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Updated: June 26, 2025
The quadroon did not meet Frowenfeld's kindled eyes for a moment, and when he did, it was slowly and dejectedly. "He canno' be," he said, and then, seeing his words were not understood, he added: "He 'ave no Cause. Dad peop' 'ave no Cause."
Achille Grandissime, he who took Agricola away from Frowenfeld's shop in the carriage, essays to engage Agamemnon in conversation, and the colonel, with a glance at his kinsman's nether limbs and another at his own, and with that placid facility with which the graver sort of Creoles take up the trivial topics of the lighter, grapples the subject of boots.
He was lucky to get out alive, and that was about all he did. "They are right!" the doctor persisted, in response to Frowenfeld's puzzled look. "The people here have got to be particular. However, that is not what we were talking about. Quadroon balls are not to be mentioned in connection. Those ladies " He addressed himself to the resuscitation of his cigar.
While in this mood, and performing at a sideboard the solemn rite of las onze, news incidentally reached him, by the mouth of his busy second, Hippolyte, of Frowenfeld's trouble, and despite 'Polyte's protestations against the principal in a pending "affair" appearing on the street, he ordered the carriage and hurried to the apothecary's.
It was natural that these things should come to "Frowenfeld's corner," for there, oftener than elsewhere, the critics were gathered together. Ah! wonderful men, those critics; and, fortunately, we have a few still left. The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting.
A counter would run lengthwise toward the rue Royale, along the wall opposite the side-doors. Such was the spot that soon became known as "Frowenfeld's Corner." The notice "À Louer" directed him to inquire at numero rue Condé.
And the next evening he would go and see what might be the matter with Doctor Keene, who had looked ill on last parting with the evening group that lounged in Frowenfeld's door, some three days before. The intermediate hours were to be devoted, of course, to the prescription desk and his "dead stock."
Agricola, thus ruled out, did a thing he did not fully understand; he rolled up the "Philippique Générale" and "The Insanity of Educating the Masses," and, with these in one hand and his staff in the other, set out for Frowenfeld's, not merely smarting but trembling under the humiliation of having been sent, for the first time in his life, to the rear as a non-combatant.
In ten minutes, Frowenfeld's was a broken-windowed, open-doored house, full of unrecognizable rubbish that had escaped the torch only through a chance rumor that the Governor's police were coming, and the consequent stampede of the mob.
The smile of diffidence, but not the flush, passed from the young man's face, and he sat down forcibly. "You jest," he said. The reply was a majestic growl. "I never jest!" The speaker half sat down, then straightened up again. "Ah, the Marquis of Caso Calvo! I must bow to him, though an honest man's bow is more than he deserves." "More than he deserves?" was Frowenfeld's query.
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