“The Cession is a mere temporary political manoeuvre!” growled M. Fusilier.

Frowenfeld’s merchant friend came from his place of waiting, and spoke twice before he attracted the attention of the bewildered apothecary.

“Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I have been told that—­”

Joseph gazed after the two ladies crossing the street, and felt uncomfortable that the group of gossips did the same.  So did the black attendant who glanced furtively back.

“Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld; I—­”

“Oh! how do you do, sir?” exclaimed the apothecary, with great pleasantness, of face.  It seemed the most natural thing that they should resume their late conversation just where they had left off, and that would certainly be pleasant.  But the man of more experience showed an unresponsive expression, that was as if he remembered no conversation of any note.

“I have been told that you might be able to replace the glass in this thing out of your private stock.”

He presented a small, leather-covered case, evidently containing some optical instrument.  “It will give me a pretext for going,” he had said to himself, as he put it into his pocket in his counting-room.  He was not going to let the apothecary know he had taken such a fancy to him.

“I do not know,” replied Frowenfeld, as he touched the spring of the case; “I will see what I have.”

He passed into the back room, more than willing to get out of sight till he might better collect himself.

“I do not keep these things for sale,” said he as he went.

“Sir?” asked the Creole, as if he had not understood, and followed through the open door.

“Is this what that lady was getting?” he asked, touching the remnant of the basil in the box.

“Yes, sir,” said the apothecary, with his face in the drawer of a table.

“They had no carriage with them.”  The Creole spoke with his back turned, at the same time running his eyes along a shelf of books.  Frowenfeld made only the sound of rejecting bits of crystal and taking up others.  “I do not know who they are,” ventured the merchant.

Joseph still gave no answer, but a moment after approached, with the instrument in his extended hand.

“You had it?  I am glad,” said the owner, receiving it, but keeping one hand still on the books.

Frowenfeld put up his materials.

“Mr. Frowenfeld, are these your books?  I mean do you use these books?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Creole stepped back to the door.

“Agricola!”

“Quoi!”

“Vien ici.”

Citizen Fusilier entered, followed by a small volley of retorts from those with whom he had been disputing, and who rose as he did.  The stranger said something very sprightly in French, running the back of one finger down the rank of books, and a lively dialogue followed.

“You must be a great scholar,” said the unknown by and by, addressing the apothecary.