M. Grandissime looked his friend straight in the eye with the frowning energy of one who asserts an ugly fact.

Frowenfeld, regarding the speaker with a gaze of respectful attention, did not falter; but his fevered blood, with an impulse that started him half from his seat, surged up into his head and face; and then—­

M. Grandissime blushed.

In the few silent seconds that followed, the glances of the two friends continued to pass into each other’s eyes, while about Honore’s mouth hovered the smile of one who candidly surrenders his innermost secret, and the lips of the apothecary set themselves together as though he were whispering to himself behind them, “Steady.”

“Mr. Frowenfeld,” said the Creole, taking a sudden breath and waving a hand, “I came to ask about your trouble; but if you think you have any reason to withhold your confidence—­”

“No, sir; no!  But can I be no help to you in this matter?”

The Creole leaned back smilingly in his chair and knit his fingers.

“No, I did not intend to say all this; I came to offer my help to you; but my mind is full—­what do you expect?  My-de’-seh, the foam must come first out of the bottle.  You see”—­he leaned forward again, laid two fingers in his palm and deepened his tone—­“I will tell you:  this tree—­’our dead father’s mistakes’—­is about to drop another rotten apple.  I spoke just now of the uproar this restitution would make; why, my-de’-seh, just the mention of the lady’s name at my house, when we lately held the fete de grandpere, has given rise to a quarrel which is likely to end in a duel.”

“Raoul was telling me,” said the apothecary.

M. Grandissime made an affirmative gesture.

“Mr. Frowenfeld, if you—­if any one—­could teach my people—­I mean my family—­the value of peace (I do not say the duty, my-de’-seh; a merchant talks of values); if you could teach them the value of peace, I would give you, if that was your price”—­he ran the edge of his left hand knife-wise around the wrist of his right—­“that.  And if you would teach it to the whole community—­well—­I think I would not give my head; maybe you would.”  He laughed.

“There is a peace which is bad,” said the contemplative apothecary.

“Yes,” said the Creole, promptly, “the very kind that I have been keeping all this time—­and my father before me!”

He spoke with much warmth.

“Yes,” he said again, after a pause which was not a rest, “I often see that we Grandissimes are a good example of the Creoles at large; we have one element that makes for peace; that—­pardon the self-consciousness—­is myself; and another element that makes for strife—­led by my uncle Agricola; but, my-de’-seh, the peace element is that which ought to make the strife, and the strife element is that which ought to be made to keep the peace!  Mr. Frowenfeld, I propose to become the strife-maker; how then, can I be a peacemaker at the same time?  There is my diffycultie.”