"Palsied," murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, regretfully,--"like all of them."
Frowenfeld's thoughts were still on the same theme when, the day having passed, the hour was approaching wherein Innerarity was exhorted to tell his good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Grandissime mansion. As the apothecary was closing his last door for the night, the fairer Honoré called him out into the moonlight.
"Withered," the student was saying audibly to himself, "not in the shadow of the Ethiopian, but in the glare of the white man."
"Who is withered?" pleasantly demanded Honoré. The apothecary started slightly.
"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-Coupé."
M. Grandissime laughed. Joseph did not see why, nor did the laugh sound entirely genuine.
"Do not open the door, Mr Frowenfeld," said the Creole, "Get your greatcoat and cane and come take a walk with me; I will tell you the same story."
It was two hours before they approached this door again on their return. Just before they reached it, Honoré stopped under the huge street-lamp, whose light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him on the ground in the narrow, moonlit street. There was a tall, unfinished building at his back.