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."
