CHAPTER XXX
PARALYSIS
As we have said, the story of Bras-Coupe was told that day three times:to the Grandissime beauties once, to Frowenfeld twice. The fairGrandissimes all agreed, at the close; that it was pitiful. Specially,that it was a great pity to have hamstrung Bras-Coupe, a man who even inhis cursing had made an exception in favor of the ladies. True, theycould suggest no alternative; it was undeniable that he had deserved hisfate; still, it seemed a pity. They dispersed, retired and went to sleepconfirmed in this sentiment. In Frowenfeld the story stirreddeeper feelings.
On this same day, while it was still early morning, Honore Grandissime,f.m.c., with more than even his wonted slowness of step and propriety ofrich attire, had reappeared in the shop of the rue Royale. He did notneed to say he desired another private interview. Frowenfeld ushered himsilently and at once into his rear room, offered him a chair (which heaccepted), and sat down before him.
In his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge that Frowenfeld hadbeen three times to the dwelling of Palmyre Philosophe. Why, he furtherintimated, he knew not, nor would he ask; but _he_--when _he_ hadapplied for admission--had been refused. He had laid open his heart tothe apothecary's eyes--"It may have been unwisely--"
Frowenfeld interrupted him; Palmyre had been ill for several days;Doctor Keene--who, Mr. Grandissime probably knew, was her physician--
The landlord bowed, and Frowenfeld went on to explain that Doctor Keene,while attending her, had also fallen sick and had asked him to take thecare of this one case until he could himself resume it. So there, in aword, was the reason why Joseph had, and others had not, been admittedto her presence.
As obviously to the apothecary's eyes as anything intangible could be, aload of suffering was lifted from the quadroon's mind, as thisexplanation was concluded. Yet he only sat in meditation before histenant, who regarded him long and sadly. Then, seized with one of hisenergetic impulses, he suddenly said:
"Mr. Grandissime, you are a man of intelligence, accomplishments,leisure and wealth; why" (clenchings his fists and frowning),"why do you not give yourself--yourtime--wealth--attainments--energies--everything--to the cause of thedowntrodden race with which this community's scorn unjustly compels youto rank yourself?"
The quadroon did not meet Frowenfeld's kindled eyes for a moment, andwhen he did, it was slowly and dejectedly.
"He canno' be," he said, and then, seeing his words were not understood,he added: "He 'ave no Cause. Dad peop' 'ave no Cause." He went on fromthis with many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to tell, witha plaintiveness that seemed to Frowenfeld almost unmanly, the reasonswhy the people, a little of whose blood had been enough to blast hislife, would never be free by the force of their own arm. Reduced to themeanings which he vainly tried to convey in words, his statement wasthis: that that people was not a people. Their cause--was in Africa.They upheld it there--they lost it there--and to those that are here thestruggle was over; they were, one and all, prisoners of war.
"You speak of them in the third person," said Frowenfeld.
"Ah ham nod a slev."
"Are you certain of that?" asked the tenant.
His landlord looked at him.
"It seems to me," said Frowenfeld, "that you--your class--the freequadroons--are the saddest slaves of all. Your men, for a littleproperty, and your women, for a little amorous attention, let themselvesbe shorn even of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of shamfreedom have consented to endure a tyrannous contumely which flattensthem into the dirt like grass under a slab. I would rather be a runawayin the swamps than content myself with such a freedom. As your classstands before the world to-day--free in form but slaves in spirit--youare--I do not know but I was almost ready to say--a warning tophilanthropists!"
The free man of color slowly arose.
"I trust you know," said Frowenfeld, "that I say nothing in offence."
"Havery word is tru'," replied the sad man.
"Mr. Grandissime," said the apothecary, as his landlord sank back againinto his seat, "I know you are a broken-hearted man."
The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up.
"And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially fitted for a work ofpatient and sustained self-sacrifice. You have only those things to losewhich grief has taught you to despise--ease, money, display. Giveyourself to your people--to those, I mean, who groan, or should groan,under the degraded lot which is theirs and yours in common."
The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment's silence, answered:
"Ah cannod be one Toussaint l'Ouverture. Ah cannod trah to be. Hiv Itrah, I h-only s'all soogceed to be one Bras-Coupe."
"You entirely misunderstand me," said Frowenfeld in quick response. "Ihave no stronger disbelief than my disbelief in insurrection. I believethat to every desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife andthe way of peace. I can imagine a man in your place, going about amonghis people, stirring up their minds to a noble discontent, laying outhis means, sparingly here and bountifully there, as in each case mightseem wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, theirtraining in skilled work; going, too, among the men of the proudercaste, among such as have a spirit of fairness, and seeking to prevailwith them for a public recognition of the rights of all; using all hiscunning to show them the double damage of all oppression, both great andpetty--"
The quadroon motioned "enough." There was a heat in his eyes whichFrowenfeld had never seen before.
"M'sieu'," he said, "waid till Agricola Fusilier ees keel."
"Do you mean 'dies'?"
"No," insisted the quadroon; "listen." And with slow, painstaking phrasethis man of strong feeling and feeble will (the trait of his caste)told--as Frowenfeld felt he would do the moment he said "listen"--suchpart of the story of Bras-Coupe as showed how he came by his deadlyhatred of Agricola.
"Tale me," said the landlord, as he concluded the recital, "w'y deenBras Coupe mague dad curze on Agricola Fusilier? Becoze Agricola ees onesorcier! Elz 'e bin dade sinz long tamm."
The speaker's gestures seemed to imply that his own hand, if need be,would have brought the event to pass.
As he rose to say adieu, Frowenfeld, without previous intention, laid ahand upon his visitor's arm.
"Is there no one who can make peace between you?"
The landlord shook his head.
"'Tis impossib'. We don' wand."
"I mean," insisted Frowenfeld, "Is there no man who can stand betweenyou and those who wrong you, and effect a peaceful reparation?"
The landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his tenant speaking, buteach knowing that the one man in the minds of both, as a possiblepeacemaker, was Honore Grandissime.
"Should the opportunity offer," continued Joseph, "may I speak a wordfor you myself?"
The quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely though bitterly, anddeparted repeating again:
"'Tis impossib'. We don' wand."
"Palsied," murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully,--"likeall of them."
Frowenfeld's thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day havingpassed, the hour was approaching wherein Innerarity was exhorted to tellhis good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Grandissimemansion. As the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, thefairer Honore called him out into the moonlight.
"Withered," the student was saying audibly to himself, "not in theshadow of the Ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man."
"Who is withered?" pleasantly demanded Honore. The apothecary startedslightly.
"Did I speak? How do you do, sir? I meant the free quadroons."
"Including the gentleman from whom you rent your store?"
"Yes, him especially; he told me this morning the story of Bras-Coupe."
M. Grandissime laughed. Joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh soundentirely genuine.
"Do not open the door, Mr Frowenfeld," said the Creole, "Get yourgreatcoat and cane
and come take a walk with me; I will tell you thesame story."
It was two hours before they approached this door again on their return.Just before they reached it, Honore stopped under the huge street-lamp,whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on theground in the narrow, moonlit street. There was a tall, unfinishedbuilding at his back.
"Mr Frowenfeld,"--he struck the stone with his cane,--"this stone isBras-Coupe--we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools."
He laughed. He had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a manof Frowenfeld's quiet mind.
As the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hearhis companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it couldbe--for M. Grandissime had not disclosed it--that induced such a man ashe to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chilland dangerous hours. "What does he want with me?" The thought was sonatural that it was no miracle the Creole read it.
"Well," said he, smiling and taking an attitude, "you are a great manfor causes, Mr. Frowenfeld; but me, I am for results, ha, ha! You mayponder the philosophy of Bras-Coupe in your study, but _I_ have got toget rid of his results, me. You know them."
"You tell me it revived a war where you had made a peace," saidFrowenfeld.
"Yes--yes--that is his results; but good night, Mr. Frowenfeld."
"Good night, sir."
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