"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withdrawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the apothecary as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.