The Goodness of St. Rocque | Page 3

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Note: I have closed contractions, e.g. "was n't" has become "wasn't" I
have also made the following changes to the text: PAGE LINE
ORIGINAL CHANGED TO 43 13 accordeon accordion 56 22 work
But work. But 78 14 chere chere 122 12 "Bravo! "Bravo!" 170 17
tumultously tumultuously 216 5 be,' be,"

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES By
ALICE DUNBAR
To My best Comrade My Husband

CONTENTS
THE GOODNESS OF SAINT ROCQUE TONY'S WIFE THE
FISHERMAN OF PASS CHRISTIAN M'SIEU FORTIER'S VIOLIN
BY THE BAYOU ST. JOHN WHEN THE BAYOU OVERFLOWS
MR. BAPTISTE A CARNIVAL JANGLE LITTLE MISS SOPHIE
SISTER JOSEPHA THE PRALINE WOMAN ODALIE LA
JUANITA TITEE

THE GOODNESS OF SAINT ROCQUE
Manuela was tall and slender and graceful, and once you knew her the
lithe form could never be mistaken. She walked with the easy spring
that comes from a perfectly arched foot. To-day she swept swiftly
down Marais Street, casting a quick glance here and there from under
her heavy veil as if she feared she was being followed. If you had
peered under the veil, you would have seen that Manuela's dark eyes
were swollen and discoloured about the lids, as though they had known

a sleepless, tearful night. There had been a picnic the day before, and as
merry a crowd of giddy, chattering Creole girls and boys as ever you
could see boarded the ramshackle dummy-train that puffed its way
wheezily out wide Elysian Fields Street, around the lily-covered bayous,
to Milneburg-on-the-Lake. Now, a picnic at Milneburg is a thing to be
remembered for ever. One charters a rickety-looking, weather-beaten
dancing-pavilion, built over the water, and after storing the
children--for your true Creole never leaves the small folks at
home--and the baskets and mothers downstairs, the young folks go
up-stairs and dance to the tune of the best band you ever heard. For
what can equal the music of a violin, a guitar, a cornet, and a bass viol
to trip the quadrille to at a picnic?
Then one can fish in the lake and go bathing under the prim
bath-houses, so severely separated sexually, and go rowing on the lake
in a trim boat, followed by the shrill warnings of anxious mamans. And
in the evening one comes home, hat crowned with cool gray Spanish
moss, hands burdened with fantastic latanier baskets woven by the
brown bayou boys, hand in hand with your dearest one, tired but happy.
At this particular picnic, however, there had been bitterness of spirit.
Theophile was Manuela's own especial property, and Theophile had
proven false. He had not danced a single waltz or quadrille with
Manuela, but had deserted her for Claralie, blonde and petite. It was
Claralie whom Theophile had rowed out on the lake; it was Claralie
whom Theophile had gallantly led to dinner; it was Claralie's hat that
he wreathed with Spanish moss, and Claralie whom he escorted home
after the jolly singing ride in town on the little dummy-train.
Not that Manuela lacked partners or admirers. Dear no! she was too
graceful and beautiful for that. There had been more than enough for
her. But Manuela loved Theophile, you see, and no one could take his
place. Still, she had tossed her head and let her silvery laughter ring out
in the dance, as though she were the happiest of mortals, and had
tripped home with Henri, leaning on his arm, and looking up into his
eyes as though she adored him.
This morning she showed the traces of a sleepless night and an aching
heart as she walked down Marais Street. Across wide St. Rocque
Avenue she hastened. "Two blocks to the river and one below--" she
repeated to herself breathlessly. Then she stood on the corner gazing

about her, until with a final summoning of a desperate courage she
dived through a small wicket gate into a garden of weed-choked
flowers.
There was a hoarse, rusty little bell on the gate that gave querulous
tongue as she pushed it open. The house that sat back in the yard was
little and old and weather-beaten. Its one-story frame had once been
painted, but that was a memory remote and traditional. A