“Private!  Eh?  No such thing, sir!  Professor Frowenfeld, allow me” (a classic oath) “to say to your face, sir, that you are the most brilliant and the most valuable man—­of your years—­in afflicted Louisiana!  Ha!” (reading:) “’Morning observation; Cathedral clock, 7 A.M.  Thermometer 70 degrees.’  Ha!  ’Hygrometer l5’—­but this is not to-day’s weather?  Ah! no.  Ha!  ‘Barometer 30.380.’  Ha!  ‘Sky cloudy, dark; wind, south, light.’  Ha!  ‘River rising.’  Ha!  Professor Frowenfeld, when will you give your splendid services to your section?  You must tell me, my son, for I ask you, my son, not from curiosity, but out of impatient interest.”

“I cannot say that I shall ever publish my tables,” replied the “son,” pulling at the book.

“Then, sir, in the name of Louisiana,” thundered the old man, clinging to the book, “I can!  They shall be published!  Ah! yes, dear Frowenfeld.  The book, of course, will be in French, eh?  You would not so affront the most sacred prejudices of the noble people to whom you owe everything as to publish it in English?  You—­ah! have we torn it?”

“I do not write French,” said the apothecary, laying the torn edges together.

“Professor Frowenfeld, men are born for each other.  What do I behold before me?  I behold before me, in the person of my gifted young friend, a supplement to myself!  Why has Nature strengthened the soul of Agricola to hold the crumbling fortress of this body until these eyes—­which were once, my dear boy, as proud and piercing as the battle-steed’s—­have become dim?”

Joseph’s insurmountable respect for gray hairs kept him standing, but he did not respond with any conjecture as to Nature’s intentions, and there was a stern silence.

The crumbling fortress resumed, his voice pitched low like the beginning of the long roll.  He knew Nature’s design.

“It was in order that you, Professor Frowenfeld, might become my vicar!  Your book shall be in French!  We must give it a wide scope!  It shall contain valuable geographical, topographical, biographical, and historical notes.  It shall contain complete lists of all the officials in the province (I don’t say territory, I say province) with their salaries and perquisites; ah! we will expose that!  And—­ha!  I will write some political essays for it.  Raoul shall illustrate it.  Honore shall give you money to publish it.  Ah!  Professor Frowenfeld, the star of your fame is rising out of the waves of oblivion!  Come—­I dropped in purposely to ask you—­come across the street and take a glass of taffia with Agricola Fusilier.”

This crowning honor the apothecary was insane enough to decline, and Agricola went away with many professions of endearment, but secretly offended because Joseph had not asked about his wound.

All the same the apothecary, without loss of time, departed for the yellow-washed cottage, Number 19 rue Bienville.

“To-morrow, at four P.M.,” he said to himself, “if the weather is favorable, I ride with M. Grandissime.”