To Jules St.-Ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at manhooda remembrance of having been to school, and of having been taught by astony-headed Capuchin that the world is round--for example, like acheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules hadnibbled quite into his cheese-world already at twenty-two.
He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning where theintersection of Royal and Conti Streets some seventy years ago formed acentral corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had beenwasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that faithful friendand confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They concluded that,papa's patience and _tante's_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite tothe rind, there were left open only these few easily-enumerated resorts:to go to work--they shuddered; to join Major Innerarity's filibusteringexpedition; or else--why not?--to try some games of confidence. Attwenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing else tempted; couldthat avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and, besides, theywere hungry. If one could "make the friendship" of some person from thecountry, for instance, with money, not expert at cards or dice, but, asone would say, willing to learn, one might find cause to say some "HailMarys."
The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it goodfor luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-growntile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe wallsa rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Up-street, and acrossthe Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in FaubourgSte.-Marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias,tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the wind now and thencame down the narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden with odors ofbroken boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-waterin the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went away tonothing, like a juggler's butterflies or a young man's money.
It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich and poor met together.The locksmith's swinging key creaked next door to the bank; across theway, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of a greatimporting-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken combs.Light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and stores open fortrade this Sunday morning, and pretty Latin faces of the higher classglanced over their savagely-pronged railings upon the passers below. Atsome windows hung lace certains, flannel duds at some, and at othersonly the scraping and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward Parisafter its neglectful master.
M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an hour. Butfew ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out. About the entranceof the frequent _cafes_ the masculine gentility stood leaning on canes,with which now one and now another beckoned to Jules, some even addingpantomimic hints of the social cup.
M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning his head thatsomehow he felt sure he should soon return those _bons_ that the mulattohad lent him.
"What will you do with them?"
"Me!" said Baptiste, quickly; "I will go and see the bull-fight in thePlace Congo."
"There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M. Cayetano?"
"Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead of his circus, theyare to have a bull-fight--not an ordinary bull-fight with sick horses,but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. I would not miss it"--
Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and commenced strikingat something with their canes. Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange andservant, who hasten forward--can the Creoles, Cubans, Spaniards, SanDomingo refugees, and other loungers--can they hope it is a fight? Theyhurry forward. Is a man in a fit? The crowd pours in from theside-streets. Have they killed a so-long snake? Bareheaded shopmen leavetheir wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd huddles and packs. Thoseon the outside make little leaps into the air, trying to be tall.
"What is the matter?"
"Have they caught a real live rat?"
"Who is hurt?" asks some one in English.
"_Personne_," replies a shopkeeper; "a man's hat blow' in the gutter;but he has it now. Jules pick' it. See, that is the man, head andshoulders on top the res'."
"He in the homespun?" asks a second shopkeeper. "Humph! an_Americain_--a West-Floridian; bah!"
"But wait; 'st! he is speaking; listen!"
"To who is he speak----?"
"Sh-sh-sh! to Jules."
"Jules who?"
"Silence, you! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe me a bill since long time.Sh-sh-sh!"
Then the voice was heard.
Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight stoop in hisshoulders, as if he was making a constant, good-natured attempt toaccommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His bones were thoseof an ox. His face was marked more by weather than age, and his narrowbrow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously formed an opinion ofJules St.-Ange, and the multitude of words, most of them lingualcuriosities, with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of hislisteners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name was ParsonJones, the little Creole was a "plum gentleman."
M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to call attention, by bothgesture and speech, to a singular object on top of the still uncoveredhead, when the nervous motion of the _Americain_ anticipated him, as,throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large roll of bank-notes.The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian joining, and began to disperse.
"Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church," said the giant.
"You are very dengerous to make your money expose like that, MistyPosson Jone'," said St.-Ange, counting it with his eyes.
The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise.
"How d'dyou know my name was Jones?" he asked; but, without pausing forthe Creole's answer, furnished in his reckless way some furtherspecimens of West-Floridian English; and the conciseness with which hepresented full intelligence of his home, family, calling, lodging-house,and present and future plans, might have passed for consummate art, hadit not been the most run-wild nature. "And I've done been to Mobile, youknow, on busi_ness_ for Bethesdy Church. It's the on'yest time I everbeen from home; now you wouldn't of believed that, would you? But Iadmire to have saw you, that's so. You've got to come and eat with me.Me and my boy ain't been fed yit. What might one call yo' name? Jools?Come on, Jools. Come on, Colossus. That's my niggah--his name's Colossusof Rhodes. Is that yo' yallah boy, Jools? Fetch him along, Colossus. Itseems like a special provi_dence_.--Jools, do you believe in a specialprovi_dence?_"
Jules said he did.
The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed by Baptiste and ashort, square, old negro, very black and grotesque, who had introducedhimself to the mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as"d'body-sarvant of d'Rev'n' Mr. Jones."
Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jonesdescanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in theperplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always be"a special provi_dence_ again' cotton untell folks quits a-pressin' ofit and haulin' of it on Sundays!"
"_Je dis_," said St.-Ange, in response, "I thing you is juz right. Ibelieve, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my papa hehown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me son,' he say one time tome, 'I goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in NewOrleans.' Well, he take his bez baril sugah--I nevah see a so carefulman like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah _et sirop_. 'Jules,go at Father Pierre an' ged this lill pitcher fill with holy water, an'tell him sen' his tin bucket, and I will make it fill with _quitte_.' Iged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make onecross on the 'ead of the baril."
"Why, Jools," said Parson Jones, "that didn't do no good."
"Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me deadif thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in thecity. _Parce-que_, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistakeof one hundred pound"--falling back--"_Mais_ certainlee!"
"And you think
that was growin' out of the holy-water?" asked theparson.
"_Mais_, what could make it else? Id could not be the _quitte_, becausemy papa keep the bucket, an' forget to sen' the _quitte_ to FatherPierre."
Parson Jones was disappointed.
"Well, now, Jools, you know, I don't think that was right. I reckon youmust be a plum Catholic."
M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith.
"I am a _Catholique, mais_"--brightening as he hoped to recommendhimself anew--"not a good one."
"Well, you know," said Jones--"where's Colossus? Oh! all right. Colossusstrayed off a minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two days. Here'sthe place; come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the kitchen.--Now,Colossus, what _air_ you a-beckonin' at me faw?"
He let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper.
"Oh, go 'way!" said the parson with a jerk. "Who's goin' to throw me?What? Speak louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn't talk so, saw. 'Pon mysoul, you're the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest you go downthat alley-way with this yalla boy, and don't show yo' face untell yo'called!"
The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted.
"Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev to strike you,saw?"
"O Mahs Jimmy, I--I's gwine; but"--he ventured nearer--"don't on noaccount drink nothin', Mahs Jimmy."
Such was the negro's earnestness that he put one foot in the gutter, andfell heavily against his master. The parson threw him off angrily.
"Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin'; yo'plum crazy.--Humph, come on, Jools, let's eat! Humph! to tell me thatwhen I never taken a drop, exceptin' for chills, in my life--which heknows so as well as me!"
The two masters began to ascend a stair.
"_Mais_, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me," said the young Creole.
"No, I wouldn't do that," replied the parson; "though there is people inBethesdy who says he is a rascal. He's a powerful smart fool. Why, thatboy's got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. I'm shore hefallen into mighty bad company"--they passed beyond earshot.
Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed tothe next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where,the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves. There, inthe quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial powers ofColossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to showthemselves.
"For whilst," said he, "Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know--whilst hehas eddication, I has 'scretion. He has eddication and I has 'scretion,an' so we gits along."
He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his lengthupon the damp board, continued:
"As a p'inciple I discredits de imbimin' of awjus liquors. De imbimin'of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin' of de fiddle,and de usin' of by-words, dey is de fo' sins of de conscience; an' ifany man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his forkfo' dat man.--Ain't that so, boss?"
The grocer was sure it was so.
"Neberdeless, mind you"--here the orator brimmed his glass from thebottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye--"mind you, a roytiousman, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a_leetle_ for de weak stomach."
But the fascinations of Colossus's eloquence must not mislead us; thisis the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones.
The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange declaredhe could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market,near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to bebought, and Parson Jones had scruples.
"You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which itdoes so in"--
"Oh, yes!" cried St.-Ange, "conscien'; thad is the bez, Posson Jone'.Certainlee! I am a _Catholique_, you is a _schismatique_; you thing itis wrong to dring some coffee--well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing itis wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price--well, then, it_is_ wrong; I thing it is right--well, then, it is right; it is all'abit; _c'est tout_. What a man thing is right, _is right_; 'tis all'abit. A man muz nod go again' his conscien'. My faith! do you thing Iwould go again' my conscien'? _Mais allons_, led us go and ged somecoffee."
"Jools."
"W'at?"
"Jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the buyin' of it on aSabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it's again' conscience, youknow."
"Ah!" said St.-Ange, "_c'est_ very true. For you it would be a sin,_mais_ for me it is only 'abit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know aman one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening.I thing it is all 'abit. _Mais_, come, Posson Jone'; I have got onefriend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come; Miguelhave no familie; only him and Joe--always like to see friend; _allons_,led us come yonder."
"Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know," said the shamefaced parson, "Inever visit on Sundays."
"Never w'at?" asked the astounded Creole.
"No," said Jones, smiling awkwardly.
"Never visite?"
"Exceptin' sometimes amongst church-members." said Parson Jones.
"_Mais_," said the seductive St.-Ange, "Miguel and Joe ischurch-member'--certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come atMiguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee."
Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up.
"Jools," said the weak giant, "I ought to be in church right now."
"_Mais_, the church is right yonder at Miguel', yes. Ah!" continuedSt.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, "I thing every man muz have therilligion he like' the bez--me, I like the _Catholique_ rilligion thebez--for me it _is_ the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if he likehis rilligion the bez."
"Jools," said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly uponthe Creole's shoulder, as they stepped out upon the _banquette_, "do youthink you have any shore hopes of heaven?"
"Yass!" replied St.-Ange; "I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will go toheaven. I thing you will go, _et_ I thing Miguel will go, _et_Joe--everybody, I thing--_mais_, hof course, not if they not have beenchristen'. Even I thing some niggers will go."
"Jools," said the parson, stopping in his walk--"Jools, I _don't_ wantto lose my niggah."
"Yon will not loose him. With Baptiste he _cannot_ ged loose."
But Colossus's master was not re-assured.
"Now," said he, still tarrying, "this is jest the way; had I of gone tochurch"--
"Posson Jone'," said Jules.
"What?"
"I tell you. We goin' to church!"
"Will you?" asked Jones, joyously.
"_Allons_, come along," said Jules, taking his elbow.
They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by and byturned into a cross street. The parson stopped an instant as they wereturning and looked back up the street.
"W'at you lookin'?" asked his companion.
"I thought I saw Colossus," answered the parson, with an anxious face;"I reckon 'twa'n't him, though." And they went on.
The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any chancepasser would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brickedifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out likea bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps hangingbefore a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honey-combed withgambling-dens. At this morning hour all was still, and the only sign oflife was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its narrowshade, and each carrying an infant relative. Into this place the parsonand M. St.-Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills tolet them pass in.
A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that time the whole juvenilecompany were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gatherwhat they could of an interesting quarrel going on within.
"I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence, saw! It's not so, saw!Mister Jools simply mistaken t
he house, thinkin' it was aSabbath-school! No such thing, saw; I _ain't_ bound to bet! Yes, I kingit out. Yes, without bettin'! I hev a right to my opinion; I reckon I'ma _white man_, saw! No saw! I on'y said I didn't think you could get thegame on them cards. 'Sno such thing, saw! I do _not_ know how to play! Iwouldn't hev a rascal's money ef I should win it! Shoot, ef you dare!You can kill me, but you cayn't scare me! No, I shayn't bet! I'll diefirst! Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I ain't hismostah."
Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange.
"Saw, I don't understand you, saw. I never said I'd loan you money tobet for me. I didn't suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won't take anymore lemonade; it's the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!"
M. St.-Ange's replies were in _falsetto_ and not without effect; forpresently the parson's indignation and anger began to melt. "Don't askme, Jools, I can't help you. It's no use; it's a matter of consciencewith me, Jools."
"_Mais oui!_ 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the same."
"But, Jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, youknow."
"If I could make jus' _one_ bet," said the persuasive St.-Ange, "I wouldleave this place, fas'-fas', yes. If I had thing--_mais_ I did notsoupspicion this from you, Posson Jone'"--
"Don't, Jools, don't!"
"No! Posson Jone'."
"You're bound to win?" said the parson, wavering.
"_Mais certainement!_ But it is not to win that I want;'tis meconscien'--me honor!"
"Well, Jools, I hope I'm not a-doin' no wrong. I'll loan you some ofthis money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' yourwinnin's."
All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he liftedhis hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilderment,then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly athis side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a momentclosed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, atremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The childrenran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange swearing by allhis deceased relatives, first to Miguel and Joe, and then to the liftedparson, that he did not know what had become of the money "except if"the black man had got it.
In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old rampart,a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung up and grownold, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay theCongo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the historic Cayetano, whoSunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus-ring.
But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise.The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made anirretrievable sop of every thing. The circus trailed away its bedraggledmagnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull.
Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. "See," said theSpaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great, white fleetsdrawn off upon the horizon--"see--heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!"
In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gayly-deckedwives and daughters of the Gascons, from the _metaries_ along the Ridge,and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining hairun-bonneted to the sun. Next below were their husbands and lovers inSunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen,Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps,and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, andHolland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, Canadian_voyageurs_, drinking and singing; _Americains_, too--more's theshame--from the upper rivers--who will not keep their seats--who ply thebottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked Sodom is;broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their copper cheeksand bat's eyes and their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder, in that quietersection, are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls--and there isBaptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women, and there is--buthe vanishes--Colossus.
The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, doesnot begin. The _Americains_ grow derisive and find pastime in gibes andraillery They mock the various Latins with their national inflections,and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the more aggressive shoutpretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amidpeals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadroons.The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, as spectators, like thefun, while the Spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upontheir persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick their womenout and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries.
In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: "The bull, thebull!--hush!"
In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling--standing headand shoulders above the rest--callimg in the _Americaine_ tongue.Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole inelegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but theflat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, throughsome shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he has fallen, he isdrunk! Even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildlyand raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it. He ispreaching!
Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The men of his ownnation--men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance cupand song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And now another call forthe appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancienttune of Mear. You can hear the words--
"Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul"
--from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from singerswho toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the chorus swells tothe accompaniment of a thousand brogans--
"He used to wear an old gray coat All buttoned down before."
A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, and the Latins raiseone mighty cry for silence. The big red man gets a hand over theparson's mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his moment.
"They have been endeavoring for hours," he says, "to draw the terribleanimals from their dens, but such is their strength and fierceness,that"--
His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to warrant the inferencethat the beasts cannot be whipped out of the storm-drenched cages towhich menagerie-life and long starvation have attached them, and fromthe roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. The noise increases.Men are standing up by hundreds, and women are imploring to be let outof the turmoil. All at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole masspours down into the ring. They sweep across the arena and over theshowman's barriers. Miguel gets a frightful trampling. Who cares forgates or doors? They tear the beasts' houses bar from bar, and, layinghold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, and tail; andin the midst of the _melee_, still head and shoulders above all, wilder,with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, is the man of God from theFlorida parishes!
In his arms he bore--and all the people shouted at once when they sawit--the tiger. He had lifted it high up with its back to his breast, hisarms clasped under its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled upcaterpillar-wise, with its long tail against its belly, and through itsfiled teeth grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. And Parson Jones wasshouting:
"The tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together! You dah to saythey shayn't and I'll comb you with this varmint from head to foot! Thetiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together. They _shell!_ Now, you,Joe! Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion and the buffler _shell_lay down together!"
Mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way throughthe surge in the wake of the buffalo. This creature the Latins hadsecured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging across the oldrampart and into a street of the city.
The northern races were trying to prevent, and there was pommelling andknocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until Jules St.-Ange was quitecarried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and swore withdelight, a
nd ever kept close to the gallant parson.
Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child's-play an interruption. He hadcome to find Colossus and the money. In an unlucky moment he made boldto lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in thehands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd sweptover him, the lariat was cut and the giant parson hurled the tiger uponthe buffalo's back. In another instant both brutes were dead at thehands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating ofScripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the"buffler's" den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing_Americains_. Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor ofa cell in the _calaboza_.
When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight.Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, thedoor swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray ofmoonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The prisoner sat upon the emptyshackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor.
"Misty Posson Jone'," said the visitor, softly.
"O Jools!"
"_Mais_, w'at de matter, Posson Jone'?"
"My sins, Jools, my sins!"
"Ah! Posson Jone', is that something to cry, because a man get sometimea litt' bit intoxicate? _Mais_, if a man keep _all the time_ intoxicate,I think that is again' the conscien'."
"Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened--oh I Jools, Where's my pore oldniggah?"
"Posson Jone', never min'; he is wid Baptiste."
"Where?"
"I don' know w'ere--_mais_ he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a beautifulto take care of somebody."
"Is he as good as you, Jools?" asked Parson Jones, sincerely.
Jules was slightly staggered.
"You know, Posson Jone', you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w'iteman--_mais_ Baptiste is a good nigger."
The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands.
"I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella schooner.Pore Smyrny!" He deeply sighed.
"Posson Jone'," said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, "Iswear you is the moz funny man I ever see. If I was you I would say, me,'Ah! 'ow I am lucky! the money I los', it was not mine, anyhow!' Myfaith! shall a man make hisse'f to be the more sorry because the moneyhe los' is not his? Me, I would say, 'it is a specious providence.'
"Ah! Misty Posson Jone'," he continued, "you make a so droll sermon adthe bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear I thing you can make money to preach thadsermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe. Hah! you is the moz bravedat I never see, _mais_ ad the same time the moz rilligious man. WhereI'm goin' to fin' one priest to make like dat? _Mais,_ why you can'tcheer up an' be 'appy? Me, if I should be miserabl' like that I wouldkill meself."
The countryman only shook his head.
"_Bien,_ Posson Jone', I have the so good news for you."
The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.
"Las' evening when they lock' you, I come right off at M. De Blanc'shouse to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge.So soon I was entering--'Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make completethe game!' Posson Jone', it was a specious providence! I win in t'reehours more dan six hundred dollah! Look." He produced a mass ofbank-notes, _bons_, and due-bills.
"And you got the pass?" asked the parson, regarding the money with asadness incomprehensible to Jules.
"It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight."
"Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain."
The Creole's face became a perfect blank.
"Because," said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, I hare broken thelaws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly--you must reallyexcuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I'mafeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don'tbecome a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to 'do evilthat good may come.' I muss stay."
M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at thisexhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon."_Mais_, Posson Jone'!"--in his old _falsetto_--"de order--you cannotread it, it is in French--compel you to go hout, sir!"
"Is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face--"is thatso, Jools?"
The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain ofhis tenderness was opened. He made the sign of the cross as the parsonknelt in prayer, and even whispered "Hail Mary," etc., quite through,twice over.
Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city,nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, andknown as Suburb St. Jean.
With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out upon thebank below the village. Upon the parson's arm hung a pair of antiquesaddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes wereencircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the officialimpress of every knuckle of Colossus's left hand. The "beautiful to takecare of somebody" had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he becamewild, and, half in English, half in the "gumbo" dialect, said murderousthings. Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to speakconfidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossushad gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact,he thought so.
There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou'smargin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, theIsabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails fordeparture. Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friendpaused on the bank, loath to say farewell.
"O Jools!" said the parson, "supposin' Colossus ain't gone home! OJools, if you'll look him out for me, I'll never forget you--I'll neverforget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken thatmoney. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal"--he set foot upon thegang-plank--"but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-by."
"Misty Posson Jone,'" said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson'sarm with genuine affection, "hol' on. You see dis money--w'at I win las'night? Well, I win' it by a specious providence, ain't it?"
"There's no tellin'," said the humbled Jones. "Providence
'Moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.'"
"Ah!" cried the Creole, "_c'est_ very true. I ged this money in themysterieuze way. _Mais_, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin' beto-night?"
"I really can't say," replied the parson.
"Goin' to de dev'," said the sweetly-smiling yonng man.
The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste,laughed outright.
"O Jools, you mustn't!"
"Well, den, w'at I shall do wid _it?_"
"Any thing!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some poorman"--
"Ah! Misty Posson Jone', dat is w'at I want. You los' five hondreddollar'--'twas me fault."
"No, it wa'n't, Jools."
"_Mais_, it was!"
"No!"
"It _was_ me fault! I _swear_ it was me fault! _Mais_, here is fivehondred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no use formoney.--Oh, my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to cry somemore."
Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found voice he said:
"O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef youhed of hed a Christian raisin'! May the Lord show you your errorsbetter'n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh, no! I cayn'ttouch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you mustreally excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn't touch it."
St.-Ange was petrified.
"Good-by, dear Jools," continued the parson. "I'm in the Lord's haynds,and he's very merciful, which I hope and trust you'll find it out.Good-by!"--the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!"
St.-Ange roused himself.
"Posson Jone'! make me hany'ow _dis_ promise: you never, never, _never_will come back to New Orleans."
"Ah, Jools, the Lord willin', I'll never
leave home again!"
"All right!" cried the Creole; "I thing he's willin'. Adieu, PossonJone'. My faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as Inever saw! Adieu! Adieu!"
Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward theschooner, his hands full of clods.
St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of Rhodesemerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesdaseize him in his embrace.
"O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord!"
The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the tow-path, laughing andswearing, and making confused allusion to the entire _personnel_ andfurniture of the lower regions.
By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange further demonstrated hisdelight by tripping his mulatto into a bog, the schooner came brushingalong the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the sails flapped, and thecrew fell to poling her slowly along.
Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once more in prayer. His hat hadfallen before him; behind him knelt his slave. In thundering tones hewas confessing himself "a plum fool," from whom "the conceit had beenjolted out," and who had been made to see that even his "nigger had thelongest head of the two."
Colossus clasped his hands and groaned.
The parson prayed for a contrite heart.
"Oh, yes!" cried Colossus.
The master acknowledged countless mercies.
"Dat's so!" cried the slave.
The master prayed that they might still be "piled on."
"Glory!" cried the black man, clapping his hands; "pile on!"
"An' now," continued the parson, "bring this pore, backslidin' jackaceof a parson and this pore ole fool nigger back to thar home in peace!"
"Pray fo' de money!" called Colossus.
But the parson prayed for Jules.
"Pray fo' de _money!_" repeated the negro.
"And oh, give thy servant back that there lost money!"
Colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still shouting master.St.-Ange, the captain, the crew, gazed in silent wonder at thestrategist. Pausing but an instant over the master's hat to grin anacknowledgment of his beholders' speechless interest, he softly placedin it the faithfully-mourned and honestly-prayed-for Smyrna fund; then,saluted by the gesticulative, silent applause of St.-Ange and theschooner-men, he resumed his first attitude behind his roaring master.
"Amen!" cried Colossus, meaning to bring him to a close.
"Onworthy though I be"--cried Jones.
"_Amen!_" reiterated the negro.
"A-a-amen!" said Parson Jones.
He rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his hat, beheld thewell-known roll. As one stunned, he gazed for a moment upon his slave,who still knelt with clasped hands and rolling eyeballs; but when hebecame aware of the laughter and cheers that greeted him from both deckand shore, he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and cried like theveriest babe. And when he looked at the roll again, and hugged andkissed it, St.-Ange tried to raise a second shout, but choked, and thecrew fell to their poles.
And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, and prepares to cast hisprojectiles. The first one fell wide of the mark; the schooner swunground into a long reach of water, where the breeze was in her favor;another shout of laughter drowned the maledictions of the muddy man; thesails filled; Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and bowing as hero of themoment, ducked as the main boom swept round, and the schooner, leaningslightly to the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the bulrushes,and then sped far away down the rippling bayou.
M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the receding vessel as it nowdisappeared, now re-appeared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth;but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turnedtownward, followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, ashe turned, "Baptiste."
"_Miche?_"
"You know w'at I goin' do wid dis money?"
"_Non, m'sieur._"
"Well, you can strike me dead if I don't goin' to pay hall my debts!_Allons!_"
He began a merry little song to the effect that his sweetheart was awine-bottle, and master and man, leaving care behind, returned to thepicturesque Rue Royale. The ways of Providence are indeed strange. Inall Parson Jones's after-life, amid the many painful reminiscences ofhis visit to the City of the Plain, the sweet knowledge was withheldfrom him that by the light of the Christian virtue that shone from himeven in his great fall, Jules St.-Ange arose, and went to his father anhonest man.