CHAPTER VIII
SIGNED--HONORE GRANDISSIME
On the afternoon of the same day, having decided what he would "do," hestarted out in search of new quarters. He found nothing then, but nextmorning came upon a small, single-story building in the rueRoyale,--corner of Conti,--which he thought would suit his plans. Therewere a door and show-window in the rue Royale, two doors in theintersecting street, and a small apartment in the rear which wouldanswer for sleeping, eating, and studying purposes, and which connectedwith the front apartment by a door in the left-hand corner. Thisconnection he would partially conceal by a prescription-desk. A counterwould run lengthwise toward the rue Royale, along the wall opposite theside-doors. Such was the spot that soon became known as"Frowenfeld's Corner."
The notice "A Louer" directed him to inquire at numero--rue Conde. Herehe was ushered through the wicket of a _porte cochere_ into a broad,paved corridor, and up a stair into a large, cool room, and into thepresence of a man who seemed, in some respects, the most remarkablefigure he had yet seen in this little city of strange people. A strong,clear, olive complexion; features that were faultless (unless awoman-like delicacy, that was yet not effeminate, was a fault); hair _enqueue_, the handsomer for its premature streakings of gray; a tall, wellknit form, attired in cloth, linen and leather of the utmost fineness;manners Castilian, with a gravity almost oriental,--made him one ofthose rare masculine figures which, on the public promenade, men lookback at and ladies inquire about.
Now, who might _this_ be? The rent poster had given no name. Even theincurious Frowenfeld would fain guess a little. For a man to be just ofthis sort, it seemed plain that he must live in an isolated ease uponthe unceasing droppings of coupons, rents, and like receivables. Suchwas the immigrant's first conjecture; and, as with slow, scant questionsand answers they made their bargain, every new glance strengthened it;he was evidently a _rentier_. What, then, was his astonishment whenMonsieur bent down and made himself Frowenfeld's landlord, by writingwhat the universal mind esteemed the synonym of enterprise andactivity--the name of Honore Grandissime. The landlord did not see, orignored, his tenant's glance of surprise, and the tenant asked noquestions.
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We may add here an incident which seemed, when it took place, asunimportant as a single fact well could be.
The little sum that Frowenfeld had inherited from his father had beensadly depleted by the expenses of four funerals; yet he was still ableto pay a month's rent in advance, to supply his shop with a scant stockof drugs, to purchase a celestial globe and some scientific apparatus,and to buy a dinner or two of sausages and crackers; but after thisthere was no necessity of hiding his purse.
His landlord early contracted a fondness for dropping in upon him, andconversing with him, as best the few and labored English phrases at hiscommand would allow. Frowenfeld soon noticed that he never entered theshop unless its proprietor was alone, never sat down, and always, withthe same perfection of dignity that characterized all his movements,departed immediately upon the arrival of any third person. One day, whenthe landlord was making one of these standing calls,--he always stood'beside a high glass case, on the side of the shop opposite thecounter,--he noticed in Joseph's hand a sprig of basil, and spoke of it.
"You ligue?"
The tenant did not understand. "You--find--dad--nize?"
Frowenfeld replied that it had been left by the oversight of a customer,and expressed a liking for its odor.
"I sand you," said the landlord,--a speech whose meaning Frowenfeld wasnot sure of until the next morning, when a small, nearly naked blackboy, who could not speak a word of English, brought to the apothecary aluxuriant bunch of this basil, growing in a rough box.
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