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Updated: June 20, 2025
She would let the silly priest say his say then her cunning should help her not to be his wife, yet to show his mighty arm how and when to strike. "He is looking for Palmyre," said some, and at that moment he saw her. "Ho-o-o-o-o!" Agricola's best roar was a penny trumpet to Bras-Coupé's note of joy. The whole masculine half of the indoor company flocked out to see what the matter was.
"Bras-Coupé," said Palmyre, next evening, speaking low in his mangled ear, "the master is dead; he is just buried. As he was dying, Bras-Coupé, he asked that you would forgive him." The maimed man looked steadfastly at his wife.
Nevertheless, there were but three persons within as many square miles who were not most vividly afraid of him. The first was Palmyre. His bearing in her presence was ever one of solemn, exalted respect, which, whether from pure magnanimity in himself, or by reason of her magnetic eye, was something worth being there to see. "It was royal!" said the overseer. The second was not that official.
He never knew it was empty. It was Nobody who filled it. Palmyre says that Papa Lébat " "Ha!" exclaimed Clotilde at this superstitious mention. The mother tossed her head and turned her back, swallowing the unendurable bitterness of being rebuked by her daughter. But the cloud hung over but a moment.
Colonel De Grapion could hardly hope to settle Palmyre's fate more satisfactorily, yet he could not forego an opportunity to indulge his pride by following up the threat he had hung over Agricola to kill whosoever should give Palmyre to a black man. He referred the subject and the would-be purchaser to him.
"Ah, ah, I see; like her brother Honoré looks at both sides of a question a miserable practice; but why couldn't Palmyre use her eyes? They would have stopped him." "Palmyre? Agricola Fusilier himself is afraid of her. Sir, I think sometimes Bras-Coupé is dead and his spirit has gone into Palmyre. She would rather add to his curse than take from it."
The daylight, as Palmyre let it once more into the apartment, showed Aurora sadly agitated. In evidence of the innocence of her fluttering heart, guilt, at least for the moment, lay on it, an appalling burden. "That is all, Palmyre, is it not? I am sure that is all it must be all. I cannot stay any longer. I wish I was with Clotilde; I have stayed too long."
All things were ready. The bride was dressed, the bridegroom had come. On the great back piazza, which had been inclosed with sail-cloth and lighted with lanterns, was Palmyre, full of a new and deep design and playing her deceit to the last, robed in costly garments to whose beauty was added the charm of their having been worn once, and once only, by her beloved Mademoiselle.
She was never recalled to the Cannes Brulées, but in subsequent years received her freedom from her master, and in New Orleans became Palmyre la Philosophe, as they say in the corrupt French of the old Creoles, or Palmyre Philosophe, noted for her taste and skill as a hair-dresser, for the efficiency of her spells and the sagacity of her divinations, but most of all for the chaste austerity with which she practised the less baleful rites of the voudous.
Frowenfeld again told as much as he thought he could, consistently with his pledges to Palmyre, touching with extreme lightness upon the part taken by Clotilde. "Turn around," said M. Grandissime at the close; "let me see the back of your head. And it is that that is giving you this fever, eh?" "Partly," replied Frowenfeld; "but how shall I vindicate my innocence?
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