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 hearts beat furiously at the sound
of every passing footstep, and two minds wondered if the other were
enjoying the beloved one's smiles. Two pair of eyes, however, blue and
black, smiled on others, and their owners laughed and seemed none the
less happy. For your Creole girls are proud, and would die rather than
let the world see their sorrows.
Monday evening Theophile, the missing, showed his rather sheepish
countenance in Manuela's parlour, and explained that he, with some
chosen spirits, had gone for a trip--"over the Lake."
"I did not ask you where you were yesterday," replied the girl, saucily.
Theophile shrugged his shoulders and changed the conversation.
The next week there was a birthday fete in honour of Louise,
Theophile's young sister. Everyone was bidden, and no one thought of
refusing, for Louise was young, and this would be her first party. So,
though the night was hot, the dancing went on as merrily as light young
feet could make it go. Claralie fluffed her dainty white skirts, and
cast mischievous sparkles in the direction of Theophile, who with the
maman and Louise was bravely trying not to look self-conscious.
Manuela, tall and calm and proud-looking, in a cool, pale yellow gown
was apparently enjoying herself without paying the slightest attention
to her young host.
"Have I the pleasure of this dance?" he asked her finally, in a lull of
the music.
She bowed assent, and as if moved by a common impulse they strolled out
of the dancing-room into the cool, quaint garden, where jessamines gave
out an overpowering perfume, and a caged mocking-bird complained
melodiously to the full moon in the sky.
It must have been an engrossing tete-a-tete, for the call to supper had
sounded twice before they heard and hurried into the house. The march
had formed with Louise radiantly leading on the arm of papa. Claralie
tripped by with Leon. Of course, nothing remained for Theophile and
Manuela to do but to bring up the rear, for which they received much
good-natured chaffing.
But when the party reached the dining-room, Theophile proudly led his
partner to the head of the table, at the right hand of maman, and
smiled benignly about at the delighted assemblage. Now you know, when
a Creole young man places a girl at his mother's right hand at his own
table, there is but one conclusion to be deduced therefrom.
If you had asked Manuela, after the wedding was over, how it happened,
she would have said nothing, but looked wise.
If you had asked Claralie, she would have laughed and said she always
preferred Leon.
If you had asked Theophile, he would have wondered that you thought he
had ever meant more than to tease Manuela.
If you had asked the Wizened One, she would have offered you a charm.
But St. Rocque knows, for he is a good saint, and if you believe in him
and are true and good, and make your nouvenas with a clean heart, he
will grant your wish.