The Goodness of St. Rocque, and Other Stories

								

place.  Still, she had tossed her head and let her silvery laughter
ring out in the dance, as though she were the happiest of mortals, and
had tripped home with Henri, leaning on his arm, and looking up into
his eyes as though she adored him.
This morning she showed the traces of a sleepless night and an aching
heart as she walked down Marais Street.  Across wide St.  Rocque Avenue
she hastened.  "Two blocks to the river and one below--" she repeated
to herself breathlessly.  Then she stood on the corner gazing about
her, until with a final summoning of a desperate courage she dived
through a small wicket gate into a garden of weed-choked flowers.
There was a hoarse, rusty little bell on the gate that gave querulous
tongue as she pushed it open.  The house that sat back in the yard was
little and old and weather-beaten.  Its one-story frame had once been
painted, but that was a memory remote and traditional.  A 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