As I was in my fat neighbor's sick chamber one evening, giving his nurse a
respite, word came that Fontenette was at my gate. I went to him with
misgivings that only increased as we greeted. He was dejected and
agitated. His grasp was damp and cold.
"It cou'n' stay from me always," he said in an anguished voice, and I
cried in my soul, "She's told him!"
But she had not. I asked him what his bad news was that had come at last,
but his only reply was,
"Can you take _him_? Can you take him out of my house--to-night--this
evening--now?"
"Who, the Baron? Why, certainly, if you desire it?" I responded; wondering
if the entomologist, by some slip, had betrayed _her_. There was an awe in
my visitor's eyes that was almost fright.
"Fontenette," I exclaimed, "what have you heard--what have you done?"
"My frien', 'tis not what I 'ave heard, neitheh what I 'ave done; 'tis
what I 'ave got."
"Got? Why, you've got nothing, you Creole of the Creoles. Your skin's as
cool as mine."
"Feel my pulse," he said. I felt it. It wasn't less than a hundred and
fifty.
"Go, get into bed while I bring the Baron over here," I said, and by the
time I had done this and got back to him his skin was hot enough! An hour
or two after, I recrossed the street on the way to my night's rest,
leaving his wife to nurse him, and Senda to attend on her and keep house.
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