"Give us plenty of light, Frowenfeld," said the doctor, "and a chair and some 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 and mortally stabbed!"
"Right on, Frowenfeld," continued the doctor, "right on into the back room. Fasten that front door. Here, Agricola, sit down here. That"s right, Frow., stir up a little fire. Give me--never mind, I"ll just cut the cloth open."
There was a moment of silent suspense while the wound was being reached, and then the doctor spoke again.
"Just as I thought; only a safe and comfortable gash that will keep you in-doors a while with your arm in a sling. You are more scared than hurt, I think, old gentleman."
"You think an infernal falsehood, sir!"
"See here, sir," said the doctor, without ceasing to ply his dexterous hands in his art, "I"ll jab these scissors into your back if you say that again."
"I suppose," growled the "citizen," "it is just the thing your professional researches have qualified you for, sir!"
"Just stand here, Mr. Frowenfeld," said the little doctor, settling down to 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, the treatment that medical science of those days dictated was applied--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 my office. My uncle keeps his accounts with me. Sometimes we look them over. We stayed until midnight; I dismissed my carriage. As we walked homeward we met some friends coming out of the rooms of the Bagatelle Club; five or six of my uncles and cousins, and also Doctor Keene. We all fell a-talking of my grandfather"s _fete de grandpere_ of next month, and went to have some coffee. When we separated, and my uncle and my cousin Achille Grandissime and Doctor Keene and myself came down Royal street, out from that dark alley behind your shop jumped a little man and stuck my uncle with a knife. If I had not caught his arm he would 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 his patient"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 readjusted the ripped sleeve.
"That is _my_ affair, sir; I know who it was."
"And yet she insists," M. Grandissime was asking Frowenfeld, standing with his leg thrown across the celestial globe, "that I knocked her down intentionally?"
Frowenfeld, about to answer, was interrupted by a rap on the door.
"That is my cousin, with the carriage," said M. Grandissime, following the apothecary into the shop.
Frowenfeld opened to a young man,--a rather poor specimen of the Grandissime 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, Achille Grandissime."
Mr. Achille Grandissime gave Frowenfeld such a bow as we see now only in pictures.
"Ve"y "appe to meck, yo" acquaintenz!"
Agricola entered, followed by the doctor, and demanded in indignant thunder-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 it purely to please you."
Good-night was exchanged; Honore entered the vehicle and Agricola was helped in. Achille touched his hat, bowed and waved his hand to Joseph, and shook hands with the doctor, and saying, "Well, good-night. Doctor Keene," he shut himself out of the shop with another low bow. "Think I am 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 a ring with a towel and looking at his delicate, freckled hand, "I propose, before going to bed with you, to eat some of your bread and cheese. Aren"t you glad?"
"I shall be, Doctor," replied the apothecary, "if you will tell me what all this means."
"Indeed I will not,--that is, not to-night. What? Why, it would take until breakfast to tell what "all this means,"--the story of that pestiferous darky Bras Coupe, with the rest? Oh, no, sir. I would sooner not have any bread and cheese. What on earth has waked your curiosity so suddenly, 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 I saw how small the fellow was, I was at a loss, completely. But, whoever it is, he has my bullet in him, whatever Honore may think."
"Will Mr. Fusilier"s wound give him much trouble?" asked Joseph, as they sat down to a luncheon at the fire.
"Hardly; he has too much of the blood of Lufki-Humma in him. But I need not say that; for the Grandissime blood is just as strong. A wonderful family, those Grandissimes! They are an old, ill.u.s.trious line, and the strength that was once in the intellect and will is going down into the muscles. I have an idea that their greatness began, hundreds of years ago, in ponderosity of arm,--of frame, say,--and developed from generation to generation, in a rising scale, first into fineness of sinew, then, we will say, into force of will, then into power of mind, then into subtleties of genius. Now they are going back down the incline. Look at Honore; he is high up on the scale, intellectual and sagacious. But look at him physically, too. What an exquisite mold! What compact strength! I should not wonder if he gets that from the Indian Queen. What endurance he has! He will probably go to his business by and by and not see his bed for seventeen or eighteen hours. He is the flower of the family, and possibly the last one. Now, old Agricola shows the downward grade better. Seventy-five, if he is a day, with, maybe, one-fourth the attainments he pretends to have, and still less good sense; but strong--as an orang-outang. Shall we go to bed?"
CHAPTER XVIII
NEW LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES
When the long, wakeful night was over, and the doctor gone, Frowenfeld seated himself to record his usual observations of the weather; but his mind was elsewhere--here, there, yonder. There are understandings that expand, not imperceptibly hour by hour, but as certain flowers do, by little explosive ruptures, with periods of quiescence between. After this night of experiences it was natural that Frowenfeld should find the circ.u.mference of his perceptions consciously enlarged. The daylight shone, not into his shop alone, but into his heart as well. The face of Aurora, which had been the dawn to him before, was now a perfect sunrise, while in pleasant timeliness had come in this Apollo of a Honore Grandissime. The young immigrant was dazzled. He felt a longing to rise up and run forward in this flood of beams. He was unconscious of fatigue, or nearly so--would, have been wholly so but for the return by and by of that same dim shadow, or shadows, still rising and darting across every motion of the fancy that grouped again the actors in last night"s scenes; not such shadows as naturally go with sunlight to make it seem brighter, but a something which qualified the light"s perfection and the air"s freshness.
Wherefore, resolved: that he would compound his life, from this time forward, by a new formula: books, so much; observation, so much; social intercourse, so much; love--as to that, time enough for that in the future (if he was in love with anybody, he certainly did not know it); of love, therefore, amount not yet necessary to state, but probably (when it should be introduced), in the generous proportion in which physicians prescribe _aqua_. Resolved, in other words, without ceasing to be Frowenfeld the studious, to begin at once the perusal of this newly found book, the Community of New Orleans. True, he knew he should find it a difficult task--not only that much of it was in a strange tongue, but that it was a volume whose displaced leaves would have to be lifted tenderly, blown free of much dust, re-arranged, some torn fragments laid together again with much painstaking, and even the purport of some pages guessed out. Obviously, the place to commence at was that brightly illuminated t.i.tle-page, the ladies Nancanou.