the door to make the money come into the house."
Joseph stopped aghast with the drawer half drawn.
"Not persons of intelligence and--"
"All kinds. It is only some of the foolishness which they take from the slaves. Many of your best people consult the voudou horses."
"Horses?"
"Priestesses, you might call them," explained the Creole, "like Momselle Marcelline or 'Zabeth Philosophe."
"Witches!" whispered Frowenfeld.
"Oh no," said the other with a shrug; "that is too hard a name; say fortune-tellers. But Mr. Frowenfeld, I wish you to lend me your good offices. Just supposing the possibility that that lady may be in need of money, you know, and will send back or come back for the purse, you know, knowing that she most likely lost it here, I ask you the favor that you will not let her know I have filled it with gold. In fact, if she mentions my name--"
"To confess the truth, sir, I am not acquainted with your name."
The Creole smiled a genuine surprise.
"I thought you knew it." He laughed a little at himself. "We have nevertheless become very good friends--I believe? Well, in fact then, Mr. Frowenfeld, you might say you do not know who put the money in." He extended his open palm with the purse hanging across it. Joseph was about to object to this statement, but the Creole, putting on an expression of anxious desire, said: "I mean, not by name. It is somewhat important to me, Mr. Frowenfeld, that that lady should not know my present action. If you want to do those two ladies a favor, you may rest assured the way to do it is to say you do not know who put this gold." The Creole in his earnestness slipped in his idiom. "You will excuse me if I do not tell you my name; you can find it out at any time from Agricola. Ah! I am glad she did not see me! You must not tell anybody about this little event, eh?"
"No, sir," said Joseph, as he finally accepted the purse. "I shall say nothing to any one else, and only what I cannot avoid saying to the lady and her sister."
"'Tis not her sister" responded the Creole, "'tis her daughter."
The italics signify, not how the words were said, but how they sounded to Joseph. As if a dark lantern were suddenly turned full upon it, he saw the significance of Citizen Fusilier's transport. The fair strangers were the widow and daughter of the man whom Agricola had killed in duel--the ladies with whom Doctor Keene had desired to make him acquainted.
"Well, good evening, Mr. Frowenfeld." The Creole extended his hand (his people are great hand-shakers). "Ah--" and then, for the first time, he came to the true object of his visit. "The conversation we had some weeks ago, Mr. Frowenfeld, has started a train of thought in my mind"--he began to smile as if to convey the idea that Joseph would find the subject a trivial one--"which has almost brought me to the--"
A light footfall accompanied with the soft sweep of robes cut short his words. There had been two or three entrances and exits during the time the Creole had tarried, but he had not allowed them to disturb him. Now, however, he had no sooner turned and fixed his glance upon this last comer, than without so much as the invariable Creole leave-taking of "Well, good evening, sir," he hurried out.