FullReads

“You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it does so in”–

“Oh, yes!” cried St.-Ange, “conscien’; thad is the bez, Posson Jone’. Certainlee! I am a Catholique, you is a schismatique; you thing it is wrong to dring some coffee–well, then, it is wrong; you thing it is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price–well, then, it is wrong; I thing it is right–well, then, it is right; it is all ‘abit; c’est tout. What a man thing is right, is right; ’tis all ‘abit. A man muz nod go again’ his conscien’. My faith! do you thing I would go again’ my conscien’? Mais allons, led us go and ged some coffee.”

“Jools.”

“W’at?”

“Jools, it ain’t the drinkin’ of coffee, but the buyin’ of it on a Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it’s again’ conscience, you know.”

“Ah!” said St.-Ange, “c’est very true. For you it would be a sin, mais for me it is only ‘abit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know a man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening. I thing it is all ‘abit. Mais, come, Posson Jone’; I have got one friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come; Miguel have no familie; only him and Joe–always like to see friend; allons, led us come yonder.”

“Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know,” said the shamefaced parson, “I never visit on Sundays.”

“Never w’at?” asked the astounded Creole.

“No,” said Jones, smiling awkwardly.

“Never visite?”

“Exceptin’ sometimes amongst church-members.” said Parson Jones.

“Mais,” said the seductive St.-Ange, “Miguel and Joe is church-member’–certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come at Miguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee.”

Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up.

“Jools,” said the weak giant, “I ought to be in church right now.”

“Mais, the church is right yonder at Miguel’, yes. Ah!” continued St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, “I thing every man muz have the rilligion he like’ the bez–me, I like the Catholique rilligion the bez–for me it is the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if he like his rilligion the bez.”

“Jools,” said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly upon the Creole’s shoulder, as they stepped out upon the banquette, “do you think you have any shore hopes of heaven?”

“Yass!” replied St.-Ange; “I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will go to heaven. I thing you will go, et I thing Miguel will go, et Joe–everybody, I thing–mais, hof course, not if they not have been christen’. Even I thing some niggers will go.”

“Jools,” said the parson, stopping in his walk–“Jools, I don’t want to lose my niggah.”

“Yon will not loose him. With Baptiste he cannot ged loose.”

But Colossus’s master was not re-assured.

“Now,” said he, still tarrying, “this is jest the way; had I of gone to church”–

“Posson Jone’,” said Jules.

“What?”

“I tell you. We goin’ to church!”

“Will you?” asked Jones, joyously.

“Allons, come along,” said Jules, taking his elbow.

They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by and by turned into a cross street. The parson stopped an instant as they were turning and looked back up the street.

“W’at you lookin’?” asked his companion.

“I thought I saw Colossus,” answered the parson, with an anxious face; “I reckon ‘twa’n’t him, though.” And they went on.

The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any chance passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out like a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps hanging before a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honey-combed with gambling-dens. At this morning hour all was still, and the only sign of life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative. Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills to let them pass in.