CHAPTER XVII
THAT NIGHT
Do we not fail to accord to our nights their true value? We are evergiving to our days the credit and blame of all we do and mis-do,forgetting those silent, glimmering hours when plans--and sometimesplots--are laid; when resolutions are formed or changed; when heaven,and sometimes heaven's enemies, are invoked; when anger and evilthoughts are recalled, and sometimes hate made to inflame and fester;when problems are solved, riddles guessed, and things made apparent inthe dark, which day refused to reveal. Our nights are the keys to ourdays. They explain them. They are also the day's correctors. Night'sleisure untangles the mistakes of day's haste. We should not attempt tocomprise our pasts in the phrase, "in those days;" we should rather say"in those days and nights."
That night was a long-remembered one to the apothecary of the rueRoyale. But it was after he had closed his shop, and in his back roomsat pondering the unusual experiences of the evening, that it began tobe, in a higher degree, a night of events to most of those persons whohad a part in its earlier incidents.
That Honore Grandissime whom Frowenfeld had only this day learned toknow as _the_ Honore Grandissime and the young governor-general werecloseted together.
"What can you expect, my-de'-seh?" the Creole was asking, as theyconfronted each other in the smoke of their choice tobacco. "Remember,they are citizens by compulsion. You say your best and wisest law isthat one prohibiting the slave-trade; my-de'-seh, I assure you,privately, I agree with you; but they abhor your law!
"Your principal danger--at least, I mean difficulty--is this: that theLouisianais themselves, some in pure lawlessness, some through loss ofoffice, some in a vague hope of preserving the old condition of things,will not only hold off from all participation in your government, butwill make all sympathy with it, all advocacy of its principles, andespecially all office-holding under it, odious--disreputable--infamous.You may find yourself constrained to fill your offices with men who canface down the contumely of a whole people. You know what such mengenerally are. One out of a hundred may be a moral hero--the ninety-ninewill be scamps; and the moral hero will most likely get his brains blownout early in the day.
"Count O'Reilly, when he established the Spanish power here thirty-fiveyears ago, cut a similar knot with the executioner's sword; but,my-de'-seh, you are here to establish a _free_ government; and how canyou make it freer than the people wish it? There is your riddle! Theyhold off and say, 'Make your government as free as you can, but do notask us to help you;' and before you know it you have no retainers but agang of shameless mercenaries, who will desert you whenever theindignation of this people overbalances their indolence; and you willfall the victim of what you may call our mutinous patriotism."
The governor made a very quiet, unappreciative remark about a"patriotism that lets its government get choked up with corruption andthen blows it out with gunpowder!"
The Creole shrugged.
"And repeats the operation indefinitely," he said.
The governor said something often heard, before and since, to the effectthat communities will not sacrifice themselves for mere ideas.
"My-de'-seh," replied the Creole, "you speak like a true Anglo-Saxon;but, sir! how many communities have _committed_ suicide. And thisone?--why, it is _just_ the kind to do it!"
"Well," said the governor, smilingly, "you have pointed out what youconsider to be the breakers, now can you point out the channel?"
"Channel? There is none! And you, nor I, cannot dig one. Two greatforces _may_ ultimately do it, Religion and Education--as I was tellingyou I said to my young friend, the apothecary,--but still I am free tosay what would be my first and principal step, if I was in yourplace--as I thank God I am not."
The listener asked him what that was.
"Wherever I could find a Creole that I could venture to trust,my-de'-seh, I would put him in office. Never mind a little politicalheterodoxy, you know; almost any man can be trusted to shoot away fromthe uniform he has on. And then--"
"But," said the other, "I have offered you--"
"Oh!" replied the Creole, like a true merchant, "me, I am too busy; itis impossible! But, I say, I would _compel_, my-de'-seh, this people togovern themselves!"
"And pray, how would you give a people a free government and then compelthem to administer it?"
"My-de'-seh, you should not give one poor Creole the puzzle whichbelongs to your whole Congress; but you may depend on this, that theworst thing for all parties--and I say it only because it is worst forall--would be a feeble and dilatory punishment of bad faith."
When this interview finally drew to a close the governor had made amemorandum of some fifteen or twenty Grandissimes, scattered throughdifferent cantons of Louisiana, who, their kinsman Honore thought, wouldnot decline appointments.
* * * * *
Certain of the Muses were abroad that night. Faintly audible to theapothecary of the rue Royale through that deserted stillness which isyet the marked peculiarity of New Orleans streets by night, came from aneighboring slave-yard the monotonous chant and machine-like tune-beatof an African dance. There our lately met _marchande_ (albeit she wasbut a guest, fortified against the street-watch with her master'swritten "pass") led the ancient Calinda dance with that well-known songof derision, in whose ever multiplying stanzas the helpless satire of afeeble race still continues to celebrate the personal failings of eachnewly prominent figure among the dominant caste. There was a new distichto the song to-night, signifying that the pride of the Grandissimes mustfind his friends now among the Yankees:
"Miche Hon're, alle! h-alle! Trouve to zamis parmi les Yankis. Dance calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum! Dance calinda, bou-joum! bou-joum!
Frowenfeld, as we have already said, had closed his shop, and wassitting in the room behind it with one arm on his table and the other onhis celestial globe, watching the flicker of his small fire and musingupon the unusual experiences of the evening. Upon every side thereseemed to start away from his turning glance the multiplied shadows ofsomething wrong. The melancholy face of that Honore Grandissime, hislandlord, at whose mention Dr. Keene had thought it fair to laughwithout explaining; the tall, bright-eyed _milatraisse_; old Agricola;the lady of the basil; the newly identified merchant friend, now themore satisfactory Honore,--they all came before him in his meditation,provoking among themselves a certain discord, faint but persistent, towhich he strove to close his ear. For he was brain-weary. Even in thebright recollection of the lady and her talk he became involved amongshadows, and going from bad to worse, seemed at length almost to gasp inan atmosphere of hints, allusions, faint unspoken admissions,ill-concealed antipathies, unfinished speeches, mistaken identities andwhisperings of hidden strife. The cathedral clock struck twelve and wasanswered again from the convent belfry; and as the notes died away hesuddenly became aware that the weird, drowsy throb of the African songand dance had been swinging drowsily in his brain for an unknownlapse of time.
The apothecary nodded once or twice, and thereupon rose up and preparedfor bed, thinking to sleep till morning.
* * * * *
Aurora and her daughter had long ago put out their chamber light. Earlyin the evening the younger had made favorable mention of retiring, towhich the elder replied by asking to be left awhile to her own thoughts.Clotilde, after some tender protestations, consented, and passed throughthe open door that showed, beyond it, their couch. The air had grownjust cool and humid enough to make the warmth of one small brand on thehearth acceptable, and before this the fair widow settled herself togaze beyond her tiny, slippered feet into its wavering flame, and think.Her thoughts were such as to bestow upon her face that enhancement ofbeauty that comes of pleasant reverie, and to make it certain that thatlittle city afforded no fairer sight,--unless, indeed, it was the figureof Clotilde just beyond the open door, as in her white nightdress,enriched with the work of a diligent needle, she knelt upon the low_prie-Dieu_ before the
little family altar, and committed her pure soulto the Divine keeping.
Clotilde could not have been many minutes asleep when Aurora changed hermind and decided to follow. The shade upon her face had deepened for amoment into a look of trouble; but a bright philosophy, which was partof her paternal birthright, quickly chased it away, and she passed toher room, disrobed, lay softly down beside the beauty already there andsmiled herself to sleep,--
"Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again."
But she also wakened again, and lay beside her unconscious bedmate,occupied with the company of her own thoughts. "Why should these littleconcealments ruffle my bosom? Does not even Nature herself practisewiles? Look at the innocent birds; do they build where everybody cancount their eggs? And shall a poor human creature try to be better thana bird? Didn't I say my prayers under the blanket just now?"
Her companion stirred in her sleep, and she rose upon one elbow to bendupon the sleeper a gaze of ardent admiration. "Ah, beautiful littlechick! how guileless! indeed, how deficient in that respect!" She satup in the bed and hearkened; the bell struck for midnight. Was that thehour? The fates were smiling! Surely M. Assonquer himself must havewakened her to so choice an opportunity. She ought not to despise it.Now, by the application of another and easily wrought charm, thatdarkened hour lately spent with Palmyre would have, as it were, itscolors set.
The night had grown much cooler. Stealthily, by degrees, she rose andleft the couch. The openings of the room were a window and two doors,and these, with much caution, she contrived to open without noise. Noneof them exposed her to the possibility of public view. One door lookedinto the dim front room; the window let in only a flood of moonlightover the top of a high house which was without openings on that side;the other door revealed a weed-grown back yard, and that invaluableprotector, the cook's hound, lying fast asleep.
In her night-clothes as she was, she stood a moment in the centre of thechamber, then sank upon one knee, rapped the floor gently but audiblythrice, rose, drew a step backward, sank upon the other knee, rappedthrice, rose again, stepped backward, knelt the third time, the thirdtime rapped, and then, rising, murmured a vow to pour upon the groundnext day an oblation of champagne--then closed the doors and window andcrept back to bed. Then she knew how cold she had become. It seemed asthough her very marrow was frozen. She was seized with such anuncontrollable shivering that Clotilde presently opened her eyes, threwher arm about her mother's neck, and said:
"Ah! my sweet mother, are you so cold?"
"The blanket was all off of me," said the mother, returning the embrace,and the two sank into unconsciousness together.
* * * * *
Into slumber sank almost at the same moment Joseph Frowenfeld. He awoke,not a great while later, to find himself standing in the middle of thefloor. Three or four men had shouted at once, and three pistol-shots,almost in one instant, had resounded just outside his shop. He hadbarely time to throw himself into half his garments when the knockersounded on his street door, and when he opened it Agricola Fusilierentered, supported by his nephew Honore on one side and Doctor Keene onthe other. The latter's right hand was pressed hard against a bloodyplace in Agricola's side.
"Give us plenty of light, Frowenfeld," said the doctor, "and a chair andsome lint, and some Castile soap, and some towels and sticking-plaster,and anything else you can think of. Agricola's about scared to death--"
"Professor Frowenfeld," groaned the aged citizen, "I am basely andmortally stabbed!"
"Right on, Frowenfeld," continued the doctor, "right on into the backroom. Fasten that front door. Here, Agricola, sit down here. That'sright, Frow., stir up a little fire. Give me--never mind, I'll just cutthe cloth open."
There was a moment of silent suspense while the wound was beingreached, and then the doctor spoke again.
"Just as I thought; only a safe and comfortable gash that will keep youin-doors a while with your arm in a sling. You are more scared thanhurt, I think, old gentleman."
"You think an infernal falsehood, sir!"
"See here, sir," said the doctor, without ceasing to ply his dexteroushands in his art, "I'll jab these scissors into your back if you saythat again."
"I suppose," growled the "citizen," "it is just the thing yourprofessional researches have qualified you for, sir!"
"Just stand here, Mr. Frowenfeld," said the little doctor, settling downto a professional tone, "and hand me things as I ask for them. Honore,please hold this arm; so." And so, after a moderate lapse of time, thetreatment that medical science of those days dictated wasapplied--whatever that was. Let those who do not know give thanks.
M. Grandissime explained to Frowenfeld what had occurred.
"You see, I succeeded in meeting my uncle, and we went together to myoffice. My uncle keeps his accounts with me. Sometimes we look themover. We stayed until midnight; I dismissed my carriage. As we walkedhomeward we met some friends coming out of the rooms of the BagatelleClub; five or six of my uncles and cousins, and also Doctor Keene. Weall fell a-talking of my grandfather's _fete de grandpere_ of nextmonth, and went to have some coffee. When we separated, and my uncle andmy cousin Achille Grandissime and Doctor Keene and myself came downRoyal street, out from that dark alley behind your shop jumped a littleman and stuck my uncle with a knife. If I had not caught his arm hewould have killed my uncle."
"And he escaped," said the apothecary.
"No, sir!" said Agricola, with his back turned.
"I think he did. I do not think he was struck."
"And Mr. ----, your cousin?"
"Achille? I have sent him for a carriage."
"Why, Agricola," said the doctor, snipping the loose ravellings from hispatient's bandages, "an old man like you should not have enemies."
"I am _not_ an old man, sir!"
"I said _young_ man."
"I am not a _young_ man, sir!"
"I wonder who the fellow was," continued Doctor Keene, as he readjustedthe ripped sleeve.
"That is _my_ affair, sir; I know who it was."
* * * * *
"And yet she insists," M. Grandissime was asking Frowenfeld, standingwith his leg thrown across the celestial globe, "that I knocked her downintentionally?"
Frowenfeld, about to answer, was interrupted by a rap on the door.
"That is my cousin, with the carriage," said M. Grandissime, followingthe apothecary into the shop.
Frowenfeld opened to a young man,--a rather poor specimen of theGrandissime type, deficient in stature but not in stage manner.
"_Est il mort_?" he cried at the threshold.
"Mr. Frowenfeld, let me make you acquainted with my cousin, AchilleGrandissime."
Mr. Achille Grandissime gave Frowenfeld such a bow as we see now only inpictures.
"Ve'y 'appe to meck, yo' acquaintenz!"
Agricola entered, followed by the doctor, and demanded in indignantthunder-tones, as he entered:
"Who--ordered--that--carriage?"
"I did," said Honore. "Will you please get into it at once."
"Ah! dear Honore!" exclaimed the old man, "always too kind! I go in itpurely to please you."
Good-night was exchanged; Honore entered the vehicle and Agricola washelped in. Achille touched his hat, bowed and waved his hand to Joseph,and shook hands with the doctor, and saying, "Well, good-night. DoctorKeene," he shut himself out of the shop with another low bow. "Think Iam going to shake hands with an apothecary?" thought M. Achille.
Doctor Keene had refused Honore's invitation to go with them.
"Frowenfeld," he said, as he stood in the middle of the shop wiping aring with a towel and looking at his delicate, freckled hand, "Ipropose, before going to bed with you, to eat some of your bread andcheese. Aren't you glad?"
"I shall be, Doctor," replied the apothecary, "if you will tell me whatall this means."
"Indeed I will not,--that is, not to
-night. What? Why, it would takeuntil breakfast to tell what 'all this means,'--the story of thatpestiferous darky Bras Coupe, with the rest? Oh, no, sir. I would soonernot have any bread and cheese. What on earth has waked your curiosity sosuddenly, anyhow?"
"Have you any idea who stabbed Citizen Fusilier?" was Joseph's response.
"Why, at first I thought it was the other Honore Grandissime; but when Isaw how small the fellow was, I was at a loss, completely. But, whoeverit is, he has my bullet in him, whatever Honore may think."
"Will Mr. Fusilier's wound give him much trouble?" asked Joseph, as theysat down to a luncheon at the fire.
"Hardly; he has too much of the blood of Lufki-Humma in him. But I neednot say that; for the Grandissime blood is just as strong. A wonderfulfamily, those Grandissimes! They are an old, illustrious line, and thestrength that was once in the intellect and will is going down into themuscles. I have an idea that their greatness began, hundreds of yearsago, in ponderosity of arm,--of frame, say,--and developed fromgeneration to generation, in a rising scale, first into fineness ofsinew, then, we will say, into force of will, then into power of mind,then into subtleties of genius. Now they are going back down theincline. Look at Honore; he is high up on the scale, intellectual andsagacious. But look at him physically, too. What an exquisite mold! Whatcompact strength! I should not wonder if he gets that from the IndianQueen. What endurance he has! He will probably go to his business by andby and not see his bed for seventeen or eighteen hours. He is the flowerof the family, and possibly the last one. Now, old Agricola shows thedownward grade better. Seventy-five, if he is a day, with, maybe,one-fourth the attainments he pretends to have, and still less goodsense; but strong--as an orang-outang. Shall we go to bed?"