“Bud, ‘Sieur Frowenfel’, I am afred to paz dad gangue!”

A new distress seized Joseph in view of this additional complication.  But, unmindful of this suggestion, the fair Creole suddenly exclaimed: 

“‘Sieu’ Frowenfel’, you har a hinnocen’ man!  Go, hopen yo’ do’s an’ stan juz as you har ub biffo dad crowd and sesso!  My God!  ‘Sieu’ Frowenfel’, iv you cannod stan’ ub by you’sev—­”

She ceased suddenly with a wild look, as if another word would have broken the levees of her eyes, and in that instant Frowenfeld recovered the full stature of a man.

“God bless you!” he cried.  “I will do it!” He started, then turned again toward her, dumb for an instant, and said:  “And God reward you!  You believe in me, and you do not even know me.”

Her eyes became wilder still as she looked up into his face with the words: 

“Mais, I does know you—­betteh’n you know annyt’in’ boud it!” and turned away, blushing violently.

Frowenfeld gave a start.  She had given him too much light.  He recognized her, and she knew it.  For another instant he gazed at her averted face, and then with forced quietness said: 

“Please go into the shop.”

The whole time that had elapsed since the shutting of the doors had not exceeded five minutes; a sixth sufficed for Clotilde and her attendant to resume their original position in the nook by the private door and for Frowenfeld to wash his face and hands.  Then the alert and numerous ears without heard a drawing of bolts at the door next to that which Raoul had issued, its leaves opened outward, and first the pale hands and then the white, weakened face and still bloody hair and apparel of the apothecary made their appearance.  He opened a window and another door.  The one locked by Raoul, when unbolted, yielded without a key, and the shop stood open.

“My friends,” said the trembling proprietor, “if any of you wishes to buy anything, I am ready to serve him.  The rest will please move away.”

The invitation, though probably understood, was responded to by only a few at the banquette’s edge, where a respectable face or two wore scrutinizing frowns.  The remainder persisted in silently standing and gazing in at the bloody man.

Frowenfeld bore the gaze.  There was one element of emphatic satisfaction in it—­it drew their observation from Clotilde at the other end of the shop.  He stole a glance backward; she was not there.  She had watched her chance, safely escaped through the side door, and was gone.

Raoul returned.

“‘Sieur Frowenfel’, Doctor Keene is took worse ag’in.  ’E is in bed; but ‘e say to tell you in dat lill troubl’ of dis mawnin’ it is himseff w’at is inti’lie wrong, an’ ’e hass you poddon.  ‘E says sen’ fo’ Doctor Conrotte, but I din go fo’ him; dat ole scoun’rel—­he believe in puttin’ de niggas fre’.”

Frowenfeld said he would not consult professional advisers; with a little assistance from Raoul, he could give the cut the slight attention it needed.  He went back into his room, while Raoul turned back to the door and addressed the public.