In the distant Grandissime mansion, Agricola Fusilier was casting about for ways and means to rid himself of the heaviest heart that ever had throbbed in his bosom.  He had risen at sunrise from slumber worse than sleeplessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel of to-morrow with Sylvestre.  He was trying to get the unwonted quaking out of his hands and the memory of the night’s heart-dissolving phantasms from before his inner vision.  To do this he had resort to a very familiar, we may say time-honored, prescription—­rum.  He did not use it after the voudou fashion; the voudous pour it on the ground—­Agricola was an anti-voudou.  It finally had its effect.  By eleven o’clock he seemed, outwardly at least, to be at peace with everything in Louisiana that he considered Louisianian, properly so-called; as to all else he was ready for war, as in peace one should be.  While in this mood, and performing at a sideboard the solemn rite of las onze, news incidentally reached him, by the mouth of his busy second, Hippolyte, of Frowenfeld’s trouble, and despite ’Polyte’s protestations against the principal in a pending “affair” appearing on the street, he ordered the carriage and hurried to the apothecary’s.

* * * * *

When Frowenfeld awoke, the fingers of his clock were passing the meridan.  His fever was gone, his brain was calm, his strength in good measure had returned.  There had been dreams in his sleep, too; he had seen Clotilde standing at the foot of his bed.  He lay now, for a moment, lost in retrospection.

“There can be no doubt about it,” said he, as he rose up, looking back mentally at something in the past.

The sound of carriage-wheels attracted his attention by ceasing before his street door.  A moment later the voice of Agricola was heard in the shop greeting Raoul.  As the old man lifted the head of his staff to tap on the inner door, Frowenfeld opened it.

“Fusilier to the rescue!” said the great Louisianian, with a grasp of the apothecary’s hand and a gaze of brooding admiration.

Joseph gave him a chair, but with magnificent humility he insisted on not taking it until “Professor Frowenfeld” had himself sat down.

The apothecary was very solemn.  It seemed to him as if in this little back room his dead good name was lying in state, and these visitors were coming in to take their last look.  From time to time he longed for more light, wondering why the gravity of his misadventure should seem so great.

“H-m-h-y dear Professor!” began the old man.  Pages of print could not comprise all the meanings of his smile and accent; benevolence, affection, assumed knowledge of the facts, disdain of results, remembrance of his own youth, charity for pranks, patronage—­these were but a few.  He spoke very slowly and deeply and with this smile of a hundred meanings.  “Why did you not send for me, Joseph?  Sir, whenever you have occasion to make a list of the friends who will stand by you, right or wrong—­h-write the name of Citizen Agricola Fusilier at the top!  Write it large and repeat it at the bottom!  You understand me, Joseph?—­and, mark me,—­right or wrong!”