The selling of these things, or rather the collecting of them,
was the pleasure as well as the business of Monsieur Bienvenu, and he had
stored in his mind as many legends of the old town as he had stored
treasures in his low-browed, musky-smelling shop. Angela spent her
mornings listening to his tales of slave-days, and always she bought
something before she bade him _au revoir_, in the Parisian French which
enchanted the old man.
"You light up my place, madame," he said; and insisted, with graceful
gestures, that she should not pay for her collection of old miniatures,
necklaces, gilded crystal bottles, illuminated books and ivory crucifixes,
until the day fixed for her departure.
"Once you pay, madame, you may not come again," he smiled. "I am
superstitious. I will not take your money till the last moment."
On the third day, however, Angela decided that she must go. Her father's
country called, with a voice she could hear above the music of the
Southern town, the laughter of the pretty French girls and the chatter of
black and brown babies who babbled a language which was neither French,
Spanish, nor English, but a mixture of all. She bought more things of
Monsieur Bienvenu, and also in other curiosity shops which she dared not
mention to him, since his one failing was a bitter jealousy of rivals.
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