ld twice. The fair
Grandissimes all agreed, at the close; that it was pitiful. Specially,
that it was a great pity to have hamstrung Bras-Coupe, a man who even in
his cursing had made an exception in favor of the ladies. True, they
could suggest no alternative; it was undeniable that he had deserved his
fate; still, it seemed a pity. They dispersed, retired and went to sleep
confirmed in this sentiment. In Frowenfeld the story stirred
deeper feelings.

On this same day, while it was still early morning, Honore Grandissime,
f.m.c., with more than even his wonted slowness of step and propriety of
rich attire, had reappeared in the shop of the rue Royale. He did not
need to say he desired another private interview. Frowenfeld ushered him
silently and at once into his rear room, offered him a chair (which he
accepted), and sat down before him.

In his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge that Frowenfeld had
been three times to the dwelling of Palmyre Philosophe. Why, he further
intimated, he knew not, nor would he ask; but _he_--when _he_ had
applied for admission--had been refused. He had laid open his heart to
the apothecary's eyes--"It may have been unwisely--"

Frowenfeld interrupted him; Palmyre had been ill for several days;
Doctor Keene--who, Mr. Grandissime probably knew, was her physician--

The landlord bowed, and Frowenfeld went on to explain that Doctor Keene,
while attending her, had also fallen sick and had asked him to take the
care of this one case until he could himself resume it. So there, in a
word, was the reason why Joseph had, and others had not, been admitted
to her presence.

As obviously to the apothecary's eyes as anything intangible could be, a
load of suffering was lifted from the quadroon's mind, as this
explanation was concluded. Yet he only sat in meditation before his
tenant, who regarded him long and sadly. Then, seized with one of his
energetic impulses, he suddenly said:

"Mr. Grandissime, you are a man of intelligence, accomplishments,
leisure and wealth; why" (clenchings his fists and frowning),
"why do you not give yourself--your
time--wealth--attainments--energies--everything--to the cause of the
downtrodden race with which this community's scorn unjustly compels you
to rank yourself?"

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 understo