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“Oh, Pere Jerome, de law is brogue! de law is brogue! I brogue it! ‘Twas me! ‘Twas me!”

The tears gushed out again, but she shut her lips very tight, and dumbly turned away her face. Pere Jerome waited a little before replying; then he said, very gently:

“I suppose dad muss ‘ave been by accyden’, Madame Delphine?”

The little father felt a wish–one which he often had when weeping women were before him–that he were an angel instead of a man, long enough to press the tearful cheek upon his breast, and assure the weeper God would not let the lawyers and judges hurt her. He allowed a few moments more to pass, and then asked:

“N’est-ce-pas, Madame Delphine? Daz ze way, ain’t it?’

“No, Pere Jerome, no. My daughter–oh, Pere Jerome, I bethroath my lill’ girl–to a w’ite man!” And immediately Madame Delphine commenced savagely drawing a thread in the fabric of her skirt with one trembling hand, while she drove the fan with the other. “Dey goin’ git marry.”

On the priest’s face came a look of pained surprise. He slowly said:

“Is dad possib’, Madame Delphine?”

“Yass,” she replied, at first without lifting her eyes; and then again, “Yass,” looking full upon him through her tears, “yaas, ’tis tru’.”

He rose and walked once across the room, returned, and said, in the Creole dialect:

“Is he a good man–without doubt?”

“De bez in God’s world!” replied Madame Delphine, with a rapturous smile.

“My poor, dear friend,” said the priest, “I am afraid you are being deceived by somebody.”

There was the pride of an unswerving faith in the triumphant tone and smile with which she replied, raising and slowly shaking her head:

“Ah-h, no-o-o, Miche! Ah-h, no, no! Not by Ursin Lemaitre-Vignevielle!”

Pere Jerome was confounded. He turned again, and, with his hands at his back and his eyes cast down, slowly paced the floor.

“He is a good man,” he said, by and by, as if he thought aloud. At length he halted before the woman “Madame Delphine”–

The distressed glance with which she had been following his steps was lifted to his eyes.

“Suppose dad should be true w’at doze peop’ say ’bout Ursin.”

“Qui ci ca? What is that?” asked the quadroone, stopping her fan.

“Some peop’ say Ursin is crezzie.”

“Ah, Pere Jerome!” She leaped to her feet as if he had smitten her, and putting his words away with an outstretched arm and wide-open palm, suddenly lifted hands and eyes to heaven, and cried: “I wizh to God–I wizh to God–de whole worl’ was crezzie dad same way!” She sank, trembling, into her chair. “Oh, no, no,” she continued, shaking her head, “’tis not Miche Vignevielle w’at’s crezzie.” Her eyes lighted with sudden fierceness. “‘Tis dad law! Dad law is crezzie! Dad law is a fool!”

A priest of less heart-wisdom might have replied that the law is–the law; but Pere Jerome saw that Madame Delphine was expecting this very response. Wherefore he said, with gentleness:

“Madame Delphine, a priest is not a bailiff, but a physician. How can I help you?”

A grateful light shone a moment in her eyes, yet there remained a piteous hostility in the tone in which she demanded:

“Mais, pou’quoi ye, fe cette mechanique la?”–What business had they to make that contraption?

His answer was a shrug with his palms extended and a short, disclamatory “Ah.” He started to resume his walk, but turned to her again and said: “Why did they make that law? Well, they made it to keep the two races separate.”

Madame Delphine startled the speaker with a loud, harsh, angry laugh. Fire came from her eyes and her lip curled with scorn.

“Then they made a lie, Pere Jerome! Separate! No-o-o! They do not want to keep us separated; no, no! But they do want to keep us despised!” She laid her hand on her heart, and frowned upward with physical pain. “But, very well! from which race do they want to keep my daughter separate? She is seven parts white! The law did not stop her from being that; and now, when she wants to be a white man’s good and honest wife, shall that law stop her? Oh, no!” She rose up. “No; I will tell you what that law is made for. It is made to–punish–my–child–for–not–choosing–her–father! Pere Jerome–my God, what a law!” She dropped back into her seat. The tears came in a flood, which she made no attempt to restrain.