Madame Delphine | Page 5

they still thought of him and talked of him, and, in their conjectures,
groped after him, as one of whom they continued to expect greater
things than of themselves.
They sat one day drawn thus close together, sipping and theorizing,
speculating upon the nature of things in an easy, bold, sophomoric way,
the conversation for the most part being in French, the native tongue of
the doctor and priest, and spoken with facility by Jean Thompson the
lawyer, who was half Américain; but running sometimes into English
and sometimes into mild laughter. Mention had been made of the
absentee.
Père Jerome advanced an idea something like this:
"It is impossible for any finite mind to fix the degree of criminality of
any human act or of any human life. The Infinite One alone can know
how much of our sin is chargeable to us, and how much to our brothers
or our fathers. We all participate in one another's sins. There is a
community of responsibility attaching to every misdeed. No human
since Adam--nay, nor Adam himself--ever sinned entirely to himself.
And so I never am called upon to contemplate a crime or a criminal but
I feel my conscience pointing at me as one of the accessories."
"In a word," said Evariste Varrillat, the physician, "you think we are
partly to blame for the omission of many of your Paternosters, eh?"
Father Jerome smiled.

"No; a man cannot plead so in his own defense; our first father tried
that, but the plea was not allowed. But, now, there is our absent friend.
I tell you truly this whole community ought to be recognized as
partners in his moral errors. Among another people, reared under wiser
care and with better companions, how different might he not have been!
How can we speak of him as a law-breaker who might have saved him
from that name?" Here the speaker turned to Jean Thompson, and
changed his speech to English. "A lady sez to me to-day: 'Père Jerome,
'ow dat is a dreadfool dat 'e gone at de coas' of Cuba to be one corsair!
Aint it?' 'Ah, Madame,' I sez, ''tis a terrible! I'ope de good God will
fo'give me an' you fo' dat!'"
Jean Thompson answered quickly:
"You should not have let her say that."
"Mais, fo' w'y?"
"Why, because, if you are partly responsible, you ought so much the
more to do what you can to shield his reputation. You should have
said,"--the attorney changed to French,--"'He is no pirate; he has merely
taken out letters of marque and reprisal under the flag of the republic of
Carthagena!'"
"Ah, bah!" exclaimed Doctor Varrillat, and both he and his
brother-in-law, the priest, laughed.
"Why not?" demanded Thompson.
"Oh!" said the physician, with a shrug, "say id thad way iv you wand."
Then, suddenly becoming serious, he was about to add something else,
when Père Jerome spoke.
"I will tell you what I could have said. I could have said: 'Madame, yes;
'tis a terrible fo' him. He stum'le in de dark; but dat good God will mek
it a mo' terrible fo' dat man, oohever he is, w'at put 'at light out!'"

"But how do you know he is a pirate?" demanded Thompson,
aggressively.
"How do we know?" said the little priest, returning to French. "Ah!
there is no other explanation of the ninety-and-nine stories that come to
us, from every port where ships arrive from the north coast of Cuba, of
a commander of pirates there who is a marvel of courtesy and
gentility----"*
[*See Gazettes of the period.]
"And whose name is Lafitte," said the obstinate attorney.
"And who, nevertheless, is not Lafitte," insisted Père Jerome.
"Daz troo, Jean," said Doctor Varrillat. "We hall know daz troo."
Père Jerome leaned forward over the board and spoke, with an air of
secrecy, in French.
"You have heard of the ship which came into port here last Monday.
You have heard that she was boarded by pirates, and that the captain of
the ship himself drove them off."
"An incredible story," said Thompson.
"But not so incredible as the truth. I have it from a passenger. There
was on the ship a young girl who was very beautiful. She came on deck,
where the corsair stood, about to issue his orders, and, more beautiful
than ever in the desperation of the moment, confronted him with a
small missal spread open, and, her finger on the Apostles' Creed,
commanded him to read. He read it, uncovering his head as he read,
then stood gazing on her face, which did not quail; and then, with a low
bow, said: 'Give me this book and I will do your bidding.' She gave him
the book and bade him leave the ship, and he left it