The Grandissimes Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  WAS IT HONORE GRANDISSIME?

  A Creole gentleman, on horseback one morning with some practical objectin view,--drainage, possibly,--had got what he sought,--the evidence ofhis own eyes on certain points,--and now moved quietly across some oldfields toward the town, where more absorbing interests awaited him inthe Rue Toulouse; for this Creole gentleman was a merchant, and becausehe would presently find himself among the appointments and restraints ofthe counting-room, he heartily gave himself up, for the moment, to thesurrounding influences of nature.

  It was late in November; but the air was mild and the grass and foliagegreen and dewy. Wild flowers bloomed plentifully and in all directions;the bushes were hung, and often covered, with vines of sprightly green,sprinkled thickly with smart-looking little worthless berries, whosesparkling complacency the combined contempt of man, beast and birdcould not dim. The call of the field-lark came continually out of thegrass, where now and then could be seen his yellow breast; the orchardoriole was executing his fantasias in every tree; a covey of partridgesran across the path close under the horse's feet, and stopped to lookback almost within reach of the riding-whip; clouds of starlings, intheir odd, irresolute way, rose from the high bulrushes and settledagain, without discernible cause; little wandering companies of sparrowsundulated from hedge to hedge; a great rabbit-hawk sat alone in the topof a lofty pecan-tree; that petted rowdy, the mocking-bird, dropped downinto the path to offer fight to the horse, and, failing in that, flew upagain and drove a crow into ignominious retirement beyond the plain;from a place of flags and reeds a white crane shot upward, turned, andthen, with the slow and stately beat peculiar to her wing, sped awayuntil, against the tallest cypress of the distant forest, she became atiny white speck on its black, and suddenly disappeared, like oneflake of snow.

  The scene was altogether such as to fill any hearty soul with impulsesof genial friendliness and gentle candor; such a scene as will sometimesprepare a man of the world, upon the least direct incentive, to throwopen the windows of his private thought with a freedom which theatmosphere of no counting-room or drawing-room tends to induce.

  The young merchant--he was young--felt this. Moreover, the matter ofbusiness which had brought him out had responded to his inquiring eyewith a somewhat golden radiance; and your true man of business--he whohas reached that elevated pitch of serene, good-natured reserve which isof the high art of his calling--is never so generous with hispennyworths of thought as when newly in possession of some little secretworth many pounds.

  By and by the behavior of the horse indicated the near presence of astranger; and the next moment the rider drew rein under an immenselive-oak where there was a bit of paling about some graves, andraised his hat.

  "Good-morning, sir." But for the silent r's, his pronunciation wasexact, yet evidently an acquired one. While he spoke his salutation inEnglish, he was thinking in French: "Without doubt, this ratheroversized, bareheaded, interrupted-looking convalescent who standsbefore me, wondering how I should know in what language to address him,is Joseph Frowenfeld, of whom Doctor Keene has had so much to say to me.A good face--unsophisticated, but intelligent, mettlesome and honest. Hewill make his mark; it will probably be a white one; I will subscribe tothe adventure.

  "You will excuse me, sir?" he asked after a pause, dismounting, andnoticing, as he did so, that Frowenfeld's knees showed recent contactwith the turf; "I have, myself, some interest in two of these graves,sir, as I suppose--you will pardon my freedom--you have in theother four."

  He approached the old but newly whitened paling, which encircled thetree's trunk as well as the six graves about it. There was in his faceand manner a sort of impersonal human kindness, well calculated toengage a diffident and sensitive stranger, standing in dread ofgratuitous benevolence or pity.

  "Yes, sir," said the convalescent, and ceased; but the other leanedagainst the palings in an attitude of attention, and he felt induced toadd: "I have buried here my father, mother, and two sisters,"--he hadexpected to continue in an unemotional tone; but a deep respirationusurped the place of speech. He stooped quickly to pick up his hat, and,as he rose again and looked into his listener's face, the respectful,unobtrusive sympathy there expressed went directly to his heart.

  "Victims of the fever," said the Creole with great gravity. "How didthat happen?"

  As Frowenfeld, after a moment's hesitation, began to speak, the strangerlet go the bridle of his horse and sat down upon the turf. Josephappreciated the courtesy and sat down, too; and thus the ice was broken.

  The immigrant told his story; he was young--often younger than hisyears--and his listener several years his senior; but the Creole, trueto his blood, was able at any time to make himself as young as need be,and possessed the rare magic of drawing one's confidence without seemingto do more than merely pay attention. It followed that the story wastold in full detail, including grateful acknowledgment of the goodnessof an unknown friend, who had granted this burial-place on conditionthat he should not be sought out for the purpose of thanking him.

  So a considerable time passed by, in which acquaintance grew withdelightful rapidity.

  "What will you do now?" asked the stranger, when a short silence hadfollowed the conclusion of the story.

  "I hardly know. I am taken somewhat by surprise. I have not chosen adefinite course in life--as yet. I have been a general student, but havenot prepared myself for any profession; I am not sure what I shall be."

  A certain energy in the immigrant's face half redeemed this childlikespeech. Yet the Creole's lips, as he opened them to reply, betrayedamusement; so he hastened to say:

  "I appreciate your position, Mr. Frowenfeld,--excuse me, I believe yousaid that was your father's name. And yet,"--the shadow of an amusedsmile lurked another instant about a corner of his mouth,--"if you wouldunderstand me kindly I would say, take care--"

  What little blood the convalescent had rushed violently to his face, andthe Creole added:

  "I do not insinuate you would willingly be idle. I think I know what youwant. You want to make up your mind _now_ what you will _do_, and atyour leisure what you will _be_; eh? To be, it seems to me," he said insumming up,--"that to be is not so necessary as to do, eh? or amI wrong?"

  "No, sir," replied Joseph, still red, "I was feeling that just now. Iwill do the first thing that offers; I can dig."

  The Creole shrugged and pouted.

  "And be called a _dos brile_--a 'burnt-back.'"

  "But"--began the immigrant, with overmuch warmth.

  The other interrupted him, shaking his head slowly and smiling as hespoke.

  "Mr. Frowenfeld, it is of no use to talk; you may hold in contempt theCreole scorn of toil--just as I do, myself, but in theory, my-de'-seh,not too much in practice. You cannot afford to be _entirely_ differentfrom the community in which you live; is that not so?"

  "A friend of mine," said Frowenfeld, "has told me I must 'compromise.'"

  "You must get acclimated," responded the Creole; "not in body only, thatyou have done; but in mind--in taste--in conversation--and inconvictions too, yes, ha, ha! They all do it--all who come. They holdout a little while--a very little; then they open their stores onSunday, they import cargoes of Africans, they bribe the officials, theysmuggle goods, they have colored housekeepers. My-de'-seh, the watermust expect to take the shape of the bucket; eh?"

  "One need not be water!" said the immigrant.

  "Ah!" said the Creole, with another amiable shrug, and a wave of hishand; "certainly you do not suppose that is my advice--that those thingshave my approval."

  Must we repeat already that Frowenfeld was abnormally young? "Why havethey not your condemnation?" cried he with an earnestness that made theCreole's horse drop the grass from his teeth and wheel half around.

  The answer came slowly and gently.

  "Mr. Frowenfeld, my habit is to buy cheap and sell at a profit. Mycondemnation? My-de'-seh, there is no sa-a-ale for it! it spoils thesale of other goods my-de'-
seh. It is not to condemn that you want; youwant to suc-_ceed_. Ha, ha, ha! you see I am a merchant, eh? My-de'-seh,can _you_ afford not to succeed?"

  The speaker had grown very much in earnest in the course of these fewwords, and as he asked the closing question, arose, arranged his horse'sbridle and, with his elbow in the saddle, leaned his handsome head onhis equally beautiful hand. His whole appearance was a dazzlingcontradiction of the notion that a Creole is a person of mixed blood.

  "I think I can!" replied the convalescent, with much spirit, rising withmore haste than was good, and staggering a moment.

  The horseman laughed outright.

  "Your principle is the best, I cannot dispute that; but whether you canact it out--reformers do not make money, you know." He examined hissaddle-girth and began to tighten it. "One can condemn--toocautiously--by a kind of--elevated cowardice (I have that fault); butone can also condemn too rashly; I remember when I did so. One of theoccupants of those two graves you see yonder side by side--I think mighthave lived longer if I had not spoken so rashly for his rights. Did youever hear of Bras-Coupe, Mr. Frowenfeld?"

  "I have heard only the name."

  "Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld, _there_ was a bold man's chance to denounce wrongand oppression! Why, that negro's death changed the whole channel of myconvictions."

  The speaker had turned and thrown up his arm with frowning earnestness;he dropped it and smiled at himself.

  "Do not mistake me for one of your new-fashioned Philadelphia'_negrophiles_'; I am a merchant, my-de'-seh, a good subject of HisCatholic Majesty, a Creole of the Creoles, and so forth, and soforth. Come!"

  He slapped the saddle.

  To have seen and heard them a little later as they moved toward thecity, the Creole walking before the horse, and Frowenfeld sitting in thesaddle, you might have supposed them old acquaintances. Yet theimmigrant was wondering who his companion might be. He had notintroduced himself--seemed to think that even an immigrant might knowhis name without asking. Was it Honore Grandissime? Joseph was temptedto guess so; but the initials inscribed on the silver-mounted pommel ofthe fine old Spanish saddle did not bear out that conjecture.

  The stranger talked freely. The sun's rays seemed to set all thesweetness in him a-working, and his pleasant worldly wisdom foamed upand out like fermenting honey.

  By and by the way led through a broad, grassy lane where the path turnedalternately to right and left among some wild acacias. The Creole wavedhis hand toward one of them and said:

  "Now, Mr. Frowenfeld, you see? one man walks where he sees another'strack; that is what makes a path; but you want a man, instead of passingaround this prickly bush, to lay hold of it with his naked hands andpull it up by the roots."

  "But a man armed with the truth is far from being barehanded," repliedthe convalescent, and they went on, more and more interested at everystep,--one in this very raw imported material for an excellent man, theother in so striking an exponent of a unique land and people.

  They came at length to the crossing of two streets, and the Creole,pausing in his speech, laid his hand upon the bridle.

  Frowenfeld dismounted.

  "Do we part here?" asked the Creole. "Well, Mr. Frowenfeld, I hope tomeet you soon again."

  "Indeed, I thank you, sir," said Joseph, "and I hope we shall,although--"

  The Creole paused with a foot in the stirrup and interrupted him with aplayful gesture; then as the horse stirred, he mounted and drew inthe rein.

  "I know; you want to say you cannot accept my philosophy and I cannotappreciate yours; but I appreciate it more than you think, my-de'-seh."

  The convalescent's smile showed much fatigue.

  The Creole extended his hand; the immigrant seized it, wished to ask hisname, but did not; and the next moment he was gone.

  The convalescent walked meditatively toward his quarters, with a faintfeeling of having been found asleep on duty and awakened by a passingstranger. It was an unpleasant feeling, and he caught himself more thanonce shaking his head. He stopped, at length, and looked back; but theCreole was long since out of sight. The mortified self-accuser littleknew how very similar a feeling that vanished person was carrying awaywith him. He turned and resumed his walk, wondering who Monsieur mightbe, and a little impatient with himself that he had not asked.

  "It is Honore Grandissime; it must be he!" he said.

  Yet see how soon he felt obliged to change his mind.