CHAPTER XXXVIII
TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP
Frowenfeld turned away from the closing door, caught his head betweenhis hands and tried to comprehend the new wildness of the tumult within.Honore Grandissime avowedly in love with one of them--_which one_?Doctor Keene visibly in love with one of them--_which one_? And he! Whatmeant this bounding joy that, like one gorgeous moth among innumerablebats, flashed to and fro among the wild distresses and dismays swarmingin and out of his distempered imagination? He did not answer thequestion; he only knew the confusion in his brain was dreadful. Bothhands could not hold back the throbbing of his temples; the table didnot steady the trembling of his hands; his thoughts went hither andthither, heedless of his call. Sit down as he might, rise up, pace theroom, stand, lean his forehead against the wall--nothing could quiet thefearful disorder, until at length he recalled Honore's neglected adviceand resolutely lay down and sought sleep; and, long before he had hopedto secure it, it came.
In the distant Grandissime mansion, Agricola Fusilier was casting aboutfor ways and means to rid himself of the heaviest heart that ever hadthrobbed in his bosom. He had risen at sunrise from slumber worse thansleeplessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel of to-morrowwith Sylvestre. He was trying to get the unwonted quaking out of hishands and the memory of the night's heart-dissolving phantasms frombefore his inner vision. To do this he had resort to a very familiar, wemay say time-honored, prescription--rum. He did not use it after thevoudou fashion; the voudous pour it on the ground--Agricola was ananti-voudou. It finally had its effect. By eleven o'clock he seemed,outwardly at least, to be at peace with everything in Louisiana that heconsidered Louisianian, properly so-called; as to all else he was readyfor war, as in peace one should be. While in this mood, and performingat a sideboard the solemn rite of _las onze_, news incidentally reachedhim, by the mouth of his busy second, Hippolyte, of Frowenfeld'strouble, and despite 'Polyte's protestations against the principal in apending "affair" appearing on the street, he ordered the carriage andhurried to the apothecary's.
* * * * *
When Frowenfeld awoke, the fingers of his clock were passing themeridan. His fever was gone, his brain was calm, his strength in goodmeasure had returned. There had been dreams in his sleep, too; he hadseen Clotilde standing at the foot of his bed. He lay now, for a moment,lost in retrospection.
"There can be no doubt about it," said he, as he rose up, looking backmentally at something in the past.
The sound of carriage-wheels attracted his attention by ceasing beforehis street door. A moment later the voice of Agricola was heard in theshop greeting Raoul. As the old man lifted the head of his staff to tapon the inner door, Frowenfeld opened it.
"Fusilier to the rescue!" said the great Louisianian, with a grasp ofthe apothecary's hand and a gaze of brooding admiration.
Joseph gave him a chair, but with magnificent humility he insisted onnot taking it until "Professor Frowenfeld" had himself sat down.
The apothecary was very solemn. It seemed to him as if in this littleback room his dead good name was lying in state, and these visitors werecoming in to take their last look. From time to time he longed for morelight, wondering why the gravity of his misadventure should seemso great.
"H-m-h-y dear Professor!" began the old man. Pages of print could notcomprise all the meanings of his smile and accent; benevolence,affection, assumed knowledge of the facts, disdain of results,remembrance of his own youth, charity for pranks, patronage--these werebut a few. He spoke very slowly and deeply and with this smile of ahundred meanings. "Why did you not send for me, Joseph? Sir, wheneveryou have occasion to make a list of the friends who will stand by you,_right or wrong_--h-write the name of Citizen Agricola Fusilier at thetop! Write it large and repeat it at the bottom! You understand me,Joseph?--and, mark me,--right or wrong!"
"Not wrong," said Frowenfeld, "at least not in defence of wrong; I couldnot do that; but, I assure you, in this matter I have done--"
"No worse than any one else would have done under the circumstances, mydear boy!--Nay, nay, do not interrupt me; I understand you, I understandyou. H-do you imagine there is anything strange to me in this--atmy age?"
"But I am--"
"--all right, sir! that is _what_ you are. And you are under the wing ofAgricola Fusilier, the old eagle; that is _where_ you are. And you areone of my brood; that is _who_ you are. Professor, listen to your oldfather. _The--man--makes--the--crime!_ The wisdom of mankind neverbrought forth a maxim of more gigantic beauty. If the different gradesof race and society did not have corresponding moral and civilliberties, varying in degree as they vary--h-why! _this_ community, atleast, would go to pieces! See here! Professor Frowenfeld is chargedwith misdemeanor. Very well, who is he? Foreigner or native? Foreignerby sentiment and intention, or only by accident of birth? Of our mentalfibre--our aspirations--our delights--our indignations? I answer foryou, Joseph, yes!--yes! What then? H-why, then the decision! Reachedhow? By apologetic reasonings? By instinct, sir! h-h-that guide of thenobly proud! And what is the decision? Not guilty. Professor Frowenfeld,_absolvo te!_"
It was in vain that the apothecary repeatedly tried to interrupt thisspeech. "Citizen Fusilier, do you know me no better?"--"CitizenFusilier, if you will but listen!"--such were the fragments of hisefforts to explain. The old man was not so confident as he pretended tobe that Frowenfeld was that complete proselyte which alone satisfies aCreole; but he saw him in a predicament and cast to him this life-buoy,which if a man should refuse, he would deserve to drown.
Frowenfeld tried again to begin.
"Mr. Fusilier--"
"Citizen Fusilier!"
"Citizen, candor demands that I undeceive--"
"Candor demands--h-my dear Professor, let me tell you exactly what shedemands. She demands that in here--within this apartment--we understandeach other. That demand is met."
"But--" Frowenfeld frowned impatiently.
"That demand, Joseph, is fully met! I understand the whole matter likean eye-witness! Now there is another demand to be met, the demand offriendship! In here, candor; outside, friendship; in here, one of ourbrethren has been adventurous and unfortunate; outside"--the old mansmiled a smile of benevolent mendacity--"outside, nothing has happened."
Frowenfeld insisted savagely on speaking; but Agricola raised his voice,and gray hairs prevailed.
"At least, what _has_ happened? The most ordinary thing in the world;Professor Frowenfeld lost his footing on a slippery gunwale, fell, cuthis head upon a protruding spike, and went into the house of Palmyre tobathe his wound; but finding it worse than he had at first supposed it,immediately hurried out again and came to his store. He left his hatwhere it had fallen, too muddy to be worth recovery. HippolyteBrahmin-Mandarin and others, passing at the time, thought he had metwith violence in the house of the hair-dresser, and drew some naturalinferences, but have since been better informed; and the public willplease understand that Professor Frowenfeld is a white man, a gentleman,and a Louisianian, ready to vindicate his honor, and that CitizenAgricola Fusilier is his friend!"
The old man looked around with the air of a bull on a hill-top.
Frowenfeld, vexed beyond degree, restrained himself only for the sakeof an object in view, and contented himself with repeating for thefourth or fifth time,--
"I cannot accept any such deliverance."
"Professor Frowenfeld, friendship--society--demands it; our circle mustbe protected in all its members. You have nothing to do with it. Youwill leave it with me, Joseph."
"No, no," said Frowenfeld, "I thank you, but--"
"Ah! my dear boy, thank me not; I cannot help these impulses; I belongto a warm-hearted race. But"--he drew back in his chair sidewise andmade great pretence of frowning--"you decline the offices of thatprecious possession, a Creole friend?"
"I only decline to be shielded by a fiction."
"Ah-h!" said Agricola, further nettling his victim by a gaze of stagyadmiration.
"'_Sans peur et sans reproche_'--and yet you disappoint me.Is it for naught, that I have sallied forth from home, drawing thecurtains of my carriage to shield me from the gazing crowd? It was torescue my friend--my vicar--my coadjutor--my son--from the laughs andfinger-points of the vulgar mass. H-I might as well have stayed athome--or better, for my peculiar position to-day rather requires me tokeep in--"
"No, citizen," said Frowenfeld, laying his hand upon Agricola's arm, "Itrust it is not in vain that you have come out. There _is_ a man introuble whom only you can deliver."
The old man began to swell with complacency.
"H-why, really--"
"_He_, Citizen, is truly of your kind--"
"He must be delivered, Professor Frowenfeld--"
"He is a native Louisianian, not only by accident of birth but bysentiment and intention," said Frowenfeld.
The old man smiled a benign delight, but the apothecary now had theupper hand, and would not hear him speak.
"His aspirations," continued the speaker, "his indignations--mount withhis people's. His pulse beats with yours, sir. He is a part of yourcircle. He is one of your caste."
Agricola could not be silent.
"Ha-a-a-ah! Joseph, h-h-you make my blood tingle! Speak to the point;who--"
"I believe him, moreover, Citizen Fusilier, innocent of the chargelaid--"
"H-innocent? H-of course he is innocent, sir! We will _make_ him inno--"
"Ah! Citizen, he is already under sentence of death!"
"_What?_ A Creole under sentence!" Agricola swore a heathen oath, sethis knees apart and grasped his staff by the middle. "Sir, we willliberate him if we have to overturn the government!"
Frowenfeld shook his head.
"You have got to overturn something stronger than government."
"And pray what--"
"A conventionality," said Frowenfeld, holding the old man's eye.
"Ha, ha! my b-hoy, h-you are right. But we will overturn--eh?"
"I say I fear your engagements will prevent. I hear you take partto-morrow morning in--"
Agricola suddenly stiffened.
"Professor Frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are taking something of aliberty."
"For which I ask pardon," exclaimed Frowenfeld. "Then I may notexpect--"
The old man melted again.
"But who is this person in mortal peril?"
Frowenfeld hesitated.
"Citizen Fusilier," he said, looking first down at the floor and then upinto the inquirer's face, "on my assurance that he is not only a nativeCreole, but a Grandissime--"
"It is not possible!" exclaimed Agricola.
"--a Grandissime of the purest blood, will you pledge me your aid toliberate him from his danger, 'right or wrong'?"
"_Will_ I? H-why, certainly! Who is he?"
"Citizen--it is Sylves--"
Agricola sprang up with a thundering oath.
The apothecary put out a pacifying hand, but it was spurned.
"Let me go! How dare you, sir? How dare you, sir?" bellowed Agricola.
He started toward the door, cursing furiously and keeping his eye fixedon Frowenfeld with a look of rage not unmixed with terror.
"Citizen Fusilier," said the apothecary, following him with one palmuplifted, as if that would ward off his abuse, "don't go! I adjure you,don't go! Remember your pledge, Citizen Fusilier!"
Agricola did not pause a moment; but when he had swung the doorviolently open the way was still obstructed. The painter of "Louisianarefusing to enter the Union" stood before him, his head elevatedloftily, one foot set forward and his arm extended like a tragedian's.
"Stan' bag-sah!"
"Let me pass! Let me pass, or I will kill you!"
Mr. Innerarity smote his bosom and tossed his hand aloft.
"Kill me-firse an' pass aftah!"
"Citizen Fusilier," said Frowenfeld, "I beg you to hear me."
"Go away! Go away!"
The old man drew back from the door and stood in the corner against thebook-shelves as if all the horrors of the last night's dreams had takenbodily shape in the person of the apothecary. He trembled and stammered:
"Ke--keep off! Keep off! My God! Raoul, he has insulted me!" He made amiserable show of drawing a weapon. "No man may insult me and live! Ifyou are a man, Professor Frowenfeld, you will defend yourself!"
Frowenfeld lost his temper, but his hasty reply was drowned by Raoul'svehement speech.
"'Tis not de trute!" cried Raoul. "He try to save you fromhell-'n'-damnation w'en 'e h-ought to give you a good cuss'n!"--and inthe ecstasy of his anger burst into tears.
Frowenfeld, in an agony of annoyance, waved him away and he disappeared,shutting the door.
Agricola, moved far more from within than from without, had sunk into achair under the shelves. His head was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock felldown upon his dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of hisstaff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently. As Frowenfeld,with every demonstration of beseeching kindness, began to speak, helifted his eyes and said, piteously:
"Stop! Stop!"
"Citizen Fusilier, it is you who must stop. Stop before God Almightystops you, I beg you. I do not presume to rebuke you. I _know_ you wanta clear record. I know it better to-day than I ever did before. CitizenFusilier, I honor your intentions--"
Agricola roused a little and looked up with a miserable attempt at hishabitual patronizing smile.
"H-my dear boy, I overlook"--but he met in
Frowenfeld's eyes a spirit so superior to his dissimulation that thesmile quite broke down and gave way to another of deprecatory andapologetic distress. He reached up an arm.
"I could easily convince you, Professor, of your error"--his eyesquailed and dropped to the floor--"but I--your arm, my dear Joseph; ageis creeping upon me." He rose to his feet. "I am feeling reallyindisposed to-day--not at all bright; my solicitude for you, mydear b--"
He took two or three steps forward, tottered, clung to the apothecary,moved another step or two, and grasping the edge of the table stumbledinto a chair which Frowenfeld thrust under him. He folded his arms onthe edge of the board and rested his forehead on them, while Frowenfeldsat down quickly on the opposite side, drew paper and pen across thetable and wrote.
"Are you writing something, Professor?" asked the old man, withoutstirring. His staff tumbled to the floor. The apothecary's answer was alow, preoccupied one. Two or three times over he wrote and rejected whathe had written.
Presently he pushed back his chair, came around the table, laid thewriting he had made before the bowed head, sat down again and waited.
After a long time the old man looked up, trying in vain to conceal hisanguish under a smile.
"I have a sad headache."
He cast his eyes over the table and took mechanically the pen whichFrowenfeld extended toward him.
"What can I do for you, Professor? Sign something? There is nothing Iwould not do for Professor Frowenfeld. What have you written, eh?"
He felt helplessly for his spectacles.
Frowenfeld read:
"_Mr. Sylvestre Grandissime: I spoke in haste_."
He felt himself tremble as he read. Agricola fumbled with the pen,lifted his eyes with one more effort at the old look, said, "My dearboy, I do this purely to please you," and to Frowenfeld's delight andastonishment wrote:
"_Your affectionate uncle, Agricola Fusilier_."