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I want you to say, 'My frien', 'Sieur Innerarity, never care to sell anything; 'tis for egs-hibby-shun'; mais when somebody look at it, so," the artist cast upon his work a look of languishing covetousness, "'you say, foudre tonnerre! what de dev'! I take dat ris-pon-sibble-ty you can have her for two hun'red fifty dollah! Better not be too proud, eh, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?"
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' for Proffis-or Frowenfel' to come yeh; but I don' thing 'e comin'. You know, I din' wan' you to 'ave dad troub'; but Clotilde ha, ha, ha!
"Proffis-or Frowenfel', good-day! Teg a cha'." She laughed. It was the pure joy of existence. "You's well? You lookin' verrie well! Halways bizzie? 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.
"Oh!-h!" breathlessly, "'h! M'sieur Frowenf' you walkin' so faz!" "Oh!" echoed Frowenfeld, "I did not know what I was doing." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the lady, "me, too, juz de sem lag you! attendez; wait." They halted; a moment's deft manipulation of a veil turned it into a wrapping for her neck. "'Sieur Frowenfel', oo dad man was? You know 'im?"
"And have she and her daughter actually got the money?" "She an' heh daughtah ac shilly got-'at-money-sir! W'at? Dey livin' in de rue Royale in mag-niffycen' style on top de drug-sto' of Proffis-or Frowenfel'." "But how, over Frowenfeld's, when Frowenfeld's is a one-story " "My dear frien'! Proffis-or Frowenfel' is moove!
She found water and a basin, wet her own handkerchief, and dropped to her knees beside his head; but the moment he felt the small feminine hands he stood up. She took him by the arm. "Asseyez-vous, Monsieu' pliz to give you'sev de pens to seet down, 'Sieu' Frowenfel'."
Frowenfeld, for the moment well-nigh oblivious of his own trouble, turned upon his assistant a look in which elation was oddly blended with solemnity, and replied as he walked by: "Rush of truth to the heart." Raoul followed a step. "'Sieur Frowenfel' " The apothecary turned once more. Raoul's face bore an expression of earnest practicability that invited confidence.
Aurora straightened up with angry astonishment and drew in her breath for an emphatic speech, but Clotilde, liberating her own hands, took Aurora's, and hurriedly said, turning still paler as she spoke: "'E godd his 'ead strigue! 'Tis all knog in be'ine! 'E come in blidding " "In w'ere?" cried Aurora. "In 'is shob." "You was in dad shob of 'Sieur Frowenfel'?"
"'Sieur Frowenfel'," said Raoul as that person turned in the front door of the shop after watching Agricola's carriage roll away he had intended to unburden his mind to the apothecary with all his natural impetuosity; but Frowenfeld's gravity as he turned, with the paper in his hand, induced a different manner.
As he looked upon the fair face through the light gauze which still overhung but not obscured it, he readily perceived, despite the sprightly smile, something like distress, and as she spoke this became still more evident in her hurried undertone. "'Sieur Frowenfel', I want you to sell me doze basilic." As she slipped the rings of her purse apart her fingers trembled.
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