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Updated: June 26, 2025
He had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a man of Frowenfeld's quiet mind. As the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hear his companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it could be for M. Grandissime had not disclosed it that induced such a man as he to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chill and dangerous hours.
She identified it with the back that was turned to her during her last visit to Frowenfeld's shop; but finding herself about to mention a matter so nearly connected with the purse of gold, she checked herself; but Frowenfeld, eager to say a good word for his acquaintance, ventured to extol his character while he concealed his name.
For a single instant only they stood so; an earnest and hurried murmur of French words passed between them, and they turned together, bowed with great suavity, and were gone. "The Cession is a mere temporary political manoeuvre!" growled M. Fusilier. Frowenfeld's merchant friend came from his place of waiting, and spoke twice before he attracted the attention of the bewildered apothecary.
The day being, as the figures have already shown, an unusually mild one, even for a Louisiana December, and the finger of the clock drawing by and by toward the last hour of sunlight, some half dozen of Frowenfeld's townsmen had gathered, inside and out, some standing, some sitting, about his front door, and all discussing the popular topics of the day.
Chance carried them up the rue Royale; they sang a song; they came to Frowenfeld's. It was an Américain establishment; that was against it. It was a gossiping place of Américain evening loungers; that was against it. But, worse still, the building was owned by the f.m.c., and unluckiest of all, Raoul stood in the door and some of his kinsmen in the crowd stopped to have a word with him.
She returned her hand to Frowenfeld's arm and they moved on. "The one who spoke to you, or you know the one who got near enough to apologize is not the one whose horse struck you!" "I din know. But oo dad odder one? I saw h-only 'is back, bud I thing it is de sem "
A young man of patrician softness and costly apparel tarried a moment after the general exodus, and quickly concluded that on Frowenfeld's account it was probably as well that he could not qualify, since he was expecting from France an important government appointment as soon as these troubles should be settled and Louisiana restored to her former happy condition.
What, then, was his astonishment when Monsieur bent down and made himself Frowenfeld's landlord, by writing what the universal mind esteemed the synonym of enterprise and activity the name of Honoré Grandissime. The landlord did not see, or ignored, his tenant's glance of surprise, and the tenant asked no questions.
The three gentlemen, with tears of merriment still in their eyes, reached a corner and disappeared. "Mister," said a child, trotting along under Frowenfeld's elbow, the odd English of the New Orleans street-urchin was at that day just beginning to be heard "Mister, dey got some blood on de back of you' hade!" But Frowenfeld hurried on groaning with mental anguish. It was the year 1804.
He will make his mark; it will probably be a white one; I will subscribe to the adventure. "You will excuse me, sir?" he asked after a pause, dismounting, and noticing, as he did so, that Frowenfeld's knees showed recent contact with the turf; "I have, myself, some interest in two of these graves, sir, as I suppose you will pardon my freedom you have in the other four."
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