The Grandissimes
Page 51
CHAPTER L
A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
There was always some flutter among Frowenfeld's employes when he wasasked for, and this time it was the more pronounced because he wassought by a housemaid from the upper floor. It was hard for these two orthree young Ariels to keep their Creole feet to the ground when it waspresently revealed to their sharp ears that the "prof-fis-or" wasrequested to come upstairs.
The new store was an extremely neat, bright, and well-orderedestablishment; yet to ascend into the drawing-rooms seemed to theapothecary like going from the hold of one of those smart oldpacket-ships of his day into the cabin. Aurora came forward, with theslippers of a Cinderella twinkling at the edge of her robe. It seemedunfit that the floor under them should not be clouds.
"Proffis-or Frowenfel', good-day! Teg a cha'." She laughed. It was thepure joy of existence. "You's well? You lookin' verrie well! Halwaysbizzie? 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' forProffis-or Frowenfel' to come yeh; but I don' thing 'e comin'.' Youknow, 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--shesay she thing you was too kine-'arted to call dad troub'--ha, ha, ha! Soanny'ow we sen' for you, eh!"
Frowenfeld said he was glad they had done so, whereupon Aurora roselightly, saying:
"I go an' sen' her." She started away, but turned back to add: "Youknow, 'Sieur Frowenfel', she say she cann' truz nobody bud y'u." Sheended with a low, melodious laugh, bending her joyous eyes upon theapothecary with her head dropped to one side in a way to move a heartof flint.
She turned and passed through a door, and by the same way Palmyreentered. The philosophe came forward noiselessly and with a subduedexpression, different from any Frowenfeld had ever before seen. At thefirst sight of her a thrill of disrelish ran through him of which he wasinstantly ashamed; as she came nearer he met her with a deferential bowand the silent tender of a chair. She sat down, and, after a moment'spause, handed him a sealed letter.
He turned it over twice, recognized the handwriting, felt the disrelishreturn, and said:
"This is addressed to yourself."
She bowed.
"Do you know who wrote it?" he asked.
She bowed again.
"_Oui, Miche_."
"You wish me to open it? I cannot read French."
She seemed to have some explanation to offer, but could not command thenecessary English; however, with the aid of Frowenfeld's limitedguessing powers, she made him understand that the bearer of the letterto her had brought word from the writer that it was written in Englishpurposely that M. Frowenfeld--the only person he was willing should seeit--might read it. Frowenfeld broke the seal and ran his eye over thewriting, but remained silent.
The woman stirred, as if to say "Well?" But he hesitated.
"Palmyre," he suddenly said, with a slight, dissuasive smile, "it wouldbe a profanation for me to read this."
She bowed to signify that she caught his meaning, then raised her elbowswith an expression of dubiety, and said:
"'E hask you--"
"Yes," murmured the apothecary. He shook his head as if to protest tohimself, 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 eyescast 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. "Hementions Bras-Coupe." Palmyre started and turned toward him; but he wenton without lifting his eyes. "He speaks of your old pride and affectiontoward him as one who with your aid might have been a leader anddeliverer of his people." Frowenfeld looked up. "Do you under--"
"_Allez, Miche_" said she, leaning forward, her great eyes fixed on theapothecary and her face full of distress. "_Mo comprend bien_."
"He asks you to let him be to you in the place of Bras-Coupe."
The eyes of the philosophe, probably for the first time since the deathof the giant, lost their pride. They gazed upon Frowenfeld almost withpiteousness; but she compressed her lips and again slowly shookher head.
"You see," said Frowenfeld, suddenly feeling a new interest, "heunderstands their wants. He knows their wrongs. He is acquainted withlaws and men. He could speak for them. It would not be insurrection--itwould be advocacy. He would give his time, his pen, his speech, hismeans, to get them justice--to get them their rights."
She hushed the over-zealous advocate with a sad and bitter smile andessayed to speak, studied as if for English words, and, suddenlyabandoning that attempt, said, with ill-concealed scorn and in theCreole patois:
"What is all that? What I want is vengeance!"
"I will finish reading," said Frowenfeld, quickly, not caring tounderstand 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 ca, Miche?"_
Frowenfeld was loth to repeat. She had understood, as her face showed;but she dared not believe. He made it shorter:
"He means that Honore Grandissime loves another woman."
"'Tis a lie!" she exclaimed, a better command of English coming with themomentary 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 thrownherself 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, hereyes lifted up and her lips moving noiselessly. She seemed to have lostall knowledge of place or of human presence. She walked down thedrawing-room quite to its curtained windows and there stopped, her faceturned away and her hand laid with a visible tension on the back of achair. She remained so long that Frowenfeld had begun to think ofleaving her so, when she turned and came back. Her form was erect, herstep firm and nerved, her lips set together and her hands dropped easilyat her side; but when she came close up before the apothecary she wastrembling. For a moment she seemed speechless, and then, while her eyesgleamed with passion, she said, in a cold, clear tone, and in hernative patois:
"Very well: if I cannot love I can have my revenge." She took the letterfrom him and bowed her thanks, still adding, in the same tongue, "Thereis now no longer anything to prevent."
The apothecary understood the dark speech. She meant that, with no hopeof Honore's love, there was no restraining motive to withhold her fromwreaking what vengeance she could upon Agricola. But he saw the follyof a debate.
"That is all I can do?" asked he.
"_Oui, merci, Miche_" she said; then she added, in perfect English, "butthat 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 chill
ed his blood. He was glad to get back to his employments.