The Goodness of St. Rocque | Page 4

straggling
morning-glory strove to conceal its time-ravaged face. The little walk
of broken bits of brick was reddened carefully, and the one little step
was scrupulously yellow-washed, which denoted that the occupants
were cleanly as well as religious.
Manuela's timid knock was answered by a harsh "Entrez."
It was a small sombre room within, with a bare yellow-washed floor
and ragged curtains at the little window. In a corner was a diminutive
altar draped with threadbare lace. The red glow of the taper lighted a
cheap print of St. Joseph and a brazen crucifix. The human element in
the room was furnished by a little, wizened yellow woman, who,
black-robed, turbaned, and stern, sat before an uncertain table whereon
were greasy cards.
Manuela paused, her eyes blinking at the semi-obscurity within. The
Wizened One called in croaking tones:
"An' fo' w'y you come here? Assiez-la, ma'amzelle."
Timidly Manuela sat at the table facing the owner of the voice.
"I want," she began faintly; but the Mistress of the Cards understood:
she had had much experience. The cards were shuffled in her long
grimy talons and stacked before Manuela.
"Now you cut dem in t'ree part, so--un, deux, trois, bien! You mek' you'
weesh wid all you' heart, bien! Yaas, I see, I see!"
Breathlessly did Manuela learn that her lover was true, but "dat light
gal, yaas, she mek' nouvena in St. Rocque fo' hees love."
"I give you one lil' charm, yaas," said the Wizened One when the
seance was over, and Manuela, all white and nervous, leaned back in
the rickety chair. "I give you one lil' charm fo' to ween him back, yaas.
You wear h'it 'roun' you' wais', an' he come back. Den you mek prayer
at St. Rocque an' burn can'le. Den you come back an' tell me, yaas.
Cinquante sous, ma'amzelle. Merci. Good luck go wid you."
Readjusting her veil, Manuela passed out the little wicket gate, treading

on air. Again the sun shone, and the breath of the swamps came as
healthful sea-breeze unto her nostrils. She fairly flew in the direction of
St. Rocque.
There were quite a number of persons entering the white gates of the
cemetery, for this was Friday, when all those who wish good luck pray
to the saint, and wash their steps promptly at twelve o'clock with a
wondrous mixture to guard the house. Manuela bought a candle from
the keeper of the little lodge at the entrance, and pausing one instant by
the great sun-dial to see if the heavens and the hour were propitious,
glided into the tiny chapel, dim and stifling with heavy air from myriad
wish-candles blazing on the wide table before the altar-rail. She said
her prayer and lighting her candle placed it with the others.
Mon Dieu! how brightly the sun seemed to shine now, she thought,
pausing at the door on her way out. Her small finger-tips, still bedewed
with holy water, rested caressingly on a gamin's head. The ivy which
enfolds the quaint chapel never seemed so green; the shrines which
serve as the Way of the Cross never seemed so artistic; the baby graves,
even, seemed cheerful.
Theophile called Sunday. Manuela's heart leaped. He had been
spending his Sundays with Claralie. His stay was short and he was
plainly bored. But Manuela knelt to thank the good St. Rocque that
night, and fondled the charm about her slim waist. There came a box of
bonbons during the week, with a decorative card all roses and fringe,
from Theophile; but being a Creole, and therefore superstitiously
careful, and having been reared by a wise and experienced maman to
mistrust the gifts of a recreant lover, Manuela quietly thrust bonbons,
box, and card into the kitchen fire, and the Friday following placed the
second candle of her nouvena in St. Rocque.
Those of Manuela's friends who had watched with indignation
Theophile gallantly leading Claralie home from High Mass on Sundays,
gasped with astonishment when the next Sunday, with his usual bow,
the young man offered Manuela his arm as the worshippers filed out in
step to the organ's march. Claralie tossed her head as she crossed
herself with holy water, and the pink in her cheeks was brighter than
usual.
Manuela smiled a bright good-morning when she met Claralie in St.
Rocque the next Friday. The little blonde blushed furiously, and

Manuela rushed post-haste to the Wizened One to confer upon this new
issue.
"H'it ees good," said the dame, shaking her turbaned head. "She ees
'fraid, she will work, mais you' charm, h'it weel beat her."
And Manuela departed with radiant eyes.
Theophile was not at Mass Sunday morning, and murderous glances
flashed from Claralie to Manuela before the tinkling of the Host-Bell.
Nor did Theophile call at either house. Two