He felt helplessly for his spectacles.

Frowenfeld read: 

“Mr. Sylvestre Grandissime:  I spoke in haste.”

He felt himself tremble as he read.  Agricola fumbled with the pen, lifted his eyes with one more effort at the old look, said, “My dear boy, I do this purely to please you,” and to Frowenfeld’s delight and astonishment wrote: 

“Your affectionate uncle, Agricola Fusilier.”

CHAPTER XXXIX

LOUISIANA STATES HER WANTS

“’Sieur Frowenfel’,” said Raoul as that person turned in the front door of the shop after watching Agricola’s carriage roll away—­he had intended to unburden his mind to the apothecary with all his natural impetuosity; but Frowenfeld’s gravity as he turned, with the paper in his hand, induced a different manner.  Raoul had learned, despite all the impulses of his nature, to look upon Frowenfeld with a sort of enthusiastic awe.  He dropped his voice and said—­asking like a child a question he was perfectly able to answer—­

“What de matta wid Agricole?”

Frowenfeld, for the moment well-nigh oblivious of his own trouble, turned upon his assistant a look in which elation was oddly blended with solemnity, and replied as he walked by: 

“Rush of truth to the heart.”

Raoul followed a step.

“’Sieur Frowenfel’—­”

The apothecary turned once more.  Raoul’s face bore an expression of earnest practicability that invited confidence.

“‘Sieur Frowenfel’, Agricola writ’n’ to Sylvestre to stop dat dool?”

“Yes.”

“You goin’ take dat lett’ to Sylvestre?”

“Yes.”

“‘Sieur Frowenfel’, dat de wrong g-way.  You got to take it to ’Polyte Brahmin-Mandarin, an’ ‘e got to take it to Valentine Grandissime, an’ ’e got to take it to Sylvestre.  You see, you got to know de manner to make.  Once ’pon a time I had a diffycultie wid—­”

“I see,” said Frowenfeld; “where may I find Hippolyte Brahmin-Mandarin at this time of day?”

Raoul shrugged.

“If the pre-parish-ions are not complitted, you will not find ’im; but if they har complitted—­you know ’im?”

“By sight.”

“Well, you may fine him at Maspero’s, or helse in de front of de Veau-qui-tete, or helse at de Cafe Louis Quatorze—­mos’ likely in front of de Veau-qui-tete.  You know, dat diffycultie I had, dat arise itseff from de discush’n of one of de mil-littery mov’ments of ca-valry; you know, I—­”

“Yes,” said the apothecary; “here, Raoul, is some money; please go and buy me a good, plain hat.”

“All right.”  Raoul darted behind the counter and got his hat out of a drawer.  “Were at you buy your hats?”

“Anywhere.”

“I will go at my hatter.”

As the apothecary moved about his shop awaiting Raoul’s return, his own disaster became once more the subject of his anxiety.  He noticed that almost every person who passed looked in.  “This is the place,”—­“That is the man,”—­how plainly the glances of passers sometimes speak!  The people seemed, moreover, a little nervous.  Could even so little a city be stirred about such a petty, private trouble as this of his?  No; the city was having tribulations of its own.