He was just trying to hear imaginary pistol-shots down toward the Place d'Armes, when the apothecary returned.
"D' you fin' him ?" "I found Sylvestre." "'E took de lett' ?" "I did not offer it." Frowenfeld, in a few compact sentences, told his adventure.
Raoul was ablaze with indignation.
"'Sieur Frowenfel', gimmy dat lett'!" He extended his pretty hand.
Frowenfeld pondered.
"Gimmy 'er!" persisted the artist; "befo' I lose de sight from dat lett' she goin' to be hanswer by Sylvestre Grandissime, an' 'e goin' to wrat you one appo-logie! Oh! I goin' mek 'im crah fo' shem!" "If I could know you would do only as I--" "I do it!" cried Raoul, and sprang for his hat; and in the end Frowenfeld let him have his way.
"I had intended seeing him--" the apothecary said.
"Nevvamine to see; I goin' tell him!" cried Raoul, as he crowded his hat fiercely down over his curls and plunged out..