The landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his tenant speaking, but each knowing that the one man in the minds of both, as a possible peacemaker, was Honore Grandissime.

“Should the opportunity offer,” continued Joseph, “may I speak a word for you myself?”

The quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely though bitterly, and departed repeating again: 

“‘Tis impossib’.  We don’ wand.”

“Palsied,” murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully,—­“like all of them.”

Frowenfeld’s thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day having passed, the hour was approaching wherein Innerarity was exhorted to tell his good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Grandissime mansion.  As the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, the fairer Honore called him out into the moonlight.

“Withered,” the student was saying audibly to himself, “not in the shadow of the Ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man.”

“Who is withered?” pleasantly demanded Honore.  The apothecary started slightly.

“Did I speak?  How do you do, sir?  I meant the free quadroons.”

“Including the gentleman from whom you rent your store?”

“Yes, him especially; he told me this morning the story of Bras-Coupe.”

M. Grandissime laughed.  Joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh sound entirely genuine.

“Do not open the door, Mr Frowenfeld,” said the Creole, “Get your greatcoat and cane and come take a walk with me; I will tell you the same story.”

It was two hours before they approached this door again on their return.  Just before they reached it, Honore stopped under the huge street-lamp, whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on the ground in the narrow, moonlit street.  There was a tall, unfinished building at his back.

“Mr Frowenfeld,”—­he struck the stone with his cane,—­“this stone is Bras-Coupe—­we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools.”

He laughed.  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.  “What does he want with me?” The thought was so natural that it was no miracle the Creole read it.

“Well,” said he, smiling and taking an attitude, “you are a great man for causes, Mr. Frowenfeld; but me, I am for results, ha, ha!  You may ponder the philosophy of Bras-Coupe in your study, but I have got to get rid of his results, me.  You know them.”

“You tell me it revived a war where you had made a peace,” said Frowenfeld.

“Yes—­yes—­that is his results; but good night, Mr. Frowenfeld.”