CHAPTER XL
FROWENFELD FINDS SYLVESTRE
The Veau-qui-tete restaurant occupied the whole ground floor of a small,low, two-story, tile-roofed, brick-and-stucco building which stillstands on the corner of Chartres and St. Peter streets, in company withthe well-preserved old Cabildo and the young Cathedral, reminding one ofthe shabby and swarthy Creoles whom we sometimes see helping better-keptkinsmen to murder time on the banquettes of the old French Quarter. Itwas a favorite rendezvous of the higher classes, convenient to thecourt-rooms and municipal bureaus. There you found the choicest legaland political gossips, with the best the market afforded of meatand drink.
Frowenfeld found a considerable number of persons there. He had to moveabout among them to some extent, to make sure he was not overlooking theobject of his search.
As he entered the door, a man sitting near it stopped talking, gazedrudely as he passed, and then leaned across the table and smiled andmurmured to his companion. The subject of his jest felt their four eyeson his back.
There was a loud buzz of conversation throughout the room, but whereverhe went a wake of momentary silence followed him, and once or twice hesaw elbows nudged. He perceived that there was something in the stateof mind of these good citizens that made the present sight of himparticularly discordant.
Four men, leaning or standing at a small bar, were talking excitedly inthe Creole patois. They made frequent anxious, yet amusedly defiant,mention of a certain _Pointe Canadienne_. It was a portion of theMississippi River "coast" not far above New Orleans, where the merchantsof the city met the smugglers who came up from the Gulf by way ofBarrataria Bay and Bayou. These four men did not call it by the propertitle just given; there were commercial gentlemen in the Creole city,Englishmen, Scotchmen, Yankees, as well as French and Spanish Creoles,who in public indignantly denied, and in private tittered over, theircomplicity with the pirates of Grand Isle, and who knew their tradingrendezvous by the sly nickname of "Little Manchac." As Frowenfeld passedthese four men they, too, ceased speaking and looked after him, threewith offensive smiles and one with a stare of contempt.
Farther on, some Creoles were talking rapidly to an Americain, inEnglish.
"And why?" one was demanding. "Because money is scarce. Under othergovernments we had any quantity!"
"Yes," said the venturesome Americain in retort, "such as it was;_assignats, liberanzas, bons_--Claiborne will give us better money thanthat when he starts his bank."
"Hah! his bank, yes! John Law once had a bank, too; ask my old father.What do we want with a bank? Down with banks!" The speaker ceased; hehad not finished, but he saw the apothecary. Frowenfeld heard a mutteredcurse, an inarticulate murmur, and then a loud burst of laughter.
A tall, slender young Creole whom he knew, and who had always beengreatly pleased to exchange salutations, brushed against him withoutturning his eyes.
"You know," he was saying to a companion, "everybody in Louisiana is tobe a citizen, except the negroes and mules; that is the kind of libertythey give us--all eat out of one trough."
"What we want," said a dark, ill-looking, but finely-dressed man,setting his claret down, "and what we have got to have, is"--he wasspeaking in French, but gave the want in English--"Representesh'n wizoutTaxa--" There his eye fell upon Frowenfeld and followed him witha scowl.
"Mah frang," he said to his table companion, "wass you sink of a manew'at hask-a one neegrow to 'ave-a one shair wiz 'im, eh?--in zesem room?"
The apothecary found that his fame was far wider and more general thanhe had supposed. He turned to go out, bowing as he did so, to anAmericain merchant with whom he had some acquaintance.
"Sir?" asked the merchant, with severe politeness, "wish to see me? Ithought you--As I was saying, gentlemen, what, after all, does itsum up?"
A Creole interrupted him with an answer:
"Leetegash'n, Spoleeash'n, Pahtitsh'n, Disintegrhash'n!"
The voice was like Honore's. Frowenfeld looked; it was AgamemnonGrandissime.
"I must go to Maspero's," thought the apothecary, and he started up therue Chartres. As he turned into the rue St. Louis, he suddenly foundhimself one of a crowd standing before a newly-posted placard, and at aglance saw it to be one of the inflammatory publications which were afeature of the times, appearing both daily and nightly on wallsand fences.
"One Amerry-can pull' it down, an' Camille Brahmin 'e pas'e it back,"said a boy at Frowenfeld's side.
Exchange Alley was once _Passage de la Bourse_, and led down (as it nowdoes to the State House--late St. Louis Hotel) to an establishment whichseems to have served for a long term of years as a sort of merchants'and auctioneers' coffee-house, with a minimum of china and a maximum ofglass: Maspero's--certainly Maspero's as far back as 1810, and, webelieve, Maspero's the day the apothecary entered it, March 9, 1804. Itwas a livelier spot than the Veau-qui-tete; it was to that what commerceis to litigation, what standing and quaffing is to sitting and sipping.Whenever the public mind approached that sad state of public sentimentin which sanctity signs politicians' memorials and chivalry breaks intothe gun-shops, a good place to feel the thump of the machinery was inMaspero's.
The first man Frowenfeld saw as he entered was M. Valentine Grandissime.There was a double semicircle of gazers and listeners in front of him;he was talking, with much show of unconcern, in Creole French.
"Policy? I care little about policy." He waved his hand. "I know myrights--and Louisiana's. We have a right to our opinions. We have"--witha quiet smile and an upward turn of his extended palm--"a right toprotect them from the attack of interlopers, even if we have to usegunpowder. I do not propose to abridge the liberties of even this armyof fortune-hunters. _Let_ them think." He half laughed. "Who careswhether they share our opinions or not? Let them have their own. I hadrather they would. But let them hold their tongues. Let them rememberthey are Yankees. Let them remember they are unbidden guests." All thiswithout the least warmth.
But the answer came aglow with passion, from one of the semicircle, whomtwo or three seemed disposed to hold in check. It also was in French,but the apothecary was astonished to hear his own name uttered.
"But this fellow Frowenfeld"--the speaker did not see Joseph--"has neverheld his tongue. He has given us good reason half a dozen times, withhis too free speech and his high moral whine, to hang him with thelamppost rope! And now, when we have borne and borne and borne and bornewith him, and he shows up, all at once, in all his rottenness, you saylet him alone! One would think you were defending Honore Grandissime!"The back of one of the speaker's hands fluttered in the palm ofthe other.
Valentine smiled.
"Honore Grandissime? Boy, you do not know what you are talking about.Not Honore, ha, ha! A man who, upon his own avowal, is guilty ofaffiliating with the Yankees. A man whom we have good reason to suspectof meditating his family's dishonor and embarrassment!" Somebody saw theapothecary and laid a cautionary touch on Valentine's arm, but hebrushed it off. "As for Professor Frowenfeld, he must defend himself."
"Ha-a-a-ah!"--a general cry of derision from the listeners.
"Defend himself!" exclaimed their spokesman; "shall I tell you againwhat he is?" In his vehemence, the speaker wagged his chin and held hisclenched fists stiffly toward the floor. "He is--he is--he is--"
He paused, breathing like a fighting dog. Frowenfeld, large, white, andimmovable, stood close before him.
"Dey 'ad no bizniz led 'im come oud to-day," said a bystander, edgingtoward a pillar.
The Creole, a small young man not unknown to us, glared upon theapothecary; but Frowenfeld was far above his blushing mood, and was notdisconcerted. This exasperated the Creole beyond bound; he made asudden, angry change of attitude, and demanded:
"Do you interrup' two gen'lemen in dey conve'sition, you Yankee clown?Do you igno' dad you 'ave insult me, off-scow'ing?"
Frowenfeld's first response was a stern gaze. When he spoke, he said:
"Sir, I am not aware that I have ever offered you the slight
est injuryor affront; if you wish to finish your conversation with this gentleman,I will wait till you are through."
The Creole bowed, as a knight who takes up the gage. He turned toValentine.
"Valentine, I was sayin' to you dad diz pusson is a cowa'd and a sneak;I repead thad! I repead id! I spurn you! Go f'om yeh!"
The apothecary stood like a cliff.
It was too much for Creole forbearance. His adversary, with a long snarlof oaths, sprang forward and with a great sweep of his arm slapped theapothecary on the cheek. And then--
What a silence!
Frowenfeld had advanced one step; his opponent stood half turned away,but with his face toward the face he had just struck and his eyesglaring up into the eyes of the apothecary. The semicircle wasdissolved, and each man stood in neutral isolation, motionless andsilent. For one instant objects lost all natural proportion, and to theexpectant on-lookers the largest thing in the room was the big,upraised, white fist of Frowenfeld. But in the next--how was this? Couldit be that that fist had not descended?
The imperturbable Valentine, with one preventing arm laid across thebreast of the expected victim and an open hand held restrainingly up fortruce, stood between the two men and said:
"Professor Frowenfeld--one moment--"
Frowenfeld's face was ashen.
"Don't speak, sir!" he exclaimed. "If I attempt to parley I shall breakevery bone in his body. Don't speak! I can guess your explanation--he isdrunk. But take him away."
Valentine, as sensible as cool, assisted by the kinsman who had laid ahand on his arm, shuffled his enraged companion out. Frowenfeld's stillswelling anger was so near getting the better of him that heunconsciously followed a quick step or two; but as Valentine looked backand waved him to stop, he again stood still.
"_Professeur_--you know,--" said a stranger, "daz SylvestreGrandissime."
Frowenfeld rather spoke to himself than answered:
"If I had not known that, I should have--" He checked himself and leftthe place.
* * * * *
While the apothecary was gathering these experiences, the free spirit ofRaoul Innerarity was chafing in the shop like an eagle in a hen-coop.One moment after another brought him straggling evidences, now of onesort, now of another, of the "never more peaceable" state of affairswithout. If only some pretext could be conjured up, plausible or flimsy,no matter; if only some man would pass with a gun on his shoulder, wereit only a blow-gun; or if his employer were any one but his belovedFrowenfeld, he would clap up the shutters as quickly as he had alreadydone once to-day, and be off to the wars. He was just trying to hearimaginary pistol-shots down toward the Place d'Armes, when theapothecary returned.
"D' you fin' him?"
"I found Sylvestre."
"'E took de lett'?"
"I did not offer it." Frowenfeld, in a few compact sentences, told hisadventure.
Raoul was ablaze with indignation.
"'Sieur Frowenfel', gimmy dat lett'!" He extended his pretty hand.
Frowenfeld pondered.
"Gimmy 'er!" persisted the artist; "befo' I lose de sight from dat lett'she goin' to be hanswer by Sylvestre Grandissime, an' 'e goin' to wratyou one appo-logie! Oh! I goin' mek 'im crah fo' shem!"
"If I could know you would do only as I--"
"I do it!" cried Raoul, and sprang for his hat; and in the endFrowenfeld let him have his way.
"I had intended seeing him--" the apothecary said.
"Nevvamine to see; I goin' tell him!" cried Raoul, as he crowded hishat fiercely down over his curls and plunged out.
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