“Suppose I retain Fausse Riviere,” he said to himself, as if he had not said it many times before.

Then he saw memoranda that were not on any paper before him—­such a mortgage to be met on such a date; so much from Fausse Riviere Plantation account retained to protect that mortgage from foreclosure; such another to be met on such a date—­so much more of same account to protect it.  He saw Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, with anguished faces, offering woman’s pleadings to deaf constables.  He saw the remainder of Aurora’s plantation account thrown to the lawyers to keep the question of the Grandissime titles languishing in the courts.  He saw the fortunes of his clan rallied meanwhile and coming to the rescue, himself and kindred growing independent of questionable titles, and even Fausse Riviere Plantation account restored, but Aurora and Clotilde nowhere to be found.  And then he saw the grave, pale face of Joseph Frowenfeld.

He threw himself forward, drew the paper nervously toward him, and stared at the figures.  He began at the first item and went over the whole paper, line by line, testing every extension, proving every addition, noting if possibly any transposition of figures had been made and overlooked, if something was added that should have been subtracted, or subtracted that should have been added.  It was like a prisoner trying the bars of his cell.

Was there no way to make things happen differently?  Had he not overlooked some expedient?  Was not some financial manoeuvre possible which might compass both desired ends?  He left his chair and walked up and down, as Joseph at that very moment was doing in the room where he had left him, came back, looked at the paper, and again walked up and down.  He murmured now and then to himself:  “Self-denial—­that is not the hard work.  Penniless myself—­that is play,” and so on.  He turned by and by and stood looking up at that picture of the man in the cuirass which Aurora had once noticed.  He looked at it, but he did not see it.  He was thinking—­“Her rent is due to-morrow.  She will never believe I am not her landlord.  She will never go to my half-brother.”  He turned once more and mentally beat his breast as he muttered:  “Why do I not decide?”

Somebody touched the doorknob.  Honore stepped forward and opened it.  It was a mortgager.

“Ah! entrez, Monsieur.”

He retained the visitor’s hand, leading him in and talking pleasantly in French until both had found chairs.  The conversation continued in that tongue through such pointless commercial gossip as this: 

“So the brig Equinox is aground at the head of the Passes,” said M. Grandissime.

“I have just heard she is off again.”

“Aha?”

“Yes; the Fort Plaquemine canoe is just up from below.  I understand John McDonough has bought the entire cargo of the schooner Freedom.”

“No, not all; Blanque et Fils bought some twenty boys and women out of the lot.  Where is she lying?”