. I
was about to do that when I got your note; yet it seems a feeble--even
if possible--expedient."

"My friend," said Honore, "leave it to me. I see your whole case, both
what you tell and what you conceal. I guess it with ease. Knowing
Palmyre so well, and knowing (what you do not) that all the voudous in
town think you a sorcerer, I know just what she would drop down and beg
you for--a _ouangan_, ha, ha! You see? Leave it all to me--and your hat
with Palmyre, take a febrifuge and a nap, and await word from me."

"And may I offer you no help in your difficulty?" asked the apothecary,
as the two rose and grasped hands.

"Oh!" said the Creole, with a little shrug, "you may do anything you
can--which will be nothing."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP

Frowenfeld turned away from the closing door, caught his head between
his hands and tried to comprehend the new wildness of the tumult within.
Honore Grandissime avowedly in love with one of them--_which one_?
Doctor Keene visibly in love with one of them--_which one_? And he! What
meant this bounding joy that, like one gorgeous moth among innumerable
bats, flashed to and fro among the wild distresses and dismays swarming
in and out of his distempered imagination? He did not answer the
question; he only knew the confusion in his brain was dreadful. Both
hands could not hold back the throbbing of his temples; the table did
not steady the trembling of his hands; his thoughts went hither and
thither, heedless of his call. Sit down as he might, rise up, pace the
room, stand, lean his forehead against the wall--nothing could quiet the
fearful disorder, until at length he recalled Honore's neglected advice
and resolutely lay down and sought sleep; and, long before he had hoped
to secure it, it came.

In the distant Grandissime mansion, Agricola Fusilier was casting about
for ways and means to rid himself of the heaviest heart that ever had
throbbed in his bosom. He had risen at sunrise from slumber worse than
sleeplessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel of to-morrow
with Sylvestre. He was trying to get the unwonted quaking out of his
hands and the memory of the night's heart-dissolving phantasms from
before his inner vision. To do this he had resort to a very familiar, we
may say time-honored, prescription--rum. He did not use it after the
voudou fashion; the voudous pour it on the ground--Agricola was an
anti-voudou. It finally had its effect