A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
There was always some flutter among Frowenfeld's employés when he was
asked for, and this time it was the more pronounced because he was
sought by a housemaid from the upper floor. It was hard for these two or
three young Ariels to keep their Creole feet to the ground when it was
presently revealed to their sharp ears that the "prof-fis-or" was
requested to come upstairs.
The new store was an extremely neat, bright, and well-ordered
establishment; yet to ascend into the drawing-rooms seemed to the
apothecary like going from the hold of one of those smart old
packet-ships of his day into the cabin. Aurora came forward, with the
slippers of a Cinderella twinkling at the edge of her robe. It seemed
unfit that the floor under them should not be clouds.
"Proffis-or Frowenfel', good-day! Teg a cha'." She laughed. It was the
pure joy of existence. "You's well? You lookin' verrie well! Halways
bizzie? You fine dad agriz wid you' healt', 'Sieur Frowenfel'? Yes? Ha,
ha, ha!" She suddenly leaned toward him across the arm of her chair,
with an earnest face. "'Sieur Frowenfel', Palmyre wand see you. You don'
wan' come ad 'er 'ouse, eh?--an' you don' wan' her to come ad yo'
bureau. You know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she drez the hair of Clotilde an'
mieself. So w'en she tell me dad, I juz say, 'Palmyre, I will sen' for
Proffis-or Frowenfel' to come yeh; but I don' thing 'e comin'.' You
know, I din' wan' you to 'ave dad troub'; but Clotilde--ha, ha, ha!
Clotilde is sudge a foolish--she nevva thing of dad troub' to you--she
say she thing you was too kine-'arted to call dad troub'--ha, ha, ha! So
anny'ow we sen' for you, eh!"
Frowenfeld said he was glad they had done so, whereupon Aurora rose
lightly, saying:
"I go an' sen' her." She started away, but turned back to add: "You
know, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she say she cann' truz nobody bud y'u." She
ended with a low, melodious laugh, bending her joyous eyes upon the
apothecary with her head dropped to one side in a way to move a heart
of flint.
She turned and passed through a door, and by the same way Palmyre
entered. The philosophe came forward noiselessly and with a subdued
expression, different from any Frowenfeld had ever before seen. At the
first sight of her a thrill of disrelish ran through him of which he was
instantly ashamed; as she came nearer he met her with a deferential bow
and the silent tender of a chair. She sat down, and, after a moment's
pause, handed him a sealed letter.
He turned it over twice, recognized the handwriting, felt the disrelish
return, and said:
"This is addressed to yourself."
She bowed.
"Do you know who wrote it?" he asked.
She bowed again.
"_Oui, Miché_."
"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-Coupé." 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, Miché_" 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-Coupé."
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 passionate speech.
"Ah, Palmyre! Palmyre! What you love and hope to love you
because his heart keep itself free, he is loving another!"
_"Qui ci ça, Miché?"_
Frowenfeld was loth to repeat. She had understood, as her face showed;
but she dared not believe. He made it shorter:
"He means that Honoré 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.
"I do not think so," he quietly said.
"'Ow you know dat?"
She, too, spoke quietly, but under a fearful strain. She had thrown
herself forward, but, as she spoke, forced herself back into her seat.
"He told me so himself."
The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently from her chair, her
eyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lost
all knowledge of place or of human presence. She walked down the
drawing-room quite to its curtained windows and there stopped, her face
turned away and her hand laid with a visible tension on the back of a
chair. She remained so long that Frowenfeld had begun to think of
leaving her so, when she turned and came back. Her form was erect, her
step firm and nerved, her lips set together and her hands dropped easily
at her side; but when she came close up before the apothecary she was
trembling. For a moment she seemed speechless, and then, while her eyes
gleamed with passion, she said, in a cold, clear tone, and in her
native patois:
"Very well: if I cannot love I can have my revenge." She took the letter
from him and bowed her thanks, still adding, in the same tongue, "There
is now no longer anything to prevent."
The apothecary understood the dark speech. She meant that, with no hope
of Honoré's love, there was no restraining motive to withhold her from
wreaking what vengeance she could upon Agricola. But he saw the folly
of a debate.
"That is all I can do?" asked he.
"_Oui, merci, Miché_" she said; then she added, in perfect English, "but
that is not all _I_ can do," and then--laughed.
The apothecary had already turned to go, and the laugh was a low one;
but it chilled his blood. He was glad to get back to his employments.