“My friends, there are thousands of people in this city of New Orleans to whom society gives the ten commandments of God with all the nots rubbed out!  Ah! good gentlemen! if God sends the poor weakling to purgatory for leaving the right path, where ought some of you to go who strew it with thorns and briers!”

The movement of the pair was only seen because he watched for it.  He glanced that way again as he said: 

“O God, be very gentle with those children who would be nearer heaven this day had they never had a father and mother, but had got their religious training from such a sky and earth as we have in Louisiana this holy morning!  Ah! my friends, nature is a big-print catechism!”

The mother and daughter leaned a little farther forward, and exchanged the same spasmodic hand-pressure as before.  The mother’s eyes were full of tears.

“I once knew a man,” continued the little priest, glancing to a side aisle where he had noticed Evariste and Jean sitting against each other, “who was carefully taught, from infancy to manhood, this single only principle of life:  defiance.  Not justice, not righteousness, not even gain; but defiance:  defiance to God, defiance to man, defiance to nature, defiance to reason; defiance and defiance and defiance.”

“He is going to tell it!” murmured Evariste to Jean.

“This man,” continued Pere Jerome, “became a smuggler and at last a pirate in the Gulf of Mexico.  Lord, lay not that sin to his charge alone!  But a strange thing followed.  Being in command of men of a sort that to control required to be kept at the austerest distance, he now found himself separated from the human world and thrown into the solemn companionship with the sea, with the air, with the storm, the calm the heavens by day, the heavens by night.  My friends, that was the first time in his life that he ever found himself in really good company.

“Now, this man had a great aptness for accounts.  He had kept them—­had rendered them.  There was beauty, to him, in a correct, balanced, and closed account.  An account unsatisfied was a deformity.  The result is plain.  That man, looking out night after night upon the grand and holy spectacle of the starry deep above and the watery deep below, was sure to find himself, sooner or later, mastered by the conviction that the great Author of this majestic creation keeps account of it; and one night there came to him, like a spirit walking on the sea, the awful, silent question:  ‘My account with God—­how does it stand?’ Ah! friends, that is a question which the book of nature does not answer.

“Did I say the book of nature is a catechism?  Yes.  But, after it answers the first question with ‘God,’ nothing but questions follow; and so, one day, this man gave a ship full of merchandise for one little book which answered those questions.  God help him to understand it! and God help you, monsieur, and you, madame, sitting here in your smuggled clothes, to beat upon the breast with me and cry, ’I, too, Lord—­I, too, stood by and consented.’”