_ CHAPTER X. "OO DAD IS, 'SIEUR FROWENFEL'?"
Whether the removal of the veil was because of the milder light of the evening, or the result of accident, or of haste, or both, or whether, by reason of some exciting or absorbing course of thought, the wearer had withdrawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the apothecary as little as did Agricola's continued harangue. 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.
"It is waiting for you," said Frowenfeld; but the lady did not hear him; she was giving her attention to the loud voice of Agricola saying in the course of discussion:
"The Louisiana Creole is the noblest variety of enlightened man!"
"Oo dad is, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?" she asked, softly, but with an excited eye.
"That is Mr. Agricola Fusilier," answered Joseph in the same tone, his heart leaping inexplicably as he met her glance. With an angry flush she looked quickly around, scrutinized the old man in an instantaneous, thorough way, and then glanced back at the apothecary again, as if asking him to fulfil her request the quicker.
He hesitated, in doubt as to her meaning.
"Wrap it yonder," she almost whispered.
He went, and in a moment returned, with the basil only partially hid in a paper covering.
But the lady, muffled again in her manifold veil, had once more lost her eagerness for it; at least, instead of taking it, she moved aside, offering room for a masculine figure just entering. She did not look to see who it might be--plenty of time to do that by accident, by and by. There she made a mistake; for the new-comer, with a silent bow of thanks, declined the place made for him, moved across the shop, and occupied his eyes with the contents of the glass case, his back being turned to the lady and Frowenfeld. The apothecary recognized the Creole whom he had met under the live-oak.
The lady put forth her hand suddenly to receive the package. As she took it and turned to depart, another small hand was laid upon it and it was returned to the counter. Something was said in a low-pitched undertone, and the two sisters--if Frowenfeld's guess was right--confronted each other. 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.
"Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I have been told that--"
Joseph gazed after the two ladies crossing the street, and felt uncomfortable that the group of gossips did the same. So did the black attendant who glanced furtively back.
"Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I--"
"Oh! how do you do, sir?" exclaimed the apothecary, with great pleasantness, of face. It seemed the most natural thing that they should resume their late conversation just where they had left off, and that would certainly be pleasant. But the man of more experience showed an unresponsive expression, that was as if he remembered no conversation of any note.
"I have been told that you might be able to replace the glass in this thing out of your private stock."
He presented a small, leather-covered case, evidently containing some optical instrument. "It will give me a pretext for going," he had said to himself, as he put it into his pocket in his counting-room. He was not going to let the apothecary know he had taken such a fancy to him.
"I do not know," replied Frowenfeld, as he touched the spring of the case; "I will see what I have."
He passed into the back room, more than willing to get out of sight till he might better collect himself.
"I do not keep these things for sale," said he as he went.
"Sir?" asked the Creole, as if he had not understood, and followed through the open door.
"Is this what that lady was getting?" he asked, touching the remnant of the basil in the box.
"Yes, sir," said the apothecary, with his face in the drawer of a table.
"They had no carriage with them." The Creole spoke with his back turned, at the same time running his eyes along a shelf of books. Frowenfeld made only the sound of rejecting bits of crystal and taking up others. "I do not know who they are," ventured the merchant.
Joseph still gave no answer, but a moment after approached, with the instrument in his extended hand.
"You had it? I am glad," said the owner, receiving it, but keeping one hand still on the books.
Frowenfeld put up his materials.
"Mr. Frowenfeld, are these your books? I mean do you use these books?"
"Yes, sir."
The Creole stepped back to the door.
"Agricola!"
"_Quoi_!"
"_Vien ici_."
Citizen Fusilier entered, followed by a small volley of retorts from those with whom he had been disputing, and who rose as he did. The stranger said something very sprightly in French, running the back of one finger down the rank of books, and a lively dialogue followed.
"You must be a great scholar," said the unknown by and by, addressing the apothecary.
"He is a professor of chimistry," said the old man.
"I am nothing, as yet, but a student," said Joseph, as the three returned into the shop; "certainly not a scholar, and still less a professor." He spoke with a new quietness of manner that made the younger Creole turn upon him a pleasant look.
"H-my young friend," said the patriarch, turning toward Joseph with a tremendous frown, "when I, Agricola Fusilier, pronounce you a professor, you are a professor. Louisiana will not look to _you_ for your credentials; she will look to me!"
He stumbled upon some slight impediment under foot. There were times when it took but little to make Agricola stumble.
Looking to see what it was, Joseph picked up a silken purse. There was a name embroidered on it. _