“Well,—­ce’t’nly ‘e did!  Di’n’ ’e gave dat money to Aurora De Grapion?—­one ‘undred five t’ousan’ dolla’?  Jis’ as if to say, ’Yeh’s de money my h-uncle stole from you’ ‘usban’.’  Hah! w’en I will swear on a stack of Bible’ as ‘igh as yo’ head, dat Agricole win dat ’abitation fair!—­If I see it?  No, sir; I don’t ’ave to see it!  I’ll swear to it!  Hah!”

“And have she and her daughter actually got the money?”

“She—­an’—­heh—­
;daughtah—­ac—­shilly—­got-’at-money-sir!  W’at?  Dey livin’ in de rue Royale in mag-niffycen’ style on top de drug-sto’ of Proffis-or Frowenfel’.”

“But how, over Frowenfeld’s, when Frowenfeld’s is a one-story—­”

“My dear frien’!  Proffis-or Frowenfel’ is moove! You rickleck dat big new t’ree-story buildin’ w’at jus’ finished in de rue Royale, a lill mo’ farther up town from his old shop?  Well, we open dare a big sto’! An’ listen!  You think Honore di’n’ bitrayed’ ‘is family?  Madame Nancanou an’ heh daughtah livin’ upstair an’ rissy-ving de finess soci’ty in de Province!—­an’ me?—­downstair’ meckin’ pill!  You call dat justice?”

But Doctor Keene, without waiting for this question, had asked one: 

“Does Frowenfeld board with them?”

“Psh-sh-sh!  Board!  Dey woon board de Marquis of Casa Calvo!  I don’t b’lieve dey would board Honore Grandissime!  All de king’ an’ queen’ in de worl’ couldn’ board dare!  No, sir!—­’Owever, you know, I think dey are splendid ladies.  Me an’ my wife, we know them well.  An’ Honore—­I think my cousin Honore’s a splendid gen’leman, too.”  After a moment’s pause he resumed, with a happy sigh, “Well, I don’ care, I’m married.  A man w’at’s married, ‘e don’ care.

“But I di’n’ t’ink Honore could ever do lak dat odder t’ing.”

“Do he and Joe Frowenfeld visit there?”

“Doctah Keene,” demanded Raoul, ignoring the question, “I hask you now, plain, don’ you find dat mighty disgressful to do dat way, lak Honore?”

“What way?”

“W’at?  You dunno?  You don’ yeh ’ow ‘e gone partner’ wid a nigga?”

“What do you mean?”

Doctor Keene drew the handkerchief off his face and half lifted his feeble head.

“Yesseh! ‘e gone partner’ wid dat quadroon w’at call ’imself Honore Grandissime, seh!”

The doctor dropped his head again and laid the handkerchief back on his face.

“What do the family say to that?”

“But w’at can dey say?  It save dem from ruin!  At de sem time, me, I think it is a disgress.  Not dat he h-use de money, but it is dat name w’at ’e give de h-establishmen’—­Grandissime Freres!  H-only for ’is money we would ‘ave catch’ dat quadroon gen’leman an’ put some tar and fedder.  Grandissime Freres!  Agricole don’ spik to my cousin Honore no mo’.  But I t’ink dass wrong.  W’at you t’ink, Doctah?”

That evening, at candle-light, Raoul got the right arm of his slender, laughing wife about his neck; but Doctor Keene tarried all night in suburb St. Jean.  He hardly felt the moral courage to face the results of the last five months.  Let us understand them better ourselves.