The grocer was sure it was so.

“Neberdeless, mind you”—­here the orator brimmed his glass from the bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye—­“mind you, a roytious man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a leetle for de weak stomach.”

But the fascinations of Colossus’s eloquence must not mislead us; this is the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones.

The parson and his new friend ate.  But the coffee M. St.-Ange declared he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad.  At the French Market, near by, there was some noble coffee.  This, however, would have to be bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.

“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.”

“Wat?”

“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.”