CHAPTER XXXI
ANOTHER WOUND IN A NEW PLACE
Each day found Doctor Keene's strength increasing, and on the morningfollowing the incidents last recorded he was imprudently projecting anoutdoor promenade. An announcement from Honore Grandissime, who hadpaid an early call, had, to that gentleman's no small surprise, produceda sudden and violent effect on the little man's temper.
He was sitting alone by his window, looking out upon the levee, when theapothecary entered the apartment.
"Frowenfeld," he instantly began, with evident displeasure mostunaccountable to Joseph, "I hear you have been visiting the Nancanous."
"Yes, I have been there."
"Well, you had no business to go!"
Doctor Keene smote the arm of his chair with his fist.
Frowenfeld reddened with indignation, but suppressed his retort. Hestood still in the middle of the floor, and Doctor Keene looked out ofthe window.
"Doctor Keene," said the visitor, when his attitude was no longertolerable, "have you anything more to say to me before I leave you?"
"No, sir."
"It is necessary for me, then, to say that in fulfilment of my promise,I am going from here to the house of Palmyre, and that she will need nofurther attention after to-day. As to your present manner toward me, Ishall endeavor to suspend judgment until I have some knowledge ofits cause."
The doctor made no reply, but went on looking out of the window, andFrowenfeld turned and left him.
As he arrived in the philosophe's sick-chamber--where he found hersitting in a chair set well back from a small fire--she half-whispered"Miche" with a fine, greeting smile, as if to a brother after a week'sabsence. To a person forced to lie abed, shut away from occupation andevents, a day is ten, three are a month: not merely in the wear and tearupon the patience, but also in the amount of thinking and recollectingdone. It was to be expected, then, that on this, the apothecary's fourthvisit, Palmyre would have learned to take pleasure in his coming.
But the smile was followed by a faint, momentary frown, as if Frowenfeldhad hardly returned it in kind. Likely enough, he had not. He was notdistinctively a man of smiles; and as he engaged in his appointed taskshe presently thought of this.
"This wound is doing so well," said Joseph, still engaged with thebandages, "that I shall not need to come again." He was not looking ather as he spoke, but he felt her give a sudden start. "What is this?" hethought, but presently said very quietly: "With the assistance of yourslave woman, you can now attend to it yourself."
She made no answer.
When, with a bow, he would have bade her good morning, she held out herhand for his. After a barely perceptible hesitation, he gave it,whereupon she held it fast, in a way to indicate that there wassomething to be said which he must stay and hear.
She looked up into his face. She may have been merely framing in hermind the word or two of English she was about to utter; but anexcitement shone through her eyes and reddened her lips, and somethingsent out from her countenance a look of wild distress.
"You goin' tell 'im?" she asked.
"Who? Agricola?"
"_Non_!"
He spoke the next name more softly.
"Honore?"
Her eyes looked deeply into his for a moment, then dropped, and she madea sign of assent.
He was about to say that Honore knew already, but saw no necessity fordoing so, and changed his answer.
"I will never tell any one."
"You know?" she asked, lifting her eyes for an instant. She meant to askif he knew the motive that had prompted her murderous intent.
"I know your whole sad history."
She looked at him for a moment, fixedly; then, still holding his handwith one of hers, she threw the other to her face and turned away herhead. He thought she moaned.
Thus she remained for a few moments, then suddenly she turned, claspedboth hands about his, her face flamed up and she opened her lips tospeak, but speech failed. An expression of pain and supplication cameupon her countenance, and the cry burst from her:
"Meg 'im to love me!"
He tried to withdraw his hand, but she held it fast, and, looking upimploringly with her wide, electric eyes, cried:
"_Vous pouvez le faire, vous pouvez le faire_ (You can do it, you can doit); _vous etes sorcier, mo conne bien vous etes sorcier_ (you are asorcerer, I know)."
However harmless or healthful Joseph's touch might be to the philosophe,he felt now that hers, to him, was poisonous. He dared encounter hereyes, her touch, her voice, no longer. The better man in him wassuffocating. He scarce had power left to liberate his right hand withhis left, to seize his hat and go.
Instantly she rose from her chair, threw herself on her knees in hispath, and found command of his language sufficient to cry as she liftedher arms, bared of their drapery:
"Oh, my God! don' rif-used me--don' rif-used me!"
There was no time to know whether Frowenfeld wavered or not. The thoughtflashed into his mind that in all probability all the care and skill hehad spent upon the wound was being brought to naught in this moment ofwild posturing and excitement; but before it could have effect upon hismovements, a stunning blow fell upon the back of his head, and Palmyre'sslave woman, the Congo dwarf, under the impression that it was the mosttimely of strokes, stood brandishing a billet of pine and preparing torepeat the blow.
He hurled her, snarling and gnashing like an ape, against the fartherwall, cast the bar from the street door and plunged out, hatless,bleeding and stunned.
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