“Who, for instance?” asked Aurora.

“I should say, without hesitation, Professor Frowenfeld, the apothecary.  You know his trouble of yesterday is quite cleared up.  You had not heard?  Yes.  He is not what we call an enterprising man, but—­so much the better.  Take him all in all, I would choose him above all others; if you—­”

Aurora interrupted him.  There was an ill-concealed wildness in her eye and a slight tremor in her voice, as she spoke, which she had not expected to betray.  The quick, though quiet eye of Honore Grandissime saw it, and it thrilled him through.

“’Sieur Grandissime, I take the risk; I wish you to take care of my money.”

“But, Maman,” said Clotilde, turning with a timid look to her mother, “If Monsieur Grandissime would rather not—­”

Aurora, feeling alarmed at what she had said, rose up.  Clotilde and Honore did the same, and he said: 

“With Professor Frowenfeld in charge of your affairs, I shall feel them not entirely removed from my care also.  We are very good friends.”

Clotilde looked at her mother.  The three exchanged glances.  The ladies signified their assent and turned to go, but M. Grandissime stopped them.

“By your leave, I will send for him.  If you will be seated again—­”

They thanked him and resumed their seats; he excused himself, passed into the counting-room, and sent a messenger for the apothecary.

M. Grandissime’s meeting with his kinsmen was a stormy one.  Aurora and Clotilde heard the strife begin, increase, subside, rise again and decrease.  They heard men stride heavily to and fro, they heard hands smite together, palms fall upon tables and fists upon desks, heard half-understood statement and unintelligible counter-statement and derisive laughter; and, in the midst of all, like the voice of a man who rules himself, the clear-noted, unimpassioned speech of Honore, sounding so loftily beautiful in the ear of Aurora that when Clotilde looked at her, sitting motionless with her rapt eyes lifted up, those eyes came down to her own with a sparkle of enthusiasm, and she softly said: 

“It sounds like St. Gabriel!” and then blushed.

Clotilde answered with a happy, meaning look, which intensified the blush, and then leaning affectionately forward and holding the maman’s eyes with her own, she said: 

“You have my consent.”

“Saucy!” said Aurora.  “Wait till I get my own.”

Some of his kinsmen Honore pacified; some he silenced.  He invited all to withdraw their lands and moneys from his charge, and some accepted the invitation.  They spurned his parting advice to sell, and the policy they then adopted, and never afterward modified, was that “all or nothing” attitude which, as years rolled by, bled them to penury in those famous cupping-leeching-and-bleeding establishments, the courts of Louisiana.  You may see their grandchildren, to-day, anywhere within the angle of the old rues Esplanade and Rampart, holding up their heads in unspeakable poverty, their nobility kept green by unflinching self-respect, and their poetic and pathetic pride revelling in ancestral, perennial rebellion against common sense.