The cathedral that year was undergoing repairs.
Its cypress-log foundations, which had kept sound from colonial days in
a soil always wet, had begun to decay when a new drainage system began
to dry it out. Fact, but also allegory.
It may have been in connection with this work, or with some change in
the house of the Discalceated Sisters of Mt. Carmel, or of the
archbishop, or of St. Augustine's Church, that a certain priest of
exceptional taste, Beloiseau's father confessor, dropped in on him to
order an ornamental wrought-iron grille for the upper half of a new
door. While looking at patterns he asked:
"And what is the latest word from your son?"
Scipion showed him that picture--he had bought one for himself--the
dear old unmistakable back of "Papa Joffre," and the dear young
unmistakable faces of the two boys, Beloiseau and De l'Isle.
A talk followed, on the conflict between a father's pride and his
yearning to see his only son safely delivered from constant deadly
peril. They spoke of Aline. Not for the first time; Scipion, unaware
that the good father was her confessor also, had told him before of his
son's hopeless love, to ask if it was not right for him, the father, to
help Chester win the marvellous girl, since winning would win the two
boys home again.
Patterns waited while the ironworker said that to the tender chagrin of
all the coterie Chester was refused--a man of such fineness, such
promise, mind, charm, and integrity, and so fitted for her in years,
temperament, and tastes, that no girl, however perfect, could hope to
be courted by more than one such in a lifetime.
In brief Creole prose he struck the highest key of Shakespeare's
sonnets: "Was she not doing a grievous wrong to herself and Chester, to
the whole coterie that so adored her, especially to the De l'Isles and
himself, and even to society at large? Her reasons," he said, shifting
to English, "I can guess _at them_, but guessing at 'alf-a-dozen
convinze' me of none!"
"Have you guess' at differenze of rilligious faith?" the priest
inquired.
"Yes, but--nothing doing; I 'ave to guess no."
"Tha'z a great matter to a good Catholic."
"Ah, father! Or-_din_-arily, yes. Bud this time no. Any'ow, this
time tha'z not for us Catholic' to be diztress' ab-out. . . . Ah, yes,
chil'ren. But, you know? If daughter', they'll be of the faith and
conduc' of the mother; if son', faith of the mother, conduc' of the
father; and I think with that even you, pries' of God, be satizfie', eh?
"My dear frien', you know what I billieve? Me, I billieve in heaven
they are _waiting impatiently_ for that marriage."
The priest may have been professionally delinquent, but he chose to
leave the argument unrefuted. He smilingly looked at his watch.
"Well," he said, "I choose this design. Make it so. Good evening."
He turned away. Beloiseau called after him, but the man of God kept
straight on.
The ironworker loitered back to where the chosen pattern lay, and stood
over it still thinking of Chester. Presently a soft voice sounded so
close by that he turned abruptly. At his side was an extremely winsome
stranger. His artistic eye instantly remarked not only her
well-preserved beauty, but its gentle dignity, rare refinement, and
untypical quality. Whether it was Creole or _Américain_, Southern,
Northern, or Western, nothing betrayed; on the surface at least, the
provincial, as far as the ironworker could see, was wholly bred out of
her. He noted also the unimpaired excellence of her erect and girlish
slightness and, under her pretty hat and early whitened hair, the
carven fineness of her features. Her whole attire pleasantly befitted
her years, which might have been anything short of fifty; and yet, if
Scipion was right, she might have dressed for thirty.
"Are you Mr. Beloiseau?" she inquired.
"I am," he said.
"Mr. Beloiseau, I'm the mother of Geoffry Chester. You know him, I
believe?"
"Oh, is that possible? He is my esteem' frien', madame. Will you"--he
began to dust a lone chair.
"No, thank you; I came to find Geoffry's quarters. I left the hotel
with my memorandum, but must have dropped it. I remember only
Bienville Street."
"He's not there any mo'. Sinze only two day' he's move'. Mrs.
Chezter, if you'll egscuse me till I can change the coat I'll show you
those new quarter'. Whiles I'm changing you can look ad that book of
pattern', and also--here--there's a pigtorial of New York; that--tha'z
of my son and the son of my neighbor up-stair', De l'Isle, ric'iving
medal' from Général Joffre----"
"Why, Mr. Beloiseau can it be!"
"But you know, Mrs. Chezter, he's not there presently, yo' son. He's
gone at St. Martinville, to the court there."
"Yes, to be back to-morrow or next day. They told me in his office
this forenoon. I reached the city only at eleven, train late. He
didn't know I was coming. My telegram's on his desk unopened. But
having time, I thought I'd see whether he's living comfortably or only
fancies he is."
On their way Mrs. Chester and her guide hardly spoke until Scipion
asked: "Madame, when you was noticing yo' telegram on the desk of yo'
son you di'n' maybe notiz' a letter from New York? We are prettie
anxiouz for that to come to yo' son. I do' know if you know about that
or no, but M. De l'Isle and madame, and Castanado and his madame, and
Dubroca and his madame, and Mme. Alexandre and me, and three
Chapdelaine', we are all prettie anxiouz for that letter."
"Yes, I know about it, and there is one, from a New York
publishing-house, on Geoffry's desk."
"Well, madame, Marais Street, here's the place. Ah! and street-car--or
jitney--passing thiz corner will take you ag-ain at yo' hotel."